“This is what healing is about. This—”

She reached out and took his hand. Cradling it in hers, she rubbed her fingertips over his palm in a light circular motion, looking into his eyes with unflinching directness. “This is healing. It’s the giving of strength and hope and—love.”

Her last word came on a soft rush of breath, and Jake caught it with his own. They stood poised in twilight’s embrace, his hand in hers, her touch kindling a slow heat. One motion, one word from her, and it would become wildfire in his blood.

She was taking him apart, making him burn inside.

Isabel gradually became aware of how near she stood to him. The realization came like a gentle change—the warm pressure of his hand in hers, the scent of him, the awareness of his size and strength. She tried to breathe easily, to achieve some measure of calm.

But the way he looked at her, his eyes darkening like storm clouds, quickened her heart and coursed a restless ache of longing through her veins.

Dear Reader,

The perfect complement to a hot summer day is a cool drink, some time off your feet and a good romance novel. And we have four terrific stories this month for you to choose from!

We are thrilled to welcome Nicole Foster to Harlequin Historical with her touching Western, Jake’s Angel. Nicole Foster is actually the pen name for the writing team of Annette Chartier-Warren and Danette Fertig-Thompson. This duo has previously published several romances under various pseudonyms. Jake’s Angel is the tender tale of an embittered—and wounded—Texas Ranger on the trail of a notorious outlaw; he winds up in a small New Mexican town and is healed, emotionally and physically, by a beautiful widow.

Jillian Hart brings us a wonderful Medieval, Malcolm’s Honor, in which a ruthless knight discovers a lasting passion for the feisty noblewoman he is forced to marry for convenience. In Lady of Lyonsbridge, a superb story by Ana Seymour, a marriage-shy heiress uncharacteristically falls for the honorable knight who stays at her estate en route to pay a kidnapped king’s ransom.

And don’t miss Judith Stacy’s darling new Western, The Blushing Bride, in which a young lady travels to a male-dominated logging camp to play matchmaker for a bevy of potential brides—only to find herself unexpectedly drawn to a certain mountain man of her own!

Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Jake’s Angel

Nicole Foster

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and NICOLE FOSTER

Jake’s Angel #522

For Jeff, always my hero.

For Ken, thanks for the memories of Paris, Rome,

Amsterdam, London, Oxford, Copenhagen…

but most of all Alassio.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter One

Whispering Creek, New Mexico, 1874

Jake Coulter limped up to the doors of the Silver Rose leaving a trail of blood and dust behind him. After two days of hard riding with a hole in his leg, no sleep, and nothing but a bottle of bad whiskey for solace, he felt mean enough to shoot the next man who crossed him.

He hadn’t planned on dragging into Whispering Creek looking and feeling like something the vultures left behind; he hadn’t planned on coming to Whispering Creek at all. But Jerico Grey had decided to run home to the New Mexico territory, and Jake hadn’t spent nearly six months tracking him just to let him steal his freedom by crossing the border.

Jake tried to remember how much whiskey he’d drunk when he agreed to take on a job no one else wanted, deciding it was just what he needed to change his luck. His delusion lasted until he’d met up with three bandidos near Santa Fe. The encounter left him with a piece of lead in his thigh and a temper to rival the desert heat.

Pushing his way inside, Jake gave a quick, hard look around the saloon, almost sorry there wasn’t anyone who invited trouble to take out his frustration on.

But with morning just turning to midday, the Silver Rose was nearly empty. Three old men, as brown and worn as old leather, sat hunched over a corner table dealing cards, and a stringy cowboy leaned backward against the bar, watching one of the saloon girls tempt with a swish of bright-yellow satin and a flash of dark eyes. Even the air felt lazy, baked hot and dry by the late morning sun and tasting of dust.

Jake limped up to the bar, tossed down a handful of coins, and from the shadow of his slouched hat glared at the man behind the long length of scarred and pitted wood. The cowboy glanced once at his face and the Colts riding low on his hips, then edged nearer to the end of the bar. A saloon girl sidled a step closer.

The bartender, polishing glasses with a rag as gray as his grizzled hair, took one look at Jake and grinned, showing a crooked row of yellowed teeth.

“Well, it looks like the devil comes a callin’ and it ain’t even my birthday.” Without asking, he shoved a whiskey bottle and a smudged glass toward Jake. “You don’t seem to have done too well fer yerself, friend. You’re ugly enough to give a brave man a fright. But never let it be said that Elish Dodd turned away a payin’ customer, no matter how ugly they get.”

“Thanks for the welcome. I hope everyone in this town is as friendly as you.”

“Depends on what day it is and why you’re here.”

Jake took a long pull from the bottle, ignoring the glass. “I need—help.”

