The Bounty Hunter's Heart Page 3

  "Are you still standing there? Most people move when I give an order." His gaze fastened on hers, and although he was more shadow than life and color, she felt as if he could look deeper into her, straight through her to her heart. She shivered, feeling too exposed. What if he could read all her secrets hidden there? Exactly how dangerous could that be?

  3

  "Lock the back door." He let the curtain fall. Whatever he'd seen had changed him. His face had turned to stone, his dark, steel blue eyes to iron. His whiskered jaw clenched hard enough to make the muscles beneath his stubbled skin jump as he turned his attention back to the window. "I said to do it. Hurry."

  Her chin went up. She wanted to hate that he'd ordered her around but she felt the reason for it, and she had evidence of that with the way Pete's ruff bristled around his neck.

  Whatever the danger was lurking outside her house, it would be wise to keep it from coming inside. But she couldn't stop the spark of fear as she rushed across the room, around the sofa with the sleeping child on it and brought her dog into the kitchen. Her hands trembled, fumbling with the bolt, as she threw it to bar the door.

  She caught sight of him through the double doors open in the archway of the kitchen and the parlor. "Are you all right?"

  "I've been worse." Winn ignored the cannon of thunder muffled by the snowfall. It wasn't gunfire, but his heart kicked up with adrenaline as if it had been.

  He propped one shoulder against the window frame, ignored the pain that speared his left side just below his rib cage and clenched his jaw against the stress of knowing he was weak and there was danger out there. Weakness sluiced down his left side and flooded through every inch of his shaky, shock-filled body. And now he had the woman and dog to protect, too.

  He took in the cadence of her quick, rushed footsteps on the other side of the house. The click of the dog's nails against the wood was a sound he hadn't had in his life for a decade. His chest ached at that old loss and he wished, he wished for another dog of his own one day and the hope that he could have a life free and safe to enjoy such a fine canine friend.

  He wanted his boy to have a dog, unlike he had growing up. Not that Jack could have that now. That hope in life, that goal, was over. Gone by the way side, water under the bridge. Winn had only one goal now, and then his life was over. That was just the plain truth.

  He blinked, thoughts back on the job ahead. Outside, the storm roared like a monster, and if Brant followed him close enough in, then the storm hid him out there nearby. Maybe in that stable. Winn shook his head, teeth clenching harder until the roots ached, anger flaring. If Brant was out there, then Jack wasn't safe.

  Well, he hadn't done all this to fail Jack. The dog's bark rang out, echoing through the dark. He let the lace-edged curtain fall, the fabric feather-soft against his fingertips, and charged around the sofa dragging his left foot. Just ignore the pain, Winn.

  He gritted his teeth and heard the crack of the door breaking before he could reach it, before he could stop it. Bits of wood went flying, the door slammed open and, revolver steady, calm from the years of working behind a gun, he was ready. A snow-cloaked man was here. One of the outlaw band he'd been dodging since Dakota Territory, the black-hearted murderer who'd threatened his life and Jack's.

  It happened in a blink: the shadow coming out of the dark, the glint of light faintly reflecting on a revolver barrel, the swing of that gun straight toward Winn's chest.

  Henson. Brant's right-hand man, Winn realized as he squeezed the trigger, and his aim was true and quick. Henson's eyes widened in shock, his gun fell from his hand. Pain blurred his vision as Winn held his breath, grip tight on his revolver, as the scruffy man tumbled backward already dead. He hit with an ominous and lifeless thump. He didn't move or shudder.

  Where was Brant? Winn staggered, leaned against the door frame and shivered with a combination of relief and purpose. He felt as cold as that north wind breezing over him.

  No one else seemed to be out there. He booted Henson aside, wincing at the effort and the cost of a human life, and wrestled the door shut. He gazed over his shoulder to see the woman frozen in shock, her mouth open in a silent cry and her blue eyes round with horror.

  Winn leaned against the closed door. Weakness swept through him, icy and full of relief. "Are you all right, Miss Saydee?"

