Praise for Elizabeth Lane

THE HORSEMAN’S BRIDE

‘The Gustavson family has won the hearts of Americana fans seeking a realistic love story. Lane wisely continues in this vein with the latest in her series, in which a fiery young woman meets her match in a mysterious drifter.’

—RT Book Reviews

HIS SUBSTITUTE BRIDE

‘This tender and loving story, spinning off from Lane’s previous Western, showcases her talent for drawing three-dimensional characters and placing them in an exciting time and place.’

—RT Book Reviews

THE BORROWED BRIDE

‘Lane’s pleasing love story brims over with tender touches.’

—RT Book Reviews

ON THE WINGS OF LOVE

‘Lane uses a turn-of-the-century backdrop and her knowledge of aviation to her advantage in a lively story featuring strong-willed characters. She reaches for an audience searching for fresh historical territory in her charming feminist novel.’

—RT Book Reviews

“Hellfire, I never could stand seeing a woman cry!”

With one swift, sure movement Jace’s mouth captured Clara’s. She felt her knees go weak. She had wanted Jace to kiss her, she realized, from the first moment she’d looked at him.

With a little whimper, she melted into his heat. Instinctively she rose on tiptoe, straining upward to find him.

“Oh, damn it, don’t, Clara …” Jace groaned in feeble protest. Then his big hands reached for her through the nightgown and lifted her high and hard against him.

About the Author

ELIZABETH LANE has lived and travelled in many parts of the world, including Europe, Latin America and the Far East, but her heart remains in the American West, where she was born and raised. Her idea of heaven is hiking a mountain trail on a clear autumn day. She also enjoys music, animals and dancing. You can learn more about Elizabeth by visiting her website at www.elizabethlaneauthor.com

THE HORSEMAN’S BRIDE features characters you will have met in THE BORROWED BRIDE and HIS SUBSTITUTE BRIDE

Previous novels by this author:

ANGELS IN THE SNOW

(part of Stay for Christmas anthology)

HER DEAREST ENEMY

THE STRANGER

THE BORROWED BRIDE*

HIS SUBSTITUTE BRIDE*

THE HOMECOMING

(part of Cowboy Christmas anthology)

*linked by character

and in Mills & Boon® Super Historical:

ON THE WINGS OF LOVE

The Horseman’s

Bride

Elizabeth Lane

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Scott, Tiffany, Adam, Alec and Olivia.

Thank you for blessing my life.

Chapter One

Dutchman’s Creek, Colorado June 7, 1919

Clara Seavers closed the paddock gate and looped the chain over the wooden post. The morning air was crisp, the sky as blue as a jay’s wing above the snowcapped Rockies. It was a perfect day for a ride.

Swinging into the saddle, she urged the two-year-old gelding to a trot. Foxfire, as she’d named the leggy chestnut colt, had been foaled on the Seavers Ranch. Clara had broken him herself. He could run like the wind, but he was skittish and full of ginger. Keeping him under control required constant attention, which was why Clara allowed no one other than herself to ride him.

This morning the colt was responding well. With a press of her boot heels, Clara opened him up to a canter. She could feel the power in the solid body, feel the young horse’s impatience to break away and gallop full out across the open pastureland. Only her discipline held him back.

For as long as she could remember, Clara had wanted to breed and train fine horses. She’d passed up her parents’ offer of college to stay on the ranch and pursue her dream. Now, at nineteen, she could see that dream coming true. Foxfire was the first of several colts and fillies with champion quarter horse bloodlines. In time, she vowed, the Seavers Ranch would be as well-known for prize horses as it was for cattle.

Gazing across the distant fields, she could see her grandma Gustavson’s farm. Days had passed since Clara’s last visit to her grandmother. It was high time she paid her another call.

For years Clara’s parents had begged the old woman to move into their spacious family ranch house. But Mary Gustavson was as iron willed as her Viking forebearers. She was determined to live out her days on the land she’d homesteaded with her husband, Soren, in the two-story log house where they’d raised seven children.

So far Mary had done all right. For a woman in her seventies, her health was fair, and the rental of pastureland to the Seavers family gave her enough money to live on. She did her own chores and borrowed the ranch hands for occasional heavy work. But seventy-two was too old to be living alone. The family worried increasingly that something would go wrong and no one would be there to help her.

Clara pushed Foxfire to a lope, feeling the joyful stretch of the colt’s body between her knees. There was an old barbed-wire fence between the ranch land and her grandmother’s property. But the wires were down in several places where the cattle had butted against the posts. It would, as always, be easy to jump the horse through.

They came up fast on the fence, with Clara leaning forward in the saddle. She was urging her mount to a jump when she caught sight of the gleaming new barbed wire at the level of the colt’s chest.

Some fool had fixed the fence!

With an unladylike curse, she wrenched the reins to one side. They managed to avoid the fence, but the pressure on his bit-tender mouth sent Foxfire into a frenzy. He reared and stumbled sideways. Thrown from the saddle, Clara slammed to the ground. For a terrifying instant the colt teetered above her, hoofs flailing. Then he regained his balance, wheeled and galloped away.

Clara lay gasping on her back. Cautiously she moved her arms and legs. Nothing felt broken, but the hard landing had knocked the wind out of her. She took a moment to gather her wits. First she needed to catch her breath. Then she would have to get up and catch her horse. After that she intended to hunt down the addlepated so-and-so who’d replaced the sagging wire and give him a piece of her mind.

“Are you all right?” The voice that spoke was distinctly male, with a gravelly undertone. The face that loomed into sight above her was square-boned with a long, stubbled jaw. Tawny curls, plastered with sweat and dust, tumbled over blazing blue eyes.

It flashed through her mind that her virtue could be in serious danger. But the stranger leaning over her didn’t look lustful. He looked concerned—and furious.

Clara struggled to speak but the fall had left her breathless. It was all she could do to return his scowl.

“What in hell’s name did you think you were doing?” he growled. “You damn near ran that horse straight into the wire. You could’ve cut its chest to pieces and broken your own fool neck in the bargain.”

Summoning her strength, Clara rose up on her elbows and found her voice. “What right do you have to question me?” she retorted. “Who are you and what are you doing on Seavers land?”

His gaze flickered over the straining buttons of her plaid shirt before returning to her face. His boots, Clara noticed, were expensively made. Most likely the rough-looking fellow had stolen them.

“Begging your pardon.” His voice was razor edged. “Until you fell off your horse, I was on the other side of the fence—Mrs. Gustavson’s fence, if I’m to believe her, and I do. She’s hired me to make some repairs.”

Fueled by annoyance, Clara scrambled to her feet. One hand brushed the damp earth off the seat of her denim jeans. “Mary Gustavson is my grandmother, and this fence has been down for as long as I can remember. I ride this way when I come to visit her. Whose idea was it to put the wire up?”

“Mine.” His jaw was unshaven, his clothes faded and dusty. He looked like a trail bum, but his tone was imperious. “She told me to look around and fix whatever needed fixing. I assumed that included the fence.”

Clara glared up at him. He towered a full head above her five-foot-four-inch height. “You must’ve seen me coming,” she said. “Why didn’t you shout and warn me?”

“How was I to know you were going to run the damned horse into the fence?”

His mention of the horse reminded her. Glancing past the stranger’s broad shoulder she saw Foxfire grazing in the far distance. The skittish colt had experienced a scare. He was going to be the very devil to round up.

“Well, no thanks to you, my horse has bolted. It’s going to take a lot of walking to catch him so you’ll have to excuse me.” She turned to walk away, but his voice stopped her.

“I’ve got a horse. Allow me to help you—on my own time, not your grandmother’s.”

It was a decent offer. But his condescending manner made Clara want to slap his face. The man looked like a tramp. But he talked like someone who was used to giving orders. What gave him the right to boss her around?

“I’ll thank you for the loan of your horse,” she said. “Aside from that, I won’t need your help.”

His scathing eyes took her measure. He shook his head. “My horse is a stallion. I doubt you could handle him. Stay here and I’ll catch your colt myself.”

Clara stood her ground. “Foxfire’s been spooked. You won’t get within fifty paces of him.”

“And you can?”

“I broke and trained him. He knows my voice. And I’ve been riding since I was old enough to walk. I can handle any horse, including your stallion.”

Again he shook his head. “I watched you damn near break your silly neck once. I’m not going to stand here and watch you do it again, especially not on my horse. If you want to come along, you can ride behind me.”

Without another word he turned and strode away. Only then did Clara catch sight of his horse, grazing on the far side of a big cottonwood tree. It raised its head at the man’s approach. Clara’s breath caught in her throat.

The rangy bay would have dwarfed most of the cow ponies on the ranch. Its body was flawlessly proportioned, the chest broad and muscular, the head like sculpted bronze. Clara was a good judge of horseflesh. She had never seen a more magnificent animal.

The stranger was halfway to the horse by now. “Wait!” Clara sprinted after him. “Wait, I’m coming with you!”

At close range the stallion was even more impressive. Perfect lines, flaring nostrils. A Thoroughbred, almost certainly. No doubt the man had stolen it. In all good conscience, she should report him to the town marshal. But right now that was the furthest thing from Clara’s mind.

A stallion among stallions!

And two of her best mares were coming into season.

She was not about to let this horse get away.

The man probably needed money—why else would he be working for her grandmother? Maybe he would sell her the stallion for a fair price. But did she want the risk of buying a stolen horse? Maybe she could borrow the splendid creature long enough to service her mares.

She waited while the stranger mounted, then gripped his proffered arm. His taut muscles lifted her without effort as she swung up behind him.

Unaccustomed to the extra weight on its haunches, the stallion snorted and danced. Clara had to grip the stranger’s waist to keep from sliding off. Beneath the worn chambray shirt, his body was rock hard. He smelled of sweat and sagebrush, with a subtle whiff of her grandmother’s lye soap lingering behind his ears. A warm tingle of awareness crept through Clara’s body.