“I can see that. You’re bleedin’ all over my floor,” Elish observed, leaning over the bar to glance at the pooling blood. “It ain’t real good for business.”

“Then I’ll take my business upstairs. I need a room and someone who can cut out a bullet without taking off my leg in the process.”

“And I need a bag full of gold and a good woman. This ain’t a mission of mercy. Most of the girls couldn’t patch up a skinned elbow without losin’ their breakfast on your boots.”

“I’m sure one of your girls is good enough to get me a doctor.”

“Doctor! Too long in the sun’s turned you loco, amigo. There ain’t no doctor here. And the ones that have come through here pretendin’ to be, why I’d as soon spit at a rattlesnake than let them get near enough to see the color of my hair.”

Jake pulled himself upright, wincing as his weight settled on his bad leg, and, grabbing up the half-empty whiskey bottle, turned to the stairs leading to the second-floor rooms. “Just send up one of the girls. I’ll figure out something.”

“You please yourself. Take the room at the end of the hall, though I can only promise it to you if business is slow. This ain’t a hotel.”

“I noticed.”

“I’ll send Chessie along, then. Chessie don’t like it rough, though, and I don’t like the walls or the customers full of lead,” Elish added, starting on the glasses again. “You remember that.”

“You and Chessie don’t have to worry.” Jake threw his battered leather saddlebags over his shoulder as he dragged his bad leg up the uneven stairs. “Not tonight, anyway.”

He heard Elish holler into the curtained room next to the saloon for Chessie and the sound of it grated on him. He didn’t like having to depend on anyone for help, no matter how little. But he didn’t have much choice at the moment.

The room Elish allotted him had the familiar feel of old boots. Nothing fancy, but comfortable, and with the advantage of being secluded from most of the noise of the saloon. Someone had pulled the shades to ward off the sun so the edges of everything looked eroded by the diffused yellow light.

Putting down his bottle by the bed, Jake unbuckled his gun belt and draped it over a chair, tossed his hat and duster on top. He pulled up the shades, leaned against the sill and looked out over the main street of Whispering Creek.

In the valley, the heat warmed the shades of green and brown, softening the outlines of the log-and-rock buildings lining either side of the dirt street, muting the sounds of the town so in a moment of stillness the cicadas sang with the wind. Looking up to the jagged evergreen peaks on either side of town, Jake imagined he could smell the complex warm and sharp blend of ponderosa pine, blue spruce, fireweed, and red clay earth that belonged only to the rugged mountains of the northern New Mexico territory.

If there had been any poetry in him, the moment might have given him a sense of peace. But it only agitated his restlessness, and made him more aware of the ache in his thigh and the time he’d lost because he hadn’t been lucky enough this time to stay out of the way of a bullet.

Jake hated the idea of having to stay in Whispering Creek more than a day or two, but he reluctantly admitted it might be a week or longer before he’d be able to ride so that he could track Grey and finish his business.

Not that Jake had any particular place in Texas to go back to; he’d left San Antonio long ago, forced out by the ghosts of his past. This wild, beautiful country was in his blood though, and that made it easier to keep moving, fast and often enough so he’d never come close to putting down roots. So he’d never make the mistake of calling any place home again.

A tentative knock at the door turned him from the window. A girl with rusty curls the color of Indian paintbrush stuck her head into the room, looking him over as if she expected him to fall down dead at any minute.

“You’re not bleedin’ everywhere, are you?”

“Probably. Get in here,” Jake said, gesturing impatiently. “I need your help.”

Chessie edged into the room and stood with her back pressed to the door. She was a tall girl, plump, with a generous mouth and eager eyes. He imagined that usually, she wasted no time in coming to the men who enjoyed her company. This time, she hung back as if he had the plague.

“I don’t know anything about doctorin’ and I ain’t gonna touch anything that’s bleedin’. I don’t like anybody that much.”

Jake glanced at her white face and decided she meant it.

“Just get me the doctor,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He ran a hand over his hair, suddenly feeling tired and heavy.

“Doctor?” Her disbelief echoed Elish’s. “A doctor that lives here?”

“Unless you’re going to volunteer to dig this bullet out.”

Chessie’s eyes bulged. “Not me. But there ain’t no doctor here and if there was, he wouldn’t do you no good.”

“You got a better idea?”

“Sure I do. I’ll get the witch for you.”

“You’ll get what?”

“Isabel. The witch. She don’t like bein’ called a witch, and I suppose Elish might be right when he says she ain’t really magic or nothin’, but she can fix ’bout anything and she’s a lot nicer than any doctor. Why, everyone tried to tell me the nettles and cedar Isabel gave me when I had the fever would more ’n likely kill me than cure me, but in just one day I was back workin’.”