  She shook her head, scattering the soft tendrils gently curling around her face. She quaked so hard, her hands visibly shook. Tear-filled eyes locked on his, and she went ghost-white, as if ready to faint. "You shot someone."

  "I'm a sharpshooter. I meant to." Pain cracked through him with every step he took. He glanced down and saw the fresh stain of blood turning his white bandage red. He pressed his hand flat to his left side and ignored the fresh blood hot between his fingers. "Stand aside. I need to deal with the fugitive."

  "You shot a man," she said in a thin, high voice that shook with terror. "In my house. You just...killed him?"

  "Yes, and that's a murderer with a price on his head. He would only mean you harm, Saydee." Winn clapped on a set of cuffs from his coat pocket and snared the extra revolver from the floor. "You might want to go get me some wash water to clean your floor. And a fresh bandage."

  "I'm not okay. I, uh, well, you need to leave." She fisted her hands, looking helpless, looking lost. "You can't be here, you need to leave."

  "I'm sorry but I can't do that." He grabbed Henson's wrist. Yep, he was gone from this world, and right now the immediate threat to his own life was over. Maybe, for now.

  He looked up to see that Saydee's back was to him. Her head had slightly bowed forward, and the slender elegance of her graceful neck and the hair wisps curling down from her chignon made her look defenseless. Utterly vulnerable. He could see the fear in her. Her rigid spine and shallow, quick gasps of breaths were clear indications she was never going to be the same if he wasn't careful how he handled this.

  "I am more sorry about this than you know." He lingered in the shadows not knowing if he should approach her. "I didn't mean to bring this kind of a problem into your home. I'm more respectful than that, and I appreciate you saving my life and Jack's from the storm."

  Her chin shot up and she glanced over her shoulder. Her blue eyes were full of pain. She looked ready to crumble. The tears in her eyes pooled, shining like diamonds in the lamplight's touch. Anyone could see that she was a gentle woman, despite being raised in a harsh home. No matter the hardships in her life, she still had that look to her, one of soft sweetness.

  She was a delicate wisp of a female with a heart-shaped face that was classically beautiful, with soft curves of cheekbone and chin, and her mouth looked prone to always smiling. With her smooth-as-cream complexion and the fragile sculpture of her face, she was one of the prettiest women, to his eyes, that he'd ever seen.

  But when her blue fastened on his with an outraged challenge, he saw deeper. He saw her hurt and her fear for her life, but he also saw her determination and her soft, sweet might.

  "You must be a lawman." She turned to face him fully, looking delicate and vulnerable in the glow of the lamplight from the kitchen doorway. She drew herself up straight, fingers splaying down at her sides to brush the floral fabric of her dress's gently flaring skirt. "But I don't seem to recognize you as one of the deputies from town."

  "No, I'm no deputy and I'm not local, but I am in law enforcement, of sorts."

  "What does that mean? It must mean no, that you aren't." She fisted her hands and her knuckles turned white. "Then who are you? What are you going to do to me?"

  "I saved your life." He paced forward toward the light, although he preferred the shadows.

  "Saved my life?" Her tone was sweet but trembled, once, with fear. "It was never in danger until you crossed through my door. Isn't that right?"

  "That's true. You're going to need my help. Come, sit down before you fall down."

  "No, thank you. I don't know you." She twisted away from his outstretched hands, and she slipped a
way, deeper into the touch of the bright light, looking far too fine for a man like him to dream of and as delicate as fine china, easily hurt or broken. That was the last thing he wanted to do.

  He cast a glance at the couch where Jack sat up, owl-eyed and silent. The boy knew the danger, but this woman did not. And he regretted, how he hated, that Henson had followed him here. Brant could not be far behind.

  "You might be right." He followed her to the kitchen doorway, where the shepherd sat obediently by the table and gave an anxious whine. Clearly, the dog wanted up, but, well behaved, waited earnestly. "Henson wasn't the only man after me. Before you grab hold of your rifle and point it at me, you are safe."

  "You don't look safe, you don't seem safe and you don't sound safe."