She gave herself a mental slap. What did she know about this man? He could be a shyster or a criminal on the run, or worse.

What had possessed a sensible woman like Mary Gustavson to hire him? For all she knew, the scruffy fellow could be planning to slit her throat in the night and steal everything in the house.

Who was this stranger? What was his business?

For her grandmother’s sake, she needed to find out. And for her own sake, she’d be keeping a close eye on him—and his stallion.

Jace Denby took the stallion at an easy trot. He didn’t want to startle the colt—nor did he want the stallion to rear and dump Miss Clara Seavers on her pretty little ass. He knew who she was, of course. Mary Gustavson had talked about her granddaughter all through supper last night. When he’d seen the girl flying across the pasture on a chestnut colt that matched the hue of her unruly curls, he’d recognized her at once.

And the instant she’d opened her full-blown rosebud mouth he’d known she was a spoiled brat. Just the kind of female he wanted nothing to do with. Especially since she was so damnably attractive. He couldn’t afford the distraction of a pretty young thing accustomed to getting her own way. She’d flirt, wheedle and pout to win him. Then, when he broke her heart, she’d be out for his blood. For him, that could be highly dangerous.

If he had any sense he’d dump Miss Clara Seavers off in the grass and ride for the hills.

She clung to his back, the pressure of her firm breasts burning through his shirt. He hadn’t been within touching distance of a woman in months, and this intimate contact wasn’t doing him any good. The heat in his groin was fast becoming a bonfire, igniting thoughts of stripping away her light flannel shirt and cradling those breasts in his palms, stroking them until the nipples rose and hardened and her breath came in little gasps of need …

Hellfire, just the idea of it made him harder than a hickory stick. Jace swore under his breath. As a man on the run, it was imperative that he keep his mind above his belt line where it belonged. The last thing he needed was a saucy little hellion like this one pressing her tits against his back.

“You can call me Tanner,” he said, using the alias he’d given Mary Gustavson. “And you, if I’m not mistaken, would be Miss Clara Seavers.”

She was silent for a moment. Her knees nested against the backs of his legs, fitting as snugly as the rest of her would fit him, given the chance.

Damn!

“What else did my grandmother tell you?” she asked.

“That you could ride anything on four legs and dance until the band went home.”

A lusty little laugh rippled through her body. Jace felt it as much as heard it. “I take it you didn’t believe her. Otherwise I’d be sitting where you are.”

“No comment.” Jace’s gaze swept over the pasture, the silky summer grass, the distant foothills dotted with scrub and blooming wildflowers, the soaring peaks of the Rockies and the endless sky above them. Over the past few months he’d learned to savor every day of freedom as if it might be his last. Today was no exception.

“I know a fine animal when I see one,” she said. “What’s your stallion’s name?”

“Doesn’t have one.”

“Why on earth not? A horse as grand as this one deserves a name, at least.”

“Why?” Jace was playing her now, parrying to keep her at a distance. “Does a horse care whether he has a name or not?”

“No. But maybe I do.” In the silence that followed, Jace could imagine her ripe lips pursed in a willful pout.

He forced a chuckle. “So you name him. Go ahead.”

Again she fell into a pause. The stallion trotted beneath them, its gait like flowing silk. “Galahad,” she said. “I’ll name him Galahad, after the knight in the King Arthur tales.”

“Fine. Galahad’s as good a name as any.”

“May I ask how you came by him?”

“You’re wondering whether I stole him, aren’t you?”

“Did you?” she demanded.

“I borrowed him. He belongs to my sister.” That much was true, at least. Never mind that she wouldn’t believe him. He didn’t give a damn about her good opinion. He only planned on staying until he earned enough to move on. Maybe he could make it to California before the cold weather set in. Or maybe Mexico. A man could get lost in Mexico.

“So how do you come to be working for my grandmother?” Her voice dripped suspicion.

“I came by the ranch a couple of days ago looking for work. She was kind enough to hire me and feed me in the bargain. She’s one fine lady, Mrs. Gustavson.”

“That she is. And my family would kill anybody who tried to take advantage of her, or harm her in any way.”

“I take it that’s a warning.”

“You can take it any way you like.” Her arms tightened around him as the horse jumped a shallow ditch. The chestnut colt had raised its head and was watching their approach. Jace slowed the stallion to a walk.

Galahad. At least Clara had chosen a sensible name. Hollis Rumford, his sister Ruby’s late, unlamented husband, had probably called the horse Archduke Puffington of Rumfordshire or something equally silly. Hollis had cared more about his damned horses than he’d cared about his wife and daughters. The last Jace had seen of the bastard, he’d been lying in a pool of blood with three bullet holes in his chest. Jace’s only regret was that the shots hadn’t hit lower.

Jace hadn’t planned on keeping the stallion. But he’d come to realize that traveling on horseback through open country was safer than going by rail or road. And, for all his resolve to remain unattached, he’d developed a fondness for the big bay. As long as Galahad understood who was boss, he was amiable company. The fact that he could outrun any horse west of the Mississippi gave Jace even more reason to keep him.

“Stop.” Clara’s fingers pressed Jace’s ribs. The chestnut colt watched them warily, poised to bolt at the slightest perceived threat. Jace halted the stallion, holding steady as she shifted behind him. “Stay here,” she hissed, easing to the ground.

Jace watched her walk away. Despite his teasing, he had to admit she had a horsewoman’s grace, an easy way of moving like the sway of long grass in the wind. Her mud-streaked denims—made for a boy, most likely—clung to her hips in a most unboyish way, outlining her firm little buttocks. Her hair fluttered down her back in a glorious tangle of mahogany curls.

Clara had an hourglass figure, her womanly curves offset by a tiny waist. Jace couldn’t help comparing her with Eileen Summers, the governor’s niece he’d been courting back in Missouri. Eileen was as lean as a saluki, her champagne hair flawlessly sculpted, her usual silken gown skimming her elegant bones. In her slim, white fingers, she’d held the key to a world of power and influence—a world that, for Jace, had vanished with his sister’s frantic telephone call. He’d had no chance to tell Eileen what had happened and why he had to leave. But that was likely for the best.

He had no doubt that word had spread like wildfire after he’d left. And the very proper Miss Summers wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with an accused murderer on the run.

“Easy, boy …” Clara walked toward the nervous colt, the tall grass swishing against her legs. One hand held the small apple she carried for such emergencies. The stranger sat his horse, his cool gaze following her every movement.

Tanner. Was that his first name or his last name? No matter, it probably wasn’t his name at all. He had the look and manner of a man with something to hide. She would need to have a serious talk with her grandmother. Mary Gustavson was far too trusting.

Maybe she should talk with her father as well. Judd Seavers would probably run the stranger off the place with a shotgun. But then the stallion would be gone. She would lose the chance to add his splendid bloodline to next spring’s foals.

Her father had enough on his mind. She wouldn’t trouble him about the stranger. Not yet, at least.

“Easy.” She held out her hand with the apple on the flat of her palm. Foxfire pricked up his ears. His nostrils twitched. He took a tentative step toward her, thrusting his muzzle toward the treat. “That’s it. Good boy!” As the colt munched the apple, Clara caught the bridle with her free hand. Moving cautiously, she eased herself back into the saddle.

The man who called himself Tanner was grinning at her. “Right fine job of horse-catching, Miss Clara,” he drawled. “Couldn’t have done it better myself.”

“You needn’t patronize me, Mr. Tanner. There’s not that much to catching a horse that I’ve trained.” Clara turned the colt back toward the last open section of fence. “Why not build a gate here? We come this way all the time to visit my grandmother. If we can’t get through, we’ll have to go by way of the road. It’s three times the distance.”

“Not a bad suggestion. But I’ll need to get the boss’s approval and see what’s in the shed that I can use.” He pulled his horse alongside hers. “Meanwhile, as long as we’re going the same way, I hope you won’t mind my company.”

Clara bit back a caustic retort. Tanner’s high-handed manner made her bristle. But she’d made up her mind to learn more about the stranger. Here was her chance. She slowed the colt to a walk.

“You seem to know plenty about me,” she said. “But I don’t know anything about you. Where did you come from?”

Tanner’s narrowed eyes swept the grassy pastureland, looking everywhere but at her. In the silence, a meadowlark called from its perch atop a fence post.

“I grew up in Missouri,” he said at last. “But whatever kept me there is long gone. Drifting’s become a way of life for me. Can’t say as I mind it.”

“No family?”

He shook his head. “None that I’ve kept track of. My parents died years ago. The rest moved on.”

What about your sister? The one you said lent you the stallion?

The question burned on the tip of Clara’s tongue. She bit it back. Confronting Tanner would only put him on guard. Let him go on feeding her lies. He’d already confirmed her suspicions that he was holding something back. Give him enough rope and he was bound to hang himself.

All she needed was a little patience.

But he wasn’t making it easy for her.

Why did the man have to be so tall and broad-shouldered? Why did he have to have a chiseled face and eyes like twin blue flames? Right now those eyes looked as if they could burn right through her clothes. Any town boy who looked at her like that would be asking to get his face slapped.

The man was dangerous, she reminded herself. He could be a fugitive, even a murderer. She’d be a fool to let him get too close.

“You don’t sound like a trail bum, Mr. Tanner,” she said. “You speak like a man who’s had some education.”

“Any man who can read has the means to educate himself. And it’s just Tanner, not Mr. Tanner.”

“But do you have a profession? A trade?”

“If I did, would I be out here mending fences?” He gave her a sharp glance. “Would you care to tell me why you’re being so nosy?”