“Woman—” Jake lay back on the bed and slung an arm over his eyes, shutting out the sunlight and Chessie’s jabbering about the so-called witch. “I don’t believe in magic or witches. Just get me someone who can cut out a bullet without killing me.”

Chessie looked at him a long moment, chewing on her lower lip. He’d tied a bandanna around midthigh, partly covering a jagged rip in his heavy pants, and she could see the dark patch staining both. Without saying anything, Chessie hurried out to find the witch.

The roadrunner lay quivering in the cradle of Isabel Bradshaw’s palm, one wing hanging limply. Kneeling on the rocky ground, her worn cotton skirts bunched up around her, the hot dry breeze scattering wisps of dark-gold hair around her face, Isabel gently stroked her fingers over the bird’s tiny body, soothing, judging its injuries with her touch.

“It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you,” she murmured, her voice soft and soothing. She ran her fingertips over the roadrunner’s wounded wing, her eyes never leaving the small bird.

“Don’t be afraid, little friend. I only want to help you.”

The roadrunner made a feeble attempt to flutter free and Isabel paused, practicing the way her grandmother had taught her so long ago of using the quiet rhythm of her own body and mind to reassure and calm frightened spirits.

“Mama? Is she all right?”

Turning her attention from the roadrunner, Isabel smiled at one of the two black-haired boys crouched at her side. Matthew looked up at her, his narrow face screwed up with concern, a tremble in his chin. He dragged the back of his hand against his nose, muffling a sniffle.

“Will it live? I knew you could help it so I brought it to you quick as I could. I didn’t mean to hurt it.”

“It’s only because you’re so clumsy with that slingshot, Matt,” the older boy said, giving his brother a push on the arm.

“I’m not clumsy!”

“You are! You couldn’t hit a whole barn if it was a foot in front of you!”

“Nate…” Isabel began, warning him off before a full-fledged battle could ensue.

“Oh, Matt, you’re such a baby,” Nate said, kicking at the dirt with the toe of his boot. “You just can’t aim, that’s all. But I knew you could heal it, Mama, so we ran all the way back home.”

“You did just the right thing, Nate. Now both of you, please be still while I finish or you’ll startle this little one. Here, Matt, you can help me. Gently now…”

Fixing her eyes on the bird, Isabel reached into the basket at her side, being careful not to make any quick movements that would startle the small creature. She sensed its pain and fear, and, even more strongly, Matt’s distress, and wanted to do something to quickly ease both.

In a worn leather pouch, she found a bit of lizard tail root. She spread it on a piece of cotton and added a dribble of water from a small bottle before folding the cloth into a square.

Then taking Matt’s small hand in hers, she guided him to caress the bird’s head and body while she bound the poultice to the bird’s wing with a strip of cloth.

“Speak quietly to her. There…that’s right…”

“You’ll soon be well, little bird, and running with your friends again,” Matt whispered. He began to hum softly to the roadrunner, one of his favorite bedtime lullabies.

Isabel smiled, watching him pet and soothe the bird. After a few minutes, she felt the timid creature settle easily into her hand, its heartbeat slowing, its eyes no longer frightened. Her greater reward, though, was seeing the beginning of hope on Matt’s face.

“It looks better. Is it?”

“Much. She’s only bruised. She just needs a little rest, that’s all.”

“I think she likes me.”

“She likes your touch,” Isabel said, watching Matt stroke the roadrunner’s sleek feathers. “And that’s one of the most important parts of healing. You are doing it exactly right. In a few days, I promise you, she’ll be running with the wind again.”

“Can we take her home until then? Please, Mama?”

“Matt, we have so many of your wounded animal friends at home we need another house just to keep them all.” Isabel relented at the pleading on Matt’s face, unable to deny him. “All right,” she agreed, smoothing back an unruly lock of his hair, smiling. “She can stay a few days, until she’s fully healed. Now, I should take this little one inside and you should get on to the meeting house before Aunt Katlyn misses you for lessons.”

Making sure they had their books and lunch pails, Isabel hugged them both, then watched them scamper off in the direction of the rustic cabin that served as both community center and schoolhouse. She gathered up the roadrunner and rose to her feet, smiling a little at her boys’ energy and their faith in her healing skills.

Matthew and Nathan were all she had left of her marriage—the best part, she’d decided.

Douglas Bradshaw hadn’t left her much when he decided the promise of gold, whiskey and women in California appealed more than a series of failed prospecting ventures and raising a family in Whispering Creek. Isabel could admit now that her marriage to Douglas had been a farce from the beginning. He’d wanted someone to nurse him through a bad bout of influenza, to clean, cook and care for his stepsons after his wife died. And she’d longed for someone to love, to give her the complete family she’d never had.

She had trusted him with her dreams and he had lied to her.