  "I'm a bounty hunter, not a criminal."

  "I guess that explains your bullet wound and the man in cuffs on my floor."

  "I can fix it. I just need a hammer and I can repair the bolt. Some new screws wouldn't hurt."

  "I have both in the junk drawer." She gestured with a trembling hand at the top drawer at the end of the row of cabinets.

  She was still afraid, huh? He gentled his voice. "Don't worry. You're safe with me."

  "I don't know where he came from." She followed him to the table and chairs near the curtained window. "He isn't from around here either, is he?"

  "No, he and I have been tangling since I first picked up his trail in Deadwood and tried to bring him in years ago." He pulled out one of the chairs and waited while she settled onto the cushioned seat, skirts whispering into place before he stepped away. He tingled with awareness. "Don't you worry about me. Be sure and lower your head. Take some nice deep breaths. That should help. Don't you faint on me."

  "I won't. I will be fine without your help, I'm sure." The last thing she needed was his advice, but she was heart-sick and hurting. She buried her face in her hands and bumped the table with her elbows, setting the crystal lamp tinkling. She sat there quiet and unmoving with her face hidden, taking a long moment to let the pain inside her settle.

  He wouldn't mind getting a chance to do the same thing, but he had too much to deal with. It may have been years since he had been this physically close to a woman, and he can't say he didn't like the softness she made, as if by changing the very air itself in the room around her.

  She smelled like sunshine-sweetened lilacs and sugar cookies. She somehow put a soft feminine gracefulness to the air, and he liked that too. The world could be cruel and unbearably so, and his weary soul felt less heavy knowing there were women like her who valued life. Where things were just a little nicer and gentler, warm where the rest of the world was cold. He felt like a shadow by comparison.

  She must see it too, he decided as he took a wobbling, weak-in-the-knees step away. He said nothing more, but he didn't have to. He snagged his coat off the hook by the door and shrugged into it. He walked away feeling the silent, tangible weight of her gaze on his back.

  No idea what she thought of him, or what kind of man she saw. She'd seen him shoot and not apologize for it, she'd seen his guns and she'd seen him half-naked. He buttoned the partially rinsed coat all the way to his chin because his shirt was likely unwearable. Did she see a gunman when she looked at him? Or a loving father of a little boy away from home?

  "I will be back," he told her, leaving her to quietly catch her composure and recover. "Then we can talk if you want."

  He turned his back, not wanting to see her disregard and suspicion of him grow. He paced through the dark listening to the reverberation of his feet on the wooden floor and nodded to Jack on the way by. The boy returned his nod and slipped back under the covers. He lay still, albeit stiff and afraid. He regretted that.

  Now, to check on the property, especially after what he went through with Henson. He opened the door and trudged him out into the night-dark storm. The howling gale-force winds nearly knocked him off his feet. He gritted his teeth, remembering how hard he'd fallen to his knees not once, but more than three times and they hurt something fierce, especially from landing on Saydee Carson's hardwood, unforgiving floor.

  As he continued into the storm, he ducked his head against the brutal wind and cold. But not the freezing temperatures or the merciless wind could blow away the sorrow from his soul. He was as good as a wanted man, and he couldn't change that. The next time that outlaw found him, Winn knew he was in trouble and no good could ever come of it. Brant said he wanted him dead.

  Dead. Winn felt like he was all out of luck and his future over, erased as if it had never been, and that wasn't okay by him. But for Jack's sake he would make peace with that, plead his case with the woman he'd left behind at the table, painted with lamplight, and afraid of him. And then he would meet his fate. Yep, he was at her mercy and so was Jack, their lives were in her hands, until the storm moved on and he was on the run once again.

  * * *

  The front door squeaked open on its damaged hinges. Saydee listened to the lessening roar of the storm, felt the icy surge of wind blowing in from the front of the house and then the faint clump-clump of his boot steps echoing in the night-dark house. He was back, finally. Her pulse kicked hard and thudded in her ears, and the trembling started all over again.