Clara met his blazing eyes, resisting the impulse to look away. “I’m very protective of my grandmother,” she said. “She’s an old woman, and she’s much too trusting.”

“But I take it you’re not so … trusting.” He was playing with her now, brazenly confident that he could twist her around his finger. Damn his lying hide! He’d probably charmed her grandmother the same way.

If it weren’t for the stallion, she’d run him off the property with a bullwhip!

“Let’s just say I’m not a fool,” she snapped.

“I can see you’re not. And neither is your grandmother. She doesn’t keep that loaded shotgun by the door for nothing. If she thought I had any intention of harming her, I’d be picking buckshot out of my rear.”

“We’ll see about that!” Out of patience, she kneed the colt to a gallop. Tanner didn’t try to follow her, but as she shot across the pasture, Clara became aware of a sound behind her. Even without looking back, she knew what it was.

The wretched man was laughing at her!

Jace watched her ride away, her delicious little rump bouncing in the saddle. Miss Clara Seavers was one sweet little spitfire. He’d enjoyed teasing her, but now it was time to back off and leave her alone. The last thing he needed was that bundle of trouble poking into his past.

Mrs. Mary Gustavson was a fine woman. He would miss her conversation and her cooking. But as soon as he finished the work she needed done it would be time to move on. There would be other towns, other farms, other pretty girls to tease. As long as there was a price on his head, nothing was forever. Not for him. It was keep moving or face his death at the end of a rope.

At least his sister Ruby and her two little girls would be all right.

Hollis Rumford had been considered a fine catch when she’d married him ten years ago. Heir to a farm equipment company, he’d been as charming as he was handsome. But his infidelity, drunkenness and abuse had made Ruby’s life a living hell. Jace had seen the ugly bruises. He had dried his sister’s tears. Lord help him, he wasn’t the least bit sorry Hollis was dead. But he would always be sorry he hadn’t acted sooner. Maybe if he’d taken Ruby and her daughters away from that monster, he’d still have his old life—his friends, his fine apartment in Springfield, his work as a field geologist and engineer and a future in politics that might have taken him all the way to the Missouri Statehouse or the U.S. Congress. Marriage to Eileen Summers, the governor’s niece, would have opened many doors. Now those doors were closed to him forever.

But he hadn’t acted in vain, Jace reminded himself.

Now Ruby would be a respectable widow with a fine house and plenty of money. After a proper mourning period, she’d be free to find a new husband—a decent man, God willing, who’d treat her well and be a good father to her girls.

That had to be worth something, didn’t it?

Clara found her grandmother seated on the porch in her old cane rocker, her hands busy peeling a bucket of potatoes from the root cellar.

“Hello, dear.” Mary Gustavson was tall and raw-boned, her thick white hair swept back from her wrinkled face. Blessed with strong features and cornflower-blue eyes, she looked like an older version of her daughter Hannah, Clara’s mother.

“Good morning, Grandma.” Clara swung off her horse, looped the reins over the hitching rail and bounded up the steps to give the old woman a hug. Mary had raised seven children, buried a husband and baby and worked the farm alone for the past nineteen years. Loss and hard times had burnished her spirit to a serene glow that radiated from her face. Clara and her younger siblings, Daniel and Katy, adored her.

“I was just thinking about you, and here you are.” Even after decades in America, Mary spoke with a lilting Norwegian accent. “Sit down and visit with me awhile.”

“Wait, I’ll help you with those potatoes.” Clara hurried into the house and returned with an extra paring knife. Sitting on the edge of the porch, she picked up a potato. As she sliced off thin strips of peel, she wondered how best to bring up the subject of her grandmother’s new hired man.

“So how is your family?” Mary asked. “Are they all well?”

Clara nodded. “Daniel’s got a girlfriend in town. He’s pestering Papa to let him drive the car so he can take her for a ride.”

Mary chuckled. “I can hardly believe it! It seems like yesterday he was pulling on my apron strings.”

“My pesky little brother is sixteen. I can hardly believe it myself. And Katy, at the wise old age of thirteen, says she’s never going to let a boy kiss her for as long as she lives.”

“Oh, my! That will change in a year or two.”

Clara cut up the peeled potato, dropped it in the kettle and picked up another one. “Not too soon, I hope. Sometimes I think she has the right idea.”

“And what about you?”

Clara glanced up into Mary’s narrowed, knowing eyes. She knew that expression well. Her grandmother had always sensed when something was troubling her. What was she seeing now? Bright eyes? A hot, flushed face?

“I take it you’ve met my new hired man,” Mary said.

Chapter Two

Clara felt the heat rise in her face. If she could feel it, she knew her grandmother could see it. “He’s fixed the pasture fence,” she said. “I very nearly rode Foxfire into the new barbed wire. Whose idea was it to fix that fence anyway? The wire’s been down for years.”

“It was Tanner’s. But when he brought it up, I thought it was a good idea. I’m getting too old to chase your family’s calves out of my garden.”

“Oh, dear! Why didn’t you say something, Grandma? If we’d known about the calves, my dad would’ve fixed that fence a long time ago.”

Mary shrugged. “Judd is a busy man. I didn’t want to bother him about such a little thing. But never mind, it will be fixed now.”

“I suggested to Tanner that he put in a gate. That way we can still cut across the pastures when we come to visit you.”

“Oh? And what did he say to that?”

“He said he’d have to ask the boss.”

“He did, did he?” Mary chuckled as she picked up another potato. “I must say, I like a man who knows his place.”

Clara sighed. This wasn’t going at all well. “Grandma, what possessed you to hire him? He’s a drifter, and you don’t know anything about him. He could be a criminal, waiting for a chance to rob you.”

“Oh? And what would he steal?” Mary’s hands worked deftly as she talked. “The little money I have is safe in the bank. If the man needed food, he’d be welcome to all he could carry. As for the rest, look around you, child. What do I have that’s worth taking? My clothes? My pots and pans? My garden tools?” Her eyes twinkled. “My virtue, heaven forbid? Look at me. I’m an old woman. And whatever else Tanner may be, he’s a gentleman.”

Clara resisted the urge to grind her teeth. The look she’d seen in Tanner’s cobalt eyes was not the look of a gentleman. “What makes you say that?” she asked.

“I offered to let him sleep upstairs, in the boys’ old room. He insisted on laying out his bedroll in the hay shed. Didn’t want folks to gossip, he said.”

Clara groaned inwardly. As if anyone would gossip about her grandmother letting hired help sleep upstairs! Tanner’s excuse had been designed to flatter her and win her confidence. He probably slept outside in case he needed to make a fast getaway. She was becoming less and less inclined to trust the man.

“Why didn’t you tell us you needed help?” she asked. “We could’ve sent a couple of the ranch hands over to do the work. My father would have paid them.”

“I know, dear.” Mary quartered a peeled potato and dropped the pieces into the cooking pot. “But you know I don’t like accepting charity, even from my own family. Tanner needed work, and I …” A smile creased her cheek. “To tell you the truth, I liked the young man right off. And I enjoy his company over supper at night. It’s nice having somebody to talk to.”

Clara forced herself to take a long breath before she spoke. “How long does he plan to be here?”

“We haven’t talked about it. But once he’s made a little money, I expect he’ll move on. He doesn’t strike me as the sort of man to take root in one place.” Mary glanced into the pot. “I believe that’s enough potatoes for now. Give me a minute to put them on the stove, dear. Then we can go on with our visit.”

She pushed forward to rise from her rocker, but Clara had already picked up the pot. She stood, laying her knife on the porch rail. “I’ll do it, Grandma. You stay and rest.”

Swinging through the screen door, she strode into the kitchen. The interior of the house was shabby but comfortable. Mary could have bought new dishes and furniture, but the chipped plates, scarred table and mismatched chairs held precious memories of her husband and children. As Mary was fond of saying, the pieces were old friends and they served her well enough.

In the kitchen, Clara covered the potatoes with water, added a pinch of salt and set the pot on the big black stove to boil. Her grandmother would be waiting outside, but the quiet house held her in its calm embrace, urging her to linger. Savoring the stillness, she wandered into the parlor, where framed photographs of Mary’s family covered most of one wall.

Clara knew them well. Here was Reverend Ephraim Gustavson, her mother’s younger brother who’d gone off to Africa to be a missionary. And here, on the left was a ten-year-old photograph of her own family—her mother, Hannah, and her handsome, serious father, Judd, with their three children. The two younger ones, Daniel and Katy, were almost as fair as their mother. In their midst, Clara looked like a gypsy changeling. But then, her paternal grandfather had been dark. He’d died long before Clara was born, but she’d seen his picture. Tom Seavers had looked a lot like his younger son Quint—Clara’s adored favorite uncle.

Here was Uncle Quint in the photograph taken on his wedding day. He was devilishly handsome with dark chestnut hair, twinkling brown eyes and dimples that matched Clara’s. His bride, Aunt Annie, was Mary’s second daughter. More delicate than her sister Hannah, she had dark blond hair, intelligent gray eyes and a practical disposition that balanced her husband’s impulsive ways.

Clara worshipped her aunt and uncle and looked forward to their rare visits. Never blessed with children, they lived a glamorous life in San Francisco and had traveled all over the world. They always came to the ranch laden with exotic gifts and thrilling stories. On their last visit they’d brought Clara a bolt of white Indian silk, exquisitely embroidered in silver thread. “For your wedding, dear, whenever that might be,” Aunt Annie had told her.