But this past winter, with snow piled to the windows and the smokehouse and root cellar practically empty, when the high country was at its fiercest, the torn and smudged letter arrived telling her Douglas had died in a drunken fight with another miner.

In that moment she remembered very little of the caring she once felt for him. Regret, yes, that Matthew and Nathan had not only lost both their parents but a man they thought would be a father, and a lingering ache at Douglas’s abandonment. But in her heart, Isabel had been a widow since the day just over a year ago when Douglas left suddenly after telling her he couldn’t stomach the prospect of a lifetime stuck in Whispering Creek with her, her grandmother, and his late wife’s children.

But of all the regrets she had about her marriage, Isabel never rued Douglas’s leaving behind his two stepsons. She might not have birthed them, but in her heart Matt and Nate were no less her own. Along with her grandmother and her half sister Katlyn, they were part of her family now and she would do whatever it took to raise them right in the town where they had lived all their lives.

That was why after Douglas left, she’d decided to use part of the house she’d inherited for business, offering her skills as a healer and herbalist. The upstairs loft room she rented to boarders or used as a shelter to those needing a place to rest or recover from injury or illness, or to those who simply had nowhere else to go in Whispering Creek.

Overall, the rambling house was humble, but it afforded her a means to keep food on the table without the help of any man. And that, she determined after Douglas’s leaving, was something she would never allow herself to need again.

Nothing would ever force her to give up her home. And nothing would ever persuade her to risk her heart again for the sake of a dream.

Holding the roadrunner gently in the crook of her arm, Isabel walked around to the back of her cabin, to the small garden there, looking for one of the baskets she used for gathering herbs and vegetables that might serve as a temporary home for Matt’s new boarder.

A harsh cawk greeted her and she looked up to where a large raven sat perched on the edge of the garden fence, eyeing her with an unblinking stare.

“Hello, Trouble,” she called.

“Hello, hello!” the raven croaked. “Cookies, please!”

Isabel laughed, knowing Trouble had learned the phrase from Matt and Nate after following her boys into the kitchen so many times. In fact, his uncanny ability to sneak inside and wreak all manner of havoc had led Nate to give him his apt name.

“Ah, is Nana baking again? I promise, I’ll save one for you and you can share with the boys this afternoon.”

Isabel was still smiling a little to herself when she stepped in the door, lost in her thoughts, not expecting to find anyone in the kitchen at this time of the morning.

The moment the door closed behind her, though, her grandmother pounced on her with a triumphant cry.

“Isabel! At last!”

The old woman’s sudden motion set the dozen strings of varied colored beads she wore swaying and clattering. Tall and scraggy with a snarl of black-and-silver hair, Esme Castillo looked as if her body and face had been roughly hewn from old wood. She gripped a long serving fork in one hand, brandishing it like a sword in Isabel’s direction.

“What is that?” Esme asked flatly, stabbing the fork at the roadrunner. “No, no, no—do not tell me. It is another of Matthew’s orphans. Ay, why do I ask? I should know we will never be rid of these creatures!”

“Oh, Nana, you know I can never say no to someone in need,” Isabel said, laughing. She settled the roadrunner into a small basket by the stove. “Besides, there aren’t that many creatures here.”

“A lizard, a desert rat, a very ugly squirrel, a raven with the tongue of the devil, and now—this! Soon we will have no room for your human orphans.”

“Oh, we’ll find room. And you’ll do as you always do with our guests, slip treats to each and every creature and human when you think no one is looking.” Isabel smiled at Esme’s scowl, then gave her grandmother a quick hug, kissing her cheek. The old woman huffed a bit, making a show of despising any kind of fuss over her, but Isabel saw the satisfied twinkle in her eyes.

“I could put her in Mr. Davis’s room,” she teased Esme, glancing at the roadrunner. “His arm has healed and he told me this morning he’s moving out today to try his luck in Nevada.” Isabel sighed then, her tone losing its humor. “I suppose it means looking for another boarder.”

Esme shrugged. “It will not be difficult. Most of the prospectors would rather have something more than a bedroll and camp food. And ay, that food! I would as soon as eat boiled owls and rat dung than the poison that man over at Lone Gulch mine who calls himself a cook prepares!”

“Well, you look as if you’re preparing for a feast here.”

Isabel waved a hand at the disarray of pots, serving vessels and utensils, various piles of half-readied corn and beans, and raw slabs of goat meat. A chaos of smells permeated the long, narrow room, from the sweet richness of chocolate, to the sharp burn of red and green chilies, combined with various scents of odd and familiar herbs.

Esme helped with the cooking for the family and the boarders as far as she was still able. But when she was angry or upset she attacked the kitchen with a vengeance, soothing her frayed temper by turning out large elaborate meals or concocting one of her seemingly endless potions or remedies.