  If she were smart, she would leap up from her chair, push him outside and bolt the door. She smiled, amused at the image she saw in her head. She wasn't the pushy sort nor bold enough to grab hold of a stranger, especially one as powerfully looking as the bounty hunter, and manhandle him right out of her parlor and into the snow. The more sensible part of her felt obligated to shelter him here in her warm house, where his little boy would be safe for the night.

  The cadence of his boots knelled closer, and her skin tingled with warning, with either fear or awe, she wasn't sure which. He strolled in flocked with snow, unbowed by the blizzard's wind and cold, broad shoulders invincible and unyielding. His might and strength, his masculine presence, filled the room.

  "How's your son?" Her thin voice came out raspy, barely audible in the kitchen when the storm howled too loud in the background.

  The bounty hunter frowned, his face twisting in thought or in pain, she couldn't tell which, maybe both she decided as he strode closer.

  "He's almost back to sleep, which he needs. He's coming down with something and he's seeming pretty ill. Did you know that you're bleeding again?"

  "I noticed. I did more work in the barn caring for the horses than I thought." He ambled past her with his jaw set, favoring his left side. Protecting them had come at a cost. A bright red spot hit the floor and then another.

  "Horses?"

  "Yes, Henson's poor mishandled gelding was tied up in that storm and left there. It took a lot to warm him up, take care of his wounds and his hunger. I bedded down both him and your gelding good and warm for the night."

  "Thank you." Saydee stood. "You should be lying down."

  "True, but I don't always do what I should." He seemed such a part of the evening shadows that the uneven ring of his footsteps striking the floor was what seemed real about him. Tangible. Solid.

  His footsteps silenced in the neighboring room. The faintest squeak of the overstuffed armchair's cushion gave him away. She listened to the silence and tried to stop the impression from forming, one of the bounty hunter, all calm protective might and good-hearted strength.

  Saydee wrapped her arms around her waist and drew in one breath. She hadn't shared an evening with a man since her husband passed, and that remembering took her back and reminded her scarred heart of old sorrow.

  She forced the memory away and hurt new, even though it had been six years since she'd lost the man who'd married her, who'd loved her. She'd had such a soft life of being loved by him, such a sweet life, not perfect by far, but what a loss that had been.

  If only I could go back to that day and re-live it. If only she'd known he would gone from illness too soon. But she could not have stopped time or traveled backward through it to save him. She willed t
he tears from her eyes and the sorrow from her heart, but neither cooperated. She would never forget the value of a good man's love in a world often too harsh. She gave a watery sigh, looking up when the bounty hunter cleared his throat.

  "Thank you for taking care of my son." He blended so well with the shadows, it was as if his words came out of nowhere, just thin air and black shadows, and Saydee gasped. Was he part ghost?

  4

  She looked up and there he was, standing in the archway. He'd made no sound this time as he'd approached her. The darkness clung to him as if afraid of exposing him, like an accomplice keeping his secrets and mysteries, and when he leaned just a bit toward her, all she could make out of him was the dark tousle of his just-a-little-too-long hair.

  He took one step closer and the edges of the glow of the light hinted at the wide, muscular span of his chest. One more step and the light that was more shadow then light, at the extreme edges, showed off his large hands, loosely fisted at his sides. "It looks as if you fed him and gave him some medicine."

  "It was simple to do." She took a shaky step toward him and then stopped, her heart pounding too hard to go any farther. She smoothed her palms against her skirt. "I am a governess and was a schoolteacher before that. I can recognize the signs and symptoms of a child coming down with the croup. He will be okay, if I have anything to do with it."

  "I appreciate it. We haven't had a chance to be near a doctor or find one, not with those kind of men after me."

  "Are there going to be any more outlaws breaking into my house?"

  "I can't rightly say. I hope not, but I can't look into the future and know for sure. If Brant finds my trail or knows that I'm here, I can't help that or stop it. But I can promise you one thing, that I will do everything I can to keep him from hurting you or Jack. I swear it, on my honor." He retreated one step, lost in the shadows as they grabbed hold of him.