Clara’s mother had put the treasured fabric away for safekeeping, but every now and then Clara would lift the bolt from the cedar chest, touch the silk with her fingertips and wonder if it would ever be used. Many of the girls she’d known from school were already married. But she’d always been more interested in horses than in boys. The idea of pledging herself to a man for the rest of her life had always seemed as far-fetched as walking on the moon. Not that she wasn’t popular. At the town dances, she never lacked for partners. But none of the local boys, even the ones she’d allowed to kiss her, had piqued her interest. They were nice enough, but not one of them had offered a challenge to her way of thinking. In fact, they hadn’t challenged her at all. They had no curiosity, no desire to test the limits of their small, safe lives. On the other hand, a certain blue-eyed hired man …

The sound of muted voices from the front porch yanked her attention back to the present. At first she thought Tanner had come back to talk with Mary. But she was halfway out the door when she realized that the speaker wasn’t Tanner. By then it was too late to reach for Mary’s shotgun.

At the foot of the porch, two grubby-looking men sat bareback astride a drooping piebald horse. The man in front held a cocked. 22 rifle, aimed straight at Mary.

And Tanner was nowhere in sight.

“Go back inside, Clara.” Mary’s voice was low and taut.

“Come on out here, sweetie.” The man in front grinned beneath his greasy bowler hat, showing gummy, tobacco-stained teeth. “Let’s have a look at you.”

Clara walked past Mary as far as the porch railing. She could almost feel the two men eyeing her. She could sense their dirty thoughts, like hands crawling over her body. Her nerves were screaming, but she knew better than to show fear. She kept her head up, her gaze direct.

“That’s a good girl,” the man in the bowler chuckled. “How about unbuttoning that shirt and giving us a show?” When Clara hesitated, his voice lowered to a growl. “Do it, girlie, or the old lady gets it right between the eyes.”

Hands trembling, Clara fumbled with her shirt buttons. The .22 was a small-caliber weapon, mostly good for rabbits and vermin. Hard-core murderers would likely be carrying a more powerful gun. Still, at close range a well-aimed shot could be deadly. She couldn’t take chances with her grandmother’s life.

“Come on, honey, we ain’t got all day. Let’s see them titties.”

Clara’s fingers had unbuttoned the shirt past the top of her light summer union suit. The thin fabric left little to the imagination, but she had no choice except to keep going. Fear clawed at her gut. The men wouldn’t be satisfied with seeing her breasts, she knew. It would be all too easy for one of them to drag her down and rape her while his partner held the gun on Mary.

And then what? Would they murder both women to hide their crime, or maybe just for the pleasure of it? Perhaps the gun was only for show, and they did their real killing with knives or ropes.

Where was Tanner when they needed him?

Her fingers had reached her belt line. The shirt gaped open to the waist. The man with the gun was leering at her. “The underwear, too, missy. Go on, don’t be bashful!”

Clara groped for a shoulder strap. She was dimly aware of the second man, his long legs wrapping the horse’s flanks. He had pale hair and the dull-eyed look of a beast. His tongue licked his full, red lips in anticipation. Her stomach clenched.

“Stop this!” Mary’s voice shook. “Go inside the house. Take whatever you need, but leave my granddaughter alone! She’s an innocent girl!”

“Save your breath, lady. You ain’t the one giving orders. We’ll have our fun with honey pie, here, and take anything we want. And since I get first pick, I’ll be taking this smart little red pony you got tied to the hitching rail. He should make right sweet ridin’. Almost as sweet as—”

“No!” Driven by a blast of rage, Clara sprang between the gunman and her grandmother. One hand snatched up the knife she’d left on the porch railing. Brandishing the blade, she defied the gunman. “Don’t you touch my horse!” she hissed. “If you come near him or my grandmother, so help me, I’ll cut you to bloody ribbons!”

The man’s jaw dropped. For an instant his greasy face reflected shock. Then he grinned. “Why, you feisty little bitch! I’ll show you a thing or—”

“Drop the gun, you bastard!” Tanner’s voice rang with cold authority as he stepped from behind the toolshed. “Drop it and reach for the sky, both of you!”

Tanner had spoken from behind the two men. Now he moved forward to where they could see the .38 revolver in his hand. The .22 thudded to the ground as four hands went up.

“We was only funnin’, mister,” the gunman whined. “We never meant to hurt the ladies.”

“Sure you didn’t.” Tanner pulled back the pistol’s hammer. “The knives, too. Nice and slow. Don’t make any sudden moves and give me an excuse to pull this trigger. I’d shoot you in a heartbeat.”

Rooted to the spot, Clara watched the men draw their hunting knives and toss them to the gravel. Mary had risen and slipped into the house. She emerged with the shotgun cocked and aimed at the two desperados.

“I’ve got your back, Tanner,” she said. “Say the word and I’ll blow them to kingdom come.”

“I knew I could count on you.” Tanner’s grin flashed. Then for the first time, he seemed to notice Clara. “When you get yourself together, Miss Clara, maybe you could get down here and gather up their weapons.”

Cheeks blazing, Clara put down the paring knife and fumbled with her buttons. She must have looked like a fool, standing there with her chest exposed, brandishing that pathetic little blade. Behind that sneer, Tanner was probably laughing his head off.

“What should we do with these two buzzards, Mary? Do you want me to shoot them for you?” Tanner seemed to be playing with the two men, trying to make them squirm.

“That’s tempting,” Mary replied. “But I suppose the right thing would be to lock them in the granary and telephone for the marshal.”

Clara had come down off the porch, close enough for her to see the twitch of a muscle in Tanner’s cheek as he hesitated. What if he didn’t want Mary to call in the law? What if he was worried about being seen?

Still pondering, she moved to the far side of the horse and bent to pick up the gun and the two knives. That was when she saw the flicker of movement. The dull-eyed man who sat in the rear had slipped a thin-bladed knife out of his boot.

“No!” she screamed, but it was too late. The man’s supple hand moved with the speed of a striking rattlesnake. The knife sliced the air, sinking hilt-deep into Tanner’s right shoulder.

A curse exploded between Tanner’s lips. His gun hand sagged. The man in front yanked the reins and the piebald reared and wheeled, its hoof grazing Clara’s head. Clara reeled backward, lost her balance and went down rolling to avoid being trampled.

The shotgun roared behind the fleeing outlaws. But Mary had fired high. The blast went over their heads as the horse thundered down the drive toward the main road with the two men clinging to its back.

Still dazed, Clara struggled to her feet. Mary had collapsed in the rocker with the shotgun across her knees. Tanner had lowered the pistol. His face was ashen. His torn sleeve oozed crimson where the knife handle jutted out of his shoulder.

Clara could feel a throbbing lump at her hairline where the iron shoe had grazed her skull. A wet trickle threaded its way down her temple.

Mary laid the shotgun on the porch and rose shakily to her feet. “We’ll need some wrappings,” she said. “I’ll get something we can tear into strips. Meanwhile, Clara, you’d better help this fellow to the porch before he takes a header. Don’t try to take the knife out until we’ve got something to stop the blood.”

“I’ll be all right.” Tanner spoke through clenched teeth, swaying a little as he staggered toward the steps. Clara darted to his side and braced herself against his left arm. His body was warm and damp, the muscles rock hard through the worn chambray shirt. She felt the contact as a shimmering current of heat.

Mary paused at the door. “I suppose we should call the marshal. He’ll want to pick up their weapons and question us about what happened.”

Clara felt Tanner’s body tighten against her, felt his hesitation. “Why bother?” he asked. “In the time it takes the marshal to get here, those ruffians could be halfway to the next county.”

“But what if they try to rob somebody else?”

“They’re unarmed, Mary. And they know we can identify them. Trust me, all they’ll want to do is hightail it out of here, as far away as they can get.”

Beside him, Clara studied the chiseled profile, the narrowed eyes and tense jaw. Where she stood against his side, she could feel the pounding of his heart. If her grandmother called the marshal, she sensed Tanner would slip away and be gone—along with his beautiful stallion, and a wound that could be fatal if left untreated.

He had just rescued them, possibly saving their lives. Would it be so wrong to keep him here a little longer?

“Tanner’s right, Grandma,” she said. “Once those men are outside the marshal’s jurisdiction, there’s nothing he can do. Why waste his time?”

His eyes flashed toward her, caught her gaze and held it. In those fathomless blue depths she read gratitude, suspicion and a world of questions.

Mary sighed. “Oh, that makes sense, I suppose. But I hate the thought of that awful pair getting away. I’d have aimed lower but I didn’t want to hit that poor horse.” She opened the screen door and hurried into the house.

Clara supported Tanner as they covered the short distance toward the porch. “You don’t need to hold me up,” he muttered. “My legs are fine.”

“Don’t be so proud!” she scolded him. “You’re in shock. You look as if you could pass out any second, and you’re about to drop that pistol.” She took the heavy .38, which was barely dangling from his fingers. “Here, sit on the steps. I’ll get you something to drink.”

“I’m guessing there’s no whiskey.” He sank onto the middle step with a grunt of pain. His left hand clutched his right arm, the fingers tight below the wound.

“My grandmother does keep a little—strictly for medicinal purposes. Will you be all right while I get it?”

“Just get the blasted whiskey!”

“Hang on.” She dashed into the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind her.

Only after she’d gone did Jace give vent to the pain that pooled like molten lead around the knife in his shoulder. A string of obscenities purpled the air. If nothing else, the muttered oaths braced his courage. The wound itself didn’t appear that serious, but if that blade was as filthy as the bastard who’d thrown it, he could be in danger of blood poisoning.

The girl had surprised him, standing there like a defiant little cat pitted against a pair of mongrel curs. He’d been in the woodshed looking for gate timbers when the two ruffians appeared. It had taken him precious minutes to circle around and retrieve the pistol he’d hidden in his bedroll. He’d returned to find her with her shirt gaping open as she threatened two armed criminals with that silly little paring knife.

His mouth had gone dry at the sight of her.

He’d be smart to banish the image from his mind, Jace lectured himself. Clara Seavers was a lady. Her courage and fighting spirit merited his respect. But the memory of her standing there on the porch, her proud little breasts straining against the wispy fabric that covered them, would fuel his erotic dreams for nights to come.