Glancing at her grandmother, Isabel saw the expression in Esme’s heavy-lidded eyes was shuttered, giving her her usual air of hoarding a great secret. Esme walked over to the black monstrosity of a stove and began vigorously stirring a pot of soup.

“Sheriff Reed, he comes here today to tell me about some robberies nearby. As close as the La Belle, Anchor and Midnight City mines he says. These robberies…” Esme drew a long breath. She turned from her cooking to look at Isabel, her face softening with concern. “The sheriff says they remind him of that man you knew as a girl.”

Isabel shook her head, glancing away, not willing to see the questions in Esme’s eyes. “Of course it isn’t him. It’s been so long, why would he ever come back here?”

“My child, we have all heard the stories that most of the gold he stole from the mining camps around Taos County is hidden in the mountains near here.” Esme hesitated then added, “And of course he always told everyone he cared for you, although I could never believe it of a man like that.”

“Jerico only cared for himself,” Isabel said, knowing it wasn’t quite the truth. She and Jerico Grey had been childhood friends, and for a brief time Isabel imagined she loved him. It had been fleeting, a foolish feeling when she was still a girl and smitten with the wild, wicked attraction of an older boy who’d called her beautiful and promised her paradise.

Except Jerico Grey’s idea of paradise was bought and paid for with someone else’s gold.

“He would never come back here,” Isabel said again, as much to reassure herself as her grandmother.

“Ah, well, I am sure you are right. Let us forget this foolishness. Cal Reed is growing old and loco. He should not be telling tales about robbers and ghosts of the past.”

“I’m sure he was not telling tales. Cal knows his business. But you’re right. We should forget it. I’ll fix us some tea, shall I? One of your special mixes. And Trouble tells me you made cookies, too. Cinnamon, I hope.”

“Cinnamon for you, and jam tarts for the boys. I had extra pastry that had to be used,” Esme added quickly when Isabel smiled knowingly. “Cinnamon is very soothing, too. Just the thing for you, pepita.”

The endearment, a relic from her childhood, only served to show Isabel how worried her grandmother was about the possibility of Jerico Grey touching their lives again. Shaking off a cold touch of uneasiness, she turned to warm the kettle and find the cups when Chessie, one of the girls from Elish Dodd’s saloon, came rushing in, breathless, loudly banging the door behind her.

“Isabel, you have to come now. There’s a man at the Silver Rose who wants a doctor!”

Isabel hid a smile and with a few gentle questions managed to elicit the facts that one of Chessie’s would-be customers had been shot and needed healing. Leaving her grandmother to her frenzy of cooking, Isabel gathered up her basket of remedies and other supplies. “All right, Chessie, let’s go see what the damage is.”

As they approached the Silver Rose, Chessie paused. “Maybe you better come in the back door.” The young woman slid a sideways glance at Isabel, as if not sure if it was a good idea to suggest such a thing.

Watching the shifting expressions on Chessie’s face, Isabel easily read her thoughts. She suppressed a smile, knowing that Chessie, like some, thought she practiced some form of witchery passed down from her Spanish ancestors. It would be so easy to impress Chessie—a dark drape of shawl over her head, a sprinkle of powder and a few chanted words and Chessie would believe Isabel could raise the dead—or at least charm one of Chessie’s admirers into an unlikely marriage.

On the other hand, Isabel knew Chessie truly fretted over anyone in trouble and was only trying to help in sneaking her up the back stairs so she could help a wounded man.

“Perhaps the back stairs would be best,” Isabel said, making her voice and smile kind.

Chessie’s face relaxed, and Isabel smiled to herself.

“There’s a lot of blood,” Chessie said, as she led the way to the second-floor rooms.

“Is there? It’s all right, I’ve seen it before. Let’s just hope your friend isn’t faint from it.”

Chessie stopped in front of the door at the farthest end of the hallway and looked at Isabel, biting her lower lip. “You ought to know something. He ain’t gonna be too glad to see you. He asked me to get the doctor, but I knew you’d be better for him and besides I couldn’t get somebody who ain’t here. I hope you won’t mind nothin’ he says. He looks like the kind that’s always one step from the noose, but he ain’t gettin’ around so good right now so I don’t think he’ll be too much trouble.”

How comforting, Isabel thought, as she followed Chessie into the room.

Chessie’s doubtful reassurance didn’t improve the picture she had so far of this reluctant patient of hers. He was probably like every other man she’d met who used a gun to make a living, on one side of the law or the other. In the New Mexico high country it was hard to tell the difference between the two, most of the time anyway. But it didn’t matter to her. She was here to heal his body, not his soul.

She did wonder, though, what Chessie had told him about her. Heaven knows, she thought, probably that I intend to heal him with chants and spells and boiled bat dung. And won’t that impress him.