Damn!

He shifted his weight on the step. The movement shot pain all the way down to his fingertips. Biting back a moan, he focused his gaze on the circling flight of a red-tailed hawk. Beyond the pasture, where the road stretched into open country, the two intruders had long since vanished from sight.

What would have happened if he hadn’t been here? The thought sent a dark chill down his spine. He found himself wanting to catch up with the miscreants and rip them limb from limb. If either of them had so much as laid a hand on her …

Jace shook his head, silently cursing his own helplessness. He should be counting his blessings that the idiots had gotten away. If he and Mary had been able to hold them, the marshal would have been called in, and he’d have found himself dragged to jail along with them. Even now, he had to wonder if the men, if apprehended, would be able to identify him. Now would be the smart time to climb on his horse and ride away. But he was in no condition to go anywhere.

Why had Clara backed his argument against calling the marshal? Was she just talking common sense, or had those big sarsaparilla eyes seen through his facade to the fugitive he was? And if she suspected the truth, why had she helped him? Was it some kind of trick, meant to lull him into a false sense of security?

Were the women calling in the law even as he waited?

Jace’s hands had clenched into fists. Slowly he forced his fingers to relax, forced his mind away from the searing pain in his shoulder. Damn it, where was that whiskey? His ears strained for the patter of Clara’s light footsteps crossing the floor. He remembered the cool touch of her fingers, the pressure of her body against his side. He could feel himself swaying, getting light-headed. The pain was intoxicating. Maybe he should just grab the knife, yank it out and try to get to his horse. His hand crept toward knife handle.

“No!”

She was here now, rushing across the porch with Mary on her heels. As the screen door slammed shut, she dropped to her knees beside him. One hand clutched a pillow. The other clasped a bottle of cheap whiskey. “Give me that,” he growled, reaching to twist it out of her hand.

“No.” She moved the bottle aside. “There’s only a little bit left, and we’ll need it to disinfect the wound.”

“Hell’s bells, what happened to the rest? Have you been imbibing, Mary?”

The older woman’s mouth twitched. “I’ll have you know I’ve had that same bottle for six years, and it’s only been used for medicinal purposes.”

“Now, you I’d believe.” Jace’s head was swimming. He fought to stay alert. For all he knew, he could pass out and wake up in handcuffs, on his way to jail.

“Be still and lie down.” Clara maneuvered him onto the pillow. “You can talk after we get this knife out of you and dress the wound.”

Jace lay with his head cushioned, trying to imagine her bending over him under very different circumstances. His fantasy didn’t help much. The blade was buried a good six inches in his shoulder. This already hurt like hell. And it was just going to get worse.

“Here, bite on this.” Mary was pushing something between his teeth. It felt like a table knife wrapped in layers of cloth.

“Just get it over with,” he muttered around the obstruction in his mouth.

“Ready?” Clara knelt beside him, the whiskey bottle beside her on the porch. Her nimble fingers ripped away his shirtsleeve, exposing the flesh around the wound. Then her hands closed around the knife. Her eyes narrowed. Her jaw tensed.

“Now!” In one swift move she pulled the blade free.

Jace gasped, muttered and passed into darkness.

The knife dropped from Clara’s shaking fingers and clattered to the porch. Blood was soaking Tanner’s shirt and pooling below his collarbone. It seeped into the towel she was using to stanch the flow. She struggled to ignore her lurching stomach. Blood had always made her feel queasy.

“Let it bleed a little more.” Mary would have tended to Tanner herself, but a bad knee made it painful for her to get down beside him. “It’s a deep wound, and Lord knows what was on that knife blade. The more dirt washes out, the less the chance of festering. That’s the real danger now.”

“But there’s so much blood. You’re sure it’s safe?”

“I’ve seen worse.” Mary’s mouth tightened, and Clara knew she was remembering the long-ago day when her youngest son had lost an arm in a threshing machine accident. The boy had survived and grown up to be a teacher. Mary had eventually considered the injury a blessing because, when he was of age, it had kept him from going to war.

“Tanner should be fine as long as we can keep the wound clean,” she said. “But any sign of infection, and we’ll need to get him right to a doctor.”

Tanner’s eyelids fluttered open. “No doctor,” he rasped. “I’ll be fine.”

“We’ll see about that.” Mary handed Clara two more clean towels, dropped the wrappings in the rocker and turned to walk inside. “Go ahead and stanch the bleeding, Clara. Then you can disinfect the wound with whiskey. I’ll need a few minutes to make a poultice.”

Clara wadded one of the towels and held it against the wound, leaning forward to increase the pressure of her hands. His eyes watched her, blinding blue in the shadows of the porch. The ripped shirt showed a glimpse of fair skin with a virile dusting of light brown hair.

“How do you feel?” she asked, unsettled by his nearness.

“Like hell.” He managed a grimace. “But thanks for asking.”

“You’re in good hands with my grandmother. She makes her own poultices with herbs the Indians used in the old days—yarrow, cedar bark, pitch pine and things I can’t even name. There’s nothing better for wounds.”

“Let’s hope you’re right. I don’t take well to being a patient.” A grunt of pain escaped his lips as Clara increased the pressure of the towel.

“It may take time to get your strength back,” she said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. And by the way, I haven’t thanked you for saving us.”

“I wasn’t sure you needed saving. You seemed to have the situation well in hand with that vicious little paring knife.”

A beat of silence ticked past before she realized he was teasing her. “They were going to take Foxfire,” she said. “Nobody takes my horse.”

His eyes narrowed. “That sounds like a warning.”

“Take it any way you like,” she said.

“Whatever you might think, I’m not a thief, Clara. Galahad, as you named him, was borrowed—with his owner’s per mis sion.”

He bit off the end of the last word, as if realizing he’d said too much. Questions flocked into Clara’s mind. Where had the stallion come from? Why would anyone lend such a prized animal when an ordinary mount would do? She willed herself to keep silent as she lifted the towel and checked the wound. Showing too much curiosity might put Tanner on alert.

But he’d just given her the perfect opening, Clara reminded herself. She’d be a fool not to seize it.

The bleeding had slowed. Applying a fresh towel to the wound, she cleared her throat. “Speaking of Galahad, I’ve a favor to ask.”

Tanner’s left eyebrow quirked in an unspoken question. Clara took it as a signal to plunge ahead.

“I have two fine mares, both of them champion quarter horses. They’ll be coming into estrus soon. I’d like to breed them with your stallion.”

Tanner’s brows met in a scowl. “You’re quite the little negotiator, Miss Clara Seavers. First you get a man helpless on his back. Then you ask him for a favor. What would you do if I said no—stick that knife in my shoulder again?”

“Of course not. If it’s a question of money, I’d be happy to pay you a reasonable stud fee. How much would you want?”

He winced as she lifted away the towel. “Maybe you ought to ask Galahad.”

“Be serious! This is important to me.” She picked up the whiskey bottle and twisted out the stopper. The bottle was nearly empty. Less than an inch remained in the bottom. “Brace yourself, this is going to sting.”

Before he could argue or stop her, she splashed the whiskey into the open wound. He shuddered, mouthing curses between clenched teeth. Seconds passed before he exhaled and spoke.

“I am being serious. I wouldn’t feel right about taking money for Galahad’s services, especially from you or your family. But as a gesture of goodwill, why not? If Galahad and I are still around when your mares are ready …” A shadow flickered in the depths of his eyes. “You can borrow him on one condition.”

“Name it.” She laughed nervously. What was she getting herself into?

“Just this. If I ever need it, promise you’ll grant me one request.”

Apprehension tightened Clara’s throat. Her voice emerged as a whisper. “What sort of request?”

“I won’t know until the time comes. But trust me, I’d never do anything to put you in harm’s way.”

“You sound as if you’re asking for my soul.”

His laugh was quick and harsh. “And you’re looking at me as if I were the devil himself.”

“For all I know, you could be.”

He laughed again, flinching at the pain in his shoulder. “Would the devil be lying here bleeding on your grandmother’s porch, Miss Clara? Galahad’s a champion Thoroughbred with a pedigree as old as the Mayflower. I can’t show you his papers but I can promise he’ll sire damned good foals. So what’s it to be, yes or no?”

“What if it’s no?”

“Then it’s no loss to either of us—and no gain.”

Clara hesitated. At the age of six, on a visit to her uncle Quint in San Francisco, she’d survived a frightening ordeal at the hands of kidnappers. And while that story had a happy ending, having brought her uncle Quint and aunt Annie together, the experience had left her with an excess of caution. She tended to seek out familiar situations where she felt safe. That need for security had colored her choices, including the decision to stay on the ranch instead of going away to school.

Now she quivered on the edge of what she feared most of all—the unknown. Tanner’s stallion could sire a line of superb horses, maybe the finest in Colorado. But to get that line demanded risk—perhaps more risk than she dared take.

The man intrigued her as well—his air of mystery, the virile energy that drove his body and the secrets that lurked in his eyes, like a flash of darkness in a blue mountain lake.

How could she trust him?

How could she walk away?

Mary’s heavy tread echoed across the kitchen floor. Any second now she’d be coming outside. Tanner lay watching, waiting for his answer. His eyes blazed with challenge, measuring her courage, daring her to step off the precipice.

Mary’s footsteps were approaching the door. The words trembled on Clara’s lips. She drew a sharp breath.

“You have my answer,” she said. “It’s yes.”

Chapter Three

Jace’s breath hissed through clenched teeth as Clara laid the steaming poultice on his wound. The heat of the cudlike herbal mass reminded him of the mustard plasters his mother had used on his chest when he was a boy. But the concoction smelled more like a mixture of swamp mud, skunk cabbage and cow manure.

“What the devil’s in this stuff, Mary?” he muttered.

The older woman had taken a seat in the nearby rocking chair. “Nothing that would hurt you. When Soren and I settled this land there were no doctors and none of the medicines you can buy now. An old Indian woman—a Ute, as I recall—showed me the plants her people used. I’ve kept a stock of them on hand ever since.”

“Grandma’s shown me a few things for doctoring horses. But I’ll never be as good as she is.” Clara smoothed the edge of the poultice and covered it with a folded square of clean muslin. She had cut away the sleeve and shoulder of Jace’s shirt with Mary’s scissors. Through the haze of pain he felt the brush of her fingertips on his bare skin. She had small, almost childlike hands, the nails clipped short and the palms lightly callused. They worked with quiet efficiency. Tender, sensible little hands.

Her breath warmed his ear as she leaned close to wrap the dressing in place. Her hair smelled of fresh lavender soap.

“You mean to say your only doctoring experience is with horses?” he teased her.

“Horses and men are pretty much the same.” Her eyes flashed toward him. In the shade of the porch, their color was like dark maple syrup flecked with glints of sunshine. For a breath-stopping instant her gaze held his. Then she glanced down again, veiling the look with the black fringe of her lashes.

Jace exhaled the breath he’d been holding in. Lord, didn’t the girl realize the effect those eyes could have on a man? She seemed so artless, so damnably innocent.

The lessons he’d like to teach her.

Jace gave himself a mental slap. If he didn’t get his mind back above his belt line, he could find himself in serious trouble.

Resting his arm across her knees, Clara wound the wrapping over his shoulder and around his arm, once, then twice more before she split the end and tied the tails in a knot. “There, it’s done.” She glanced up at her grandmother. “Now what?”

“Now he needs to rest.” Mary rose from her chair. “I’ve got some tea brewing that will ease the pain. Help him inside, Clara. He can stretch out on that spare bed in my sewing room.”

“Now wait a minute,” Jace protested. “I’ll be fine. There’s no reason to—”

“I won’t have you getting up and keeling over on me,” Mary snapped. “The bed’s made, and you’re going to rest until you’re stronger. Come along now while I get the tea.”

Jace gave in with a sigh. He respected Mary Gustavson too much to argue. Besides, he felt like hell.

He waited while Clara braced herself beneath his good arm. Her body was warm and curvy against his side. Thankfully, he was in no condition to take advantage of her nearness. His shoulder throbbed, his vision swam in and out of focus and his knees felt like rubber.

“Here we go.” She supported him with one arm and used her free hand to open the screen. Jace swore silently. He felt as helpless as a baby. If these two females wanted to turn him over to the law now, he’d have no chance of getting away.

Leaning to balance his weight, she guided him across the floor to the little room that opened off the kitchen. The curtains were drawn, but in the dim light Jace could see the treadle sewing machine in one corner and the patchwork quilt on the narrow bed. Glancing at the door, he was relieved to notice that it had no lock.

Mary followed them into the room holding a blue china mug between her hands. She thrust it toward Jace as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Drink this before you lie down,” she said. “It will help you rest.”

The molasses-colored liquid was barely cool enough to drink. Its taste was bitter, but Jace knew better than to argue or to ask what was in it. He emptied the mug in a few swallows, suppressing the urge to gag.

“Give me your feet.” Clara worked Jace’s boots down over his heels and dropped them on the floor. It occurred to him to wonder whether his socks smelled, but it was only a fleeting thought. By now his eyelids were leaden weights. His body seemed to be sinking into the patchwork coverlet. The instincts that had kept him free for the past four months were screaming in his head, but he had no power to act on them.

Clara leaned over him, her eyes dark smudges in the pale oval of her face. “Rest now,” she said. “I’ll be back tomorrow with the mares. You should be feeling better by then.”

Remember … one favor. Jace struggled to speak, but his lips refused to form words. He only knew that the promise he’d extracted might turn out to be the one chance of saving him, like a hidden ace up a gambler’s sleeve.

But now it might already be too late. He was losing his grip, sinking into a black fog.

He kept his eyes on her face until the darkness pulled him under.

Clara took the colt at an easy trot toward home. The sun was at high morning, the sky a blazing blue that promised a hot afternoon. But the weather was the last thing on Clara’s mind.

She’d left Tanner asleep on Mary’s spare bed, his shoulder dressed and bandaged, his senses drugged by Mary’s potent jimsonweed tea. Knocking him out was the only way to make sure he’d stay put. His body was in shock and he’d lost enough blood to make him weak. He needed to stay off his feet, at least until tomorrow.

After he’d slipped away she had lingered a moment, looking down at him. In sleep he’d looked strangely vulnerable—tawny hair tumbling over his forehead, mahogany lashes lying still against his tanned cheeks.

Where the shirt had been cut away, his skin was like warm ivory. A ray of sunlight, falling between the curtains, made a golden pool in the hollow of his throat. He was a beautiful man, Clara thought—as beautiful in his own way as the stallion he rode.

But who was he and what was he hiding?

Resisting the urge to touch him, Clara had unfolded an afghan from the back of a chair and laid it over his sleeping body. Then she’d tiptoed out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Before leaving, she’d unsaddled Galahad and loosed him in the corral with Mary’s two geldings. The power of the big stallion had thrilled her. Tomorrow she would bring her two mares to the farm and turn them out together in the same pasture. When they were ready to breed, the stallion would know what to do.

She could only hope Tanner would stay around long enough for it to happen.

She was putting way too much trust in the man, Clara lectured herself. For all she knew, he could disappear some night, taking her mares with him.

But that didn’t sound like Tanner. The scenario would be too simple, the crime too easily solved. Tanner had said he wasn’t a thief, and she was inclined to believe him. But other secrets lurked behind his intriguing manner. Clearly he wasn’t the man he pretended to be.

She passed through the opening in the fence where Tanner had planned to build a gate. Seeing the place again brought home the memory of lying on her back, opening her eyes to the sight of his face. For that one heart-stopping instant, his blue eyes had pierced her, held her, touched her in some deep place. Then he’d spoken angrily, shattering the spell.

What had she agreed to when she’d accepted his bargain? An open promise in exchange for the use of the stallion—she must have been out of her mind! He could ask any favor of her and she’d be honor-bound to grant it.

What would that favor be?

Tanner had stepped in to save her and her grandmother. But that didn’t mean he was a good man. For all she knew, he could be plotting something wicked and scheming to make her a part of it. When he’d urged Mary not to call the marshal, she had backed him. But it was her heart, not her head that had made the decision. Tanner was a compellingly attractive man, the stuff of a young girl’s dreams and fantasies. But she couldn’t allow herself to be naïve about him any longer.

It was possible that she really had made a bargain with the devil.

Across the pasture, the two-story Seavers home rose above a flowering orchard. Painted pale cream, with tall windows and dark green shutters, the spacious house was as stately as it was comfortable. Beyond it, the barn, sheds and stables stretched toward the far paddock. Clara had grown up here, with her parents and her younger brother and sister. There was no place on earth she would rather be than here on the ranch, surrounded by her beloved horses and her family.

Slowing Foxfire to a walk, she pondered how much to tell her parents. Judd and Hannah Seavers were protective of Mary and would welcome any excuse to pluck her off the farm and settle her in their home. But Mary was fiercely independent. She’d insisted that Clara not tell them about the two men who’d come by. Clara had reluctantly agreed. But sooner or later, her parents would have to know about Tanner.

Say too much, and they’d go flying over to Mary’s to make sure she was safe.

Say too little, and they’d suspect her of keeping something from them. Either way, there could be trouble.

Clara was still weighing her words as she approached the open pasture gate. The sight of milling men and horses surprised her until she remembered. This was the day her father and the hired cowhands would be driving the cattle to summer pasture in the mountains. It appeared they were about to ride out.

Relief swept over her as she rode into the yard. Her father would be away for at least a week, maybe longer. Hopefully, by the time he returned, the mares would be bred, Tanner would be gone and there’d be no need for questions.

There would still be her mother to get around. But one parent would be easier to manage than two.

Her brother, Daniel, grinned at her as he reined in his skittish horse. He loved going off with the men on the spring cattle drive, and he was in high spirits. Katy sat pouting on the front steps. She had begged her father to let her go along, too. He had given her a firm refusal.

Clara unsaddled Foxfire and turned him out to graze in the paddock. When she returned to the house, her father and mother were saying goodbye on the porch. What a striking couple they made, she thought. Judd Seavers, nearing fifty, was tall and lean, his handsome features leathered by sun and wind. His wife, Hannah, a decade younger, was a classic beauty with thick wheaten hair and a lushly rounded figure. Even after two decades of marriage, they had eyes only for each other.

Katy was still huddled on the top step. Reaching down, Judd ruffled her corn silk hair. “Don’t be upset, Katydid,” he said, using his pet name for her. “You’ll find plenty of adventures around here.”

In response, she turned, wrapped her arms around his legs and hugged them hard. Clara stepped up to embrace him next. “Take care of things, girl,” he whispered. “You’re the one I can always count on.”

Guilt stabbed Clara as she kissed his cheek and stepped aside to make way for her mother. Her father was honorable to his very bones. He was depending on her, and here she was plotting behind his back.

She could only hope that her scheme would turn out for the best.

Judd and Hannah’s kiss was long and heartfelt. Hannah had sent her husband off and welcomed him home countless times over the past twenty years. But each time they clung together as if the parting would be their last. It was almost as if they were two parts of the same soul, neither of them complete without the other.

Clara was well aware of the six-month interval between the date of their wedding and the date of her own birth. She’d never discussed it with her mother, but it didn’t take a mathematician to figure out that Hannah had been a pregnant bride. Clara had come to accept the fact, and refused to let it trouble her. Her parents loved each other. They had raised a close and loving family. The past was, as her grandmother would say, water under the bridge.