A foul combination of whiskey, blood and sweat assaulted Isabel the moment she stepped inside. If nothing else, Chessie’s friend needed a bath and a night to become sober.

“Mister, it’s me,” Chessie called out. “You’ll be feelin’ yourself again soon, don’t worry. I got just the person you need.”

Something between a grumble and a growl answered her. “I hope you found a doctor.”

“Oh, no, I told you I couldn’t do that. I brought the witch.”

Chapter Two

Isabel glanced heavenward and shook her head. “Chessie—”

“Dammit, I told you to bring me a doctor.”

The man lying on the bed half rose up on one elbow and looked Isabel over as if he expected her to have a broomstick and a peaked hat.

“She doesn’t look like a witch,” he said, falling back, one forearm covering his eyes. “She looks like a skinny woman carrying a basket who’d rather be picking flowers than traipsing around a whorehouse. Now, where the hell is the doctor?”

Isabel brushed by Chessie to the side of the bed. “There’s no doctor and I’m not a witch, but if it pleases you, I can mutter a few chants and wave feathers over your head. Although no matter what I do, I’m probably wasting my time since you’ll just walk out of here and get yourself shot up again.”

She set her basket on the rickety oak nightstand next to a nearly empty whiskey bottle, noticing with a sidelong glance the gun belt he’d draped over the bedpost within hand’s reach. Probably another gambler or gunslinger whose luck went sour over a card game or a woman. Deliberately ignoring the guns, she looked at him, appraising him with a long up and down gaze.

He was a big man, and older than she expected, mid-thirties she guessed, with a harshness around his eyes and mouth that looked permanently ingrained by experience and the elements. Hard lines shaped his face and body, giving her the impression there was no flesh to him, only tough brown skin covering honed muscle and bone.

The yellow wash of lamp glow did nothing to dispel the darkness of him. From his unkempt hair and beard to the heavy black denim and leather of his clothing to the look in the clouded eyes that glared at her when he pulled his arm back, nothing about him suggested he could or should be approached.

Isabel found herself holding her breath, staving off the chill his very presence seemed to evoke.

A pain-ridden groan escaped his throat. His dark brows drew together. “What are you still doing here? I don’t want any crazy woman cutting me.”

“I suppose you would rather bleed to death.” Isabel ignored the gathering storm on his face and instead focused on the task at hand. She bent to gently pull away one end of the bloody bandanna. “Of course, if you have the strength, you may live long enough to die of lead poisoning.”

His mind dulled by Elish’s whiskey and two days’ loss of blood, Jake tried to think of a nasty retort that would send her away. Nothing came to him and it made her seem all the more irritating.

“You must be a witch. You’ve only been here five minutes and I already feel cursed.”

“Perhaps I am. And perhaps later I’ll wave some essence of burnt toad over your head and make your leg disappear. Then it won’t trouble you further. For now, you’re going to find out that I can cut out a bullet as fast and clean as any so-called doctor.”

Before he could stop her, Isabel whipped a knife from the waistband of her skirt. With the skill of a surgeon she sliced through the bandanna in one clean swipe. The quick motion brought Jake halfway to his feet, his left hand slapping instinctively to his hip, his right reaching behind for the nearest Colt.

“Dammit, woman—”

She twisted the knife and pointed it at him, tip first.

“Be quiet and lie back. I don’t expect your undying gratitude, but I won’t fight you for the privilege of cutting a bullet out of your leg while you curse me for it.”

From behind, Chessie let out a gasp, reminding Isabel she still lingered in the room.

“Don’t worry,” Isabel told her, flipping the knife blade back down, “I haven’t killed anyone—yet.” She gave Jake a hard-edged glance. “No matter how rude they are. Or perhaps you’re just afraid of pain.”

Jake studied her a moment, wondering why anyone would think she was a witch. The flush in her cheeks and the sting of her words made her look and sound far too real to be anything magical. He knew about Mexican women who used herbs and faith to doctor those who believed a handful of weeds and a touch could heal. But this Isabel didn’t look Mexican, or even Spanish, with her pale hair and eyes the color of New Mexican turquoise.

“Who are you?” he heard himself ask, wondering why he cared.

“Isabel Bradshaw. I’m a healer.”

“Bradshaw? That’s not very Mexican.”

“Considering my husband was an American, I wouldn’t expect it to be. And you didn’t answer my question. Are you afraid of pain?” She moved closer, still gripping the knife. “Or of me?”

“I’m afraid if I don’t let you get this bullet out I’m going to bleed to death arguing with you.” Jake fell back against the pillow, shading his eyes with his arm again. He wanted to argue, but a heavy lethargy weighing him down made the effort too much trouble. “Have you ever done this before?”

“A thousand times.”