Judd released his wife, strode down the steps and mounted his horse. Clara stood on the porch with her mother and sister, watching as the men rode down the long drive and out the gate. Only when the dust had settled behind the horses did the three of them turn and go into the house.

Run!

The word screamed through Jace’s mind as he galloped the stallion across the open fields. By now the police would be arriving at the house. When they discovered his abandoned Packard in the drive and his muddy boot prints on the carpet, they’d be after him like a pack of bloodhounds.

The roads would be blocked. His best chance of a clean getaway depended on catching the midnight train. If he could scramble aboard unseen, leaving the horse to find its way home, he’d be well into Kansas by morning.

By now the westbound freight would be approaching the Wilson’s Creek Bridge. When it slowed down for the crossing he’d have one chance to leap aboard—but only if he could get there in time.

The midnight wind was bitter, the moon a pale scimitar veiled by tattered clouds. Behind him, Rumford’s grand plantation-style house rose out of the flatland, growing smaller with distance. Jace thought of his comfortable apartment in town—gone, like everything else he owned. If he went back for so much as a toothbrush the police would close in and he would finish his life at the end of a rope. He had no choice except to run and keep running.

The train whistle screamed through the darkness. Jace pressed forward in the saddle, cursing as he lashed the horse with the reins. On the far side of the field, the headlamp glowed like a great yellow eye as the engine raced toward the bridge. A ghostly plume of steam trailed from the stack.

Even then, he knew he wasn’t going to make it. But something drove him on. Maybe it was the madness of what had happened tonight—what he’d seen and done and all it implied. Or maybe he was just in shock. The rhythm of hoofbeats pounded through his body. The moon blurred. The wind moaned in his ears.

By the time he neared the bridge, the engine had reached the far side of the creek and picked up speed. Boxcars and flatcars rattled along behind it, going fast, too fast. Could he still do it? Could he fling himself out of the saddle and make the leap? Catch something and hold on?

Would it matter if he died trying?

The whistle shrilled a deafening blast. The stallion screamed, leaping and twisting in terror. Flung out of the saddle, Jace felt himself flying, falling, tumbling toward the rushing wheels …

He woke with a jerk, damning the dream that haunted so many of his nights. The room was dark, the stars glowing faintly through the gauzy curtains. His body felt chilled, his skin paper dry. Only when he tried to sit up and felt pain shoot down his arm did he remember the knife wound and how he’d come by it.

Sinking back onto the pillow, he eased himself to full awareness. He was lying on the bed in Mary’s sewing room, where she’d insisted he stay. A lacy crocheted afghan covered his legs. His shirt was cut away and his boots were missing, but otherwise he was fully dressed.

The rank herbal odor of the poultice seeped through the dressing on his shoulder. Whatever Mary had concocted out of those mysterious jars had yet to work its wonders. The soreness was no worse, but he was beginning to chill. Not a good sign.

Damnation, what a time to be laid up!

Too uncomfortable to go back to sleep, he slid his legs off the couch and pushed himself to his feet. The light-headedness was better, but Jace felt disoriented, like a child awakening in a strange room.

Somehow he needed to get out of here.

His boots were nowhere to be found. For all he knew, Mary could have hidden them to keep him from leaving. Stocking footed, he padded to the front door, opened it quietly and stepped out onto the porch.

The gibbous moon rode low in the west but the sky was still dark, the stars still bright. Insect-seeking bats swished through the moonlight. From the brushy hillside beyond the pasture, the plaintive cry of a coyote rose and faded into stillness.

Someone had put the stallion in the corral with Mary’s two geldings. He could make out their shifting forms and hear the soft snorting sounds they made as they dozed. He’d be smart to saddle up and leave now—ride off into the peaceful darkness with no one the wiser. He could make his way into the hills, maybe find somewhere to hole up until he felt strong enough to move on.

It was a tempting idea, but not a practical one. He would need his boots, and he didn’t want to leave without the .38 Smith & Wesson. He recalled seeing the gun on the porch, but it was no longer there. The knife and the .22 taken from the robbers had been put away as well.

Leaning on the porch rail, Jace stared out into the darkness. Tomorrow would be Wednesday, the day Mary had said she made her weekly trip to town. What were the odds she would see the marshal there and mention the robbery attempt? And what were the odds the marshal would show her his collection of Wanted posters to see if there was anyone who looked familiar?

The posters were out there—in the big towns, at least. Jace had seen one himself. He looked like a dandy in a suit, vest and tie, his hair and mustache immaculately trimmed.

He had since shaved off the mustache and let his hair grow longer. Even so, his picture would be easy enough to recognize. When Mary discovered her new hired man was wanted for murder, all hell was bound to break loose.

He would wait until she’d left for town, Jace resolved. As soon as she was out of sight, he would find his boots and pistol, pack his bedroll, saddle his horse and make tracks. By the time Mary returned, with or without the law, he’d be long gone.

As for the luscious Miss Seavers, she’d be disappointed about the stallion. But even a face as pretty as hers wasn’t worth the risk of getting arrested. Clara would just have to find herself another stud.

The cool night wind raised goose bumps on his bare skin. A shiver passed through his body as he turned away from the rail. A few more hours of sleep might be a good idea. He was going to need his strength tomorrow.

The coyote howled again, a lonely, distant sound like the far-off whistle of a train. The cry echoed in Jace’s ears as he went back inside and closed the door.

By the time Clara finished her breakfast, the sun had risen above the peaks. She whistled snatches of a ragtime tune as she tied the two mares into a lead rope and saddled Tarboy, the steady black gelding she would ride. If things went as hoped, by this time next year she’d have two of the finest foals in the county.

The mares, Belle and Jemima, usually came into estrus at the same time. The changes in their bodies tended to make them cranky. Jemima became a biter when she was in season. Belle’s specialty was digging in her hooves and refusing to be led. Today, both of them were their usual sweet selves, a sign that nature had yet to take its course.

“Just wait till you see who’s waiting for you, ladies,” Clara chattered as she checked the knots. “If this handsome fellow doesn’t make your hearts flutter—”

“Clara, what in heaven’s name are you up to?” Her mother stood in the doorway of the barn. The stern expression on her face was one Clara knew all too well.

Lying, she knew, would only get her in more trouble. “I’m on my way to Grandma’s,” she said. “There’s a man doing some work for her, and he has this beautiful stallion. I’m taking the mares over there and leaving them to be bred.”

“A man? A stranger?” Hannah was instantly on the alert. “What’s he doing there?”

“Just some fixing and mending. He came by last week looking for work. He seems trustworthy enough, and Grandma seems to like him.”

“But a stranger off the road! Why didn’t she let us know she needed help?”

“You know how Grandma is. Sometimes she likes to do things on her own.”

“Yes, I know. I’d go over there myself, right now, but the seamstress is coming in half an hour to measure Katy for three new dresses. That girl is growing so fast, I can’t keep her in clothes.” Hannah made a little huffing sound. “After that I’ll be driving into town for a meeting of the Women’s League. We’ve already started planning the July Fourth celebration. What’s this hired man like?”

“He’s a perfect gentleman, Mama. Believe me, you have nothing to worry about.” Clara avoided her mother’s eyes. Sometimes a daughter had to fudge a little.

“Well, do be careful, dear. You mustn’t allow yourself to be alone with the man. That could be dangerous.” She turned back toward the house, then paused. “Katy’s going with me to visit her friend Alice. I’ll expect to see you here when I get home.”

“Certainly, Mama. Don’t worry about me.”

Clara sagged with relief as her mother walked back to the house. Why did her parents have to treat her like a child? She was nineteen and already doing her share of the ranch work. She broke and trained the horses, looked after things in the tack room and helped with the roping, branding and herding when her father was shorthanded. She even knew how to manage the accounts. Yet her mother was still telling her where she could go and what time to be home.

Her parents loved her, Clara reminded herself. They had nearly lost her on that long-ago visit to San Francisco, and they’d never gotten over it. How could she blame them for wanting to keep her safe?

Pushing the thought aside, she mounted Tarboy and rode out of the barn with the mares trailing behind. It was a relief that she didn’t need to sneak. Her mother knew where she was going and why. But the hidden secrets were already weaving their web—the two robbers, Tanner’s injury, her own suspicions and her compelling attraction to a man who had trouble written all over him.

This morning the sky was overcast, with sooty clouds brooding above the peaks. As Clara took the horses across the pasture, a flock of blackbirds rose from the grass, swirling and sweeping like the folds of a magician’s cloak. Their harsh twittering filled her ears as they circled north to settle on a neighbor’s freshly plowed field.

Maybe she should share her suspicions with her grandmother, Clara thought. Mary liked and trusted Tanner. She would probably dismiss what she was told. But she needed to be alerted to the holes in Tanner’s story. Otherwise he might take advantage of her kindness and the old woman could end up being hurt. If that happened after Clara failed to speak up, she would have no one to blame but herself.

She would talk to Mary as soon as she could get her alone, Clara resolved. She wasn’t looking forward to broaching the subject of Tanner, but it had to be done.

Only as she reached the opening in the fence did she remember that today was Wednesday, Mary’s marketing day. Mary liked to hitch up her buggy and leave early to get to town, do her errands and visit a few friends. Unless she’d stayed home to look after Tanner, she could already be gone.

And if Mary was gone, Tanner would be there alone.

Clara held the horses to a brisk walk, but her pulse had begun to gallop. The memory of those eyes riveting hers, demanding an unspoken promise, triggered a blaze of heat from the core of her body. She felt the burn in her belly, in her tingling breasts and hot cheeks.

Don’t be a fool! she lashed herself. Tanner wasn’t like the boys she flirted with at summer dances. He was a man—a secretive and dangerous man. She’d do well to heed her mother’s advice and stay away from him.

On the far side of the pasture she could see her grandmother’s farm. If Mary wasn’t there, Clara resolved, she would deliver the mares to the paddock, turn the stallion in with them and check on Tanner’s whereabouts. If she spoke with him at all, it would be the briefest exchange. After that she would take her leave and go home.

On approach, her grandmother’s place looked even quieter than usual. Only one horse, Mary’s dun gelding, remained in the corral. The other gelding and the stallion were missing.

Perplexed, Clara rode into the farmyard. Mary must have taken the second gelding—she needed just one horse for her old buggy. But where was Galahad? Surely Tanner wouldn’t have ridden the stallion into town. If he was sick enough to need a doctor, Mary would have taken him in the buggy.

Dismounting, she hitched Tarboy to a fence post, led the mares into the empty paddock and untied their lead ropes. The feeling that something was wrong nagged at her as she strode across the yard.

As she mounted the porch steps, a new and ghastly possibility struck her. What if the two road bandits had returned? With Tanner drugged and sleeping, they could have overpowered Mary, recovered their weapons, ransacked the house and left with the two horses.

What would she find inside the house? Sick with dread, she opened the door and stepped into the shadows.

The parlor was cool and silent, with nothing out of place. Mary’s shotgun was missing, but she often took it with her, tucked under the seat for emergencies. Likewise, the kitchen was in order, the table cleared, the breakfast dishes washed and put away. A glance into Mary’s open bedroom revealed a neatly made bed. The door to the room where Tanner had slept was closed.

Heart pounding, Clara opened the door far enough to see into the small sewing room. The rumpled bed was empty. The pungent odor of Mary’s poultice lingered in the quiet air.

Tanner was gone.

Chapter Four

Wheeling in her tracks, Clara raced back outside. Maybe the barn would give her some answers. If the buggy was gone, she could be reasonably sure that Mary was on her way to town. And if Tanner’s gear was missing …

As the pieces slid into place, her worry turned to a simmering anger. It was the only explanation that made sense. The wretched man had waited until Mary left. Then he’d packed his things and hit the road, taking the stallion with him.

So help her, she would hunt him to the ends of the earth!

The barn door stood ajar. Seething, Clara flung it open and strode inside. The first thing she noticed was the absence of the buggy. The second thing she saw was Galahad, standing in the open space between the door and the stalls. He was bridled and saddled, with Tanner’s bedroll lashed into place behind the cantle.

The stallion snorted at her approach. His elegant head jerked upward, a hint that something was wrong. Moving slowly, Clara held out her hand and spoke in a soothing voice. “It’s all right, boy. Nobody’s going to hurt you. I’ll just—”

The words died in her throat as she caught a glimpse of a plaid shirt and saw the long, still form lying facedown in the straw.

It was Tanner.

For an awful moment she thought he’d been trampled. But as she dropped to a crouch beside him, she saw no sign of hoof marks, bruising or blood. A light touch of her palm on his back confirmed that he was breathing, but his body felt surprisingly warm. The back of his neck was flushed above the soft flannel collar.

She took a moment to lead the stallion to a safe distance, then crouched beside him again. “Tanner!” She shook his uninjured shoulder and heard a feeble groan in response. “Tanner, wake up!” He muttered something she couldn’t understand. Maybe the man was delirious.

“Come on! I’ve got to get you back in the house, and I can’t do it without your help!” Working her hands beneath him, she rolled him onto his back. He groaned again. His eyes blinked open. There was a flicker of recognition.

“What the hell.” he muttered.

“You’re sick, Tanner. I’m guessing you passed out. You’ve got to get up.” Seizing his hand, she tried to pull him. He shook free of her clasp.

“I can do it,” he growled, bracing on his good arm and working his legs beneath his hips. Clara bit back the impulse to rail at him for trying to leave. Tanner would get an earful later on, when she judged he was out of danger.

If he survived.

He staggered to his feet, swaying like a drunkard. His face was flushed, his skin dry. With a puncture wound, fever was the worst of signs.

“Can you walk?” she asked him.

Tanner’s jaw tightened. He took two steps. On the third step, his knee buckled and he stumbled forward. Clara caught him, bracing against his side.

“You’re getting good at this, Miss Clara,” he muttered.

“Just be quiet and move your feet. I’m too upset to listen to your charming blather!”

His body was rock solid against her side. Its heat radiated from the line of contact, sending shimmers along her nerves. With every step the awareness grew stronger. This wasn’t good, Clara lectured herself. She’d resolved not to rail at him but her only hope of distraction was fury.

“What were you thinking?” she stormed. “You could’ve passed out and died on the road! And even if you hadn’t, I’d have tracked you down and whipped you within an inch of your worthless life!”

His laugh was raw edged. “Now that I’d like to see. You might look right fetching with a whip in your hand.”

“This isn’t funny, Tanner. Did my grandmother know you planned on leaving?”

He swayed to one side. Clara had to clasp his ribs with her arms to keep him steady. “Your grandmother is one fine lady,” he growled. “But I don’t need anybody’s permission to go. Not even yours.”

“Of all the arrogant, underhanded—” Clara bit back the rest of the sentence. “What about the stallion? I brought my mares over this morning. You said—”

“I said you could use him if I was still here.” “Yes, you did. And then you ran out on me.” “Well, hell, I don’t seem to be going anywhere now, do I?”

“Stop joking! You’ve got a fever. If your wound’s infected, you’ll need a doctor.”

He stiffened against her. “No. No doctor.”

“Don’t be a fool! You could lose your arm, even your life!”

They had reached the bottom of the porch steps. Tanner’s breath rasped with effort as he dragged his feet up each one. “Tell you what, Miss Clara Seavers. If I don’t pull through, Galahad’s yours. Can’t think of a better life for him than Colorado grass and a steady supply of willing ladies.”

His voice had begun to slur. Clara eased him through the front door. If he passed out again, there was no way she’d be able to get him into bed. “You’d better not say that,” she joked feebly. “I might be tempted to get a gun and shoot you.”

“I have no doubt you’d pull the trigger without even blinking.” His voice seemed to float out of his body. His boots stumbled across the floor.

“Just a few more steps. Stay with me, Tanner.” By now she was supporting much of his weight. Sweat dripped down her body, soaking through her underclothes. Thankfully she’d left the door to the sewing room open. Crowding close, they staggered to the foot of the bed.

“Hold on, we—Oh!” Clara gasped as Tanner toppled like a felled tree onto the bed. With no time to pull away, she landed flat on her back with his body on top of her.

She pushed and squirmed, trying to wriggle free. Her frenetic motions produced startling waves of pleasure in her lower body—not what she ought to be feeling at a time like this. Having grown up around ranch animals, she knew about sex, and she knew the nature of the hard ridge inside Tanner’s jeans. He was too sick to be dangerous, she told herself. He was just acting on instinct. Her reaction, on the other hand, was much harder to explain. All she knew was that she was rapidly losing control. Whatever was happening, it had to stop. Now.

“Blast it, Tanner, move!” Working her hands free, she hooked his jaw and lifted his head. His eyelids twitched and opened. His first expression was a puzzled scowl. Then his face transformed into a drowsy grin.

“I don’t know how this happened, but I’m not a man to refuse an invitation,” he murmured, settling himself more firmly between her legs.

“Get … off … me!” She slapped him hard enough to smart. With a rough chuckle he braced his good arm, raising his body enough for her to roll free. Clara tumbled off the bed and scrambled to her feet. “I can’t believe my grandma thought you were a gentleman!” she huffed.

“Don’t look at me. You’re the one who started this.”

“If you weren’t so sick I’d slap you again,” Clara retorted. “Turn over so I can take your boots off. Then I’ll need to look at your wound.”

Shifting on the bed, he turned over, stretched out his legs and lay still while Clara worked the boots off his feet. “It looked fine when your grandmother changed the dressing this morning.”

“Well, something’s going on.” Clara tossed the boots under the bed. “How long have you had a fever?”

“Not sure.” He was lying back on the pillow now, looking exhausted. “Didn’t feel too bad before she left.”

“So you thought you’d just saddle up and go.”

Tanner managed a feeble shrug. He was drifting away from her again. Working in haste now, Clara attacked the buttons of his clean shirt, peeling back the upper part to reveal the fresh bandage her grandmother had laid in place earlier. Tanner watched her with heavy-lidded eyes as she untied the wrappings and lifted away the dressing. This morning Mary hadn’t bothered with the poultice. The wound appeared clean and free of infection.

“How does it look?” His voice slurred slightly.

“Fine on the surface. But that blade went in deep. The germs could have gotten into your bloodstream.”

His mouthed response—likely a curse—trailed off as his eyes closed. Clara laid a cautious hand on his forehead. His skin was burning.

Clara replaced the dressing over the wound. If only her grandmother hadn’t gone to town! Clara had only a cursory knowledge of Mary’s mysterious dried herbs. Some of them were potent cures; but misused, they could be dangerous, even poisonous. Experiment too freely, and she’d be as likely to kill Tanner as to heal him.

Rushing to the kitchen, she put the kettle on to boil, opened the cupboard and began rummaging through the jars, bags and little pots her grandmother kept on the top shelf. Just to be safe, she would use only the herbs she recognized. If she could just manage to keep Tanner stable, Mary could do more for him when she arrived home. For now, she could simply pray that Tanner’s body would be strong enough to fight the infection.

Willow bark … everyone knew it was the best thing for fevers. But would an unchecked fever be best for fighting the infection? Deliberating, Clara decided not to take that chance. Tanner’s temperature felt dangerously high. At least some willow bark tea might make him more comfortable.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.