“You’re probably lying, but what the hell. Get on with it. I’ll pay you if I still have my leg in the morning.”

“Your confidence inspires me,” Isabel muttered.

She could sense Chessie’s anticipation, yet she hesitated.

Isabel didn’t like the look of him. She didn’t want to be here, in Elish’s saloon, with half of Whispering Creek downstairs and Chessie hovering. And she didn’t want to touch him.

That feeling both surprised and disturbed her. It was like missing a step in the dark, a jarring sensation that momentarily threw her off balance and left her groping for a familiar feeling to steady herself. She’d never before felt an aversion to touching someone to heal.

It wasn’t that he was so unique, either. She’d cut bullets out of many a man like him, men who killed as easily as they drank whiskey and bedded women. This time, though, some primitive instinct warned her of a danger she couldn’t define.

Isabel pushed the feeling away, reminding herself why she had come. He was another wounded man, nothing more, nothing less. She reached for her basket, irritated to find her hand tremble as she picked out powdered willow leaves and bark and added them to a jar of pale amber liquid that enhanced the pain-killing benefits of the willow.

What was wrong with her that she couldn’t do so simple a thing without behaving as if it meant her own life or death? Who was this man to her but another outlaw who had tangled with someone faster on the draw? Despite the undoubtedly ignoble cause of his injury, she wanted to help him. She’d never questioned her calling, even as a girl. She’d always cared for the sick and wounded, always sheltered those in need, just as her mother and grandmother before her.

She poured some of the elixir into a glass and held it out. “I don’t know if you need this considering the amount of whiskey you’ve drunk, but it won’t do you any harm, and it will help the pain and bleeding.”

Jake moved his arm just enough to glare at her. “What is it?”

“Powdered toad and lizard spit. Drink it.”

He hesitated then took the jar from her and drank it back in one draught. Almost immediately his face convulsed in a grimace. “That tastes like—”

“How would you know? Do you make a habit of dining on it?”

“You’re starting to annoy me, woman.”

“And I’ve only just begun. I’m sure you’ll loathe me by the time I’m finished.”

“It won’t take that long,” Jake muttered, covering his eyes again.

He heard rather than saw her rummage in her basket again and then felt the cold metal of the knife blade as she sliced away his pant leg. He tensed inside, waiting for the blade to cut into him, wishing he’d finished off Elish’s whiskey and asked for another bottle to follow it.

Instead, she touched him first. Her fingertips, cool and smooth, gently circled the hole in his thigh. He expected a painful probing. But she seemed more intent on simply touching, drawing long, gentle strokes on his skin.

At first it annoyed him. He wanted the bullet out of his leg, not a massage.

But gradually, the rhythm of her hands seduced him into focusing on what she was doing rather than the pain.

She began to speak, softly, in a cadence that almost became song. The words seemed to come from far away and Jake couldn’t make any sense of them.

Coupled as they were with the stroke of her hands, it didn’t matter. He could almost believe she was a witch because the combination worked a strange magic. The feel and sound of her might have been a caress—instead it was something deeper and stronger, something that soothed and made him vulnerable to a feeling perilously akin to contentment.

He didn’t like it. It went too deep, forced him to accept an intimacy he didn’t want, even if it was only for a few moments. Yet the rhythm of her voice, the feel of her touch became a seduction too tempting to resist.

When she finally cut into him with the knife, he felt a sharp pain. Then the dream induced by her touch and her herbs took him and there was nothing but darkness.

Isabel breathed a sigh when he passed out. She almost wished Chessie hadn’t come to her about this one; he had an unnerving effect on her she didn’t like one bit. But she hated hurting anyone, even a man who berated her for trying to help him.

She did what she had to do, digging out the imbedded piece of lead, cleaning the wound, applying a poultice of lizard tail to staunch the bleeding and prevent infection. When she’d finished, she straightened with one hand to her lower back, wiping damp tendrils away from her brow with the back of the other.

“You can look now,” she said to Chessie. The young woman stood on the far side of the room, pressed close to the door, her nose practically squashed against it.

“You didn’t cut off his leg, did you?”

“Of course not. Although I’ll admit to being tempted. You’re right—he’s trouble.”

Chessie turned around, casting a lingering glance at the man on the bed. “I suppose he is, but under all that blood and dirt, he’s sure enough all man.”

“I don’t know about that but if you’d come to me any later, he would have been a dead man, whether he’ll admit that or not.”

“Well…I’m sorry about coming for you so sudden like, but I knew no doctor could do for him what you could.” She looked up at Isabel, chewing her lower lip. “I hope you ain’t mad.”

“No, I’m glad you did. You know I can’t refuse when someone’s hurting. Although this once I might have been tempted because I’ve probably wasted my time here. Look at him and tell me he’s not the kind to go right back out and get himself shot up again.”

“I hope you’re wrong about that.” Chessie moved over to the bed and brushed her fingertips over the man’s rough stubble. “He’s one fine man, I can tell. Losin’ him’d be a waste. And besides, I ain’t sure he’s that kind, though he does look it.”

“Oh, he’s that kind all right. I’d put money on it. But—” Isabel shrugged and began to gather up bloody cloths and her pouches of herbs “—with the grace of God and any luck, he’ll be back on his feet and out of town before we find out.”

Chessie watched her, anxious again. “Will you be all right, Isabel? I mean leavin’ here alone. You bein’ a decent woman, I know some people, well…”

“Don’t worry about me.” A mischievous grin twisted the corner of her mouth. “The women in my family stopped caring what people said about us a long time ago.”

She looked once more to the bed. The man lay still in the grip of deep sleep, yet even in this rest he didn’t look peaceful. She thought she had been right in guessing his character, but she also could understand Chessie’s admiration. Without the grime and the blood and the ragged beard, he would be compelling, if not handsome. And that combined with his aura of danger and mystery had no doubt been the downfall of more than one woman.

But not her. Never her. Never again.

“He should sleep until morning,” she told Chessie. “I’ll come back then and bring something for the pain and to prevent infection. He should be fine in a few weeks, perhaps sooner.”

“I sure hope it’s sooner. I don’t think he’s the kind to be happy sittin’ around waitin’ to get well.”

He probably isn’t, Isabel thought, and it’s just as well. The sooner he leaves Whispering Creek, the better.”

Isabel pushed open the kitchen door and swung her basket onto the counter, the savory scent of a hearty beef stew reminding her she’d scarcely eaten since dawn. The door, hanging slightly askew on its rusted hinges, slapped against its wooden frame several times in her wake.

“Ah, pepita,” Esme said, turning from the stove, “I was beginning to worry.”

“It took longer than I expected. Chessie’s man turned out to be a gunslinger with a bullet in his leg.”

Esme went back to stirring the pot on the black cast-iron cookstove, clicking her tongue in distaste.

Isabel moved to put an arm around her grandmother’s shoulders, giving her a quick hug. “Now don’t start, Nana. You’d have done the same thing. You have done the same thing.”

The old woman’s expression softened. “Sí, but I did not set foot in a place like Elish Dodd’s saloon. Every devil who comes to Whispering Creek beds there.”

“Yes, well, I don’t think you would have wanted Elish to bring this particular devil here.” An image of wild black hair, the scent of leather and denim, the feel of hard muscle, flashed through Isabel’s mind. The vision provoked a shivery feeling in her, something akin to uneasiness, except darker, more complex.

Shaking her head to rid herself of the image, she pulled out a chair and sank into it, resting her elbows on the smooth pine table in front of her.

“You must be starving, child.” Esme grabbed a bowl and ladled out a liberal portion of the succulent stew, holding up a hand to stop Isabel’s protest at the large helping. “You did not eat breakfast.”

“Oh…Nate split a seam on his shirt and then Matt needed help with his sums, and Mr. Davis—”

“Sí, sí, I know.” Esme poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down across from Isabel. She stared at her granddaughter a moment in silence then shook her head. “You take too much on yourself.”

Isabel swallowed a spoonful of stew. She knew she was practically inhaling it, but the morning’s excitement had left her famished. “No more than any woman with a family to care for.”

“You are young, beautiful, but so often the jewel you are is buried deep behind your tired eyes.”

Isabel laughed. “This jewel has no desire to come out and be polished for some man’s pleasure, if that’s what you’re hinting at, Nana. I was a wife once, I can’t imagine ever meeting another man with the power to convince me to become one again.”

“You can hardly call yourself a wife, you were married for so short a time. You are not an old woman, nor are you blind and deaf. You cannot truly be so uninterested in what a true man can give you.”

“And what is that? A home? I have that, and my children and you and now Katlyn as well. What else is there?”

“You know there is more. Much more. In your heart, you yearn for it. Yet you deny yourself because that man you called a husband broke your heart.”

“He didn’t…it was never like that.” Isabel glanced down at her bowl, not quite able to face the disbelief on Esme’s face. “He taught me that my dreams of building a home with a husband were something I could live without if I had to.”

“Perhaps, but it was not always that way, no matter what you tell me. Your heart is too tender. You will never prize freedom above loving.”

Isabel smiled a little. “Well, I will certainly never find a man who will give me the freedom I have now. What man would want to be husband to a woman who leaves his bed because she must go to a saloon to cut a bullet out of another’s man’s leg?”

“The man who loves you above all else. But if you refuse to see him, you will never find him.”

“I hardly think I’ll find him in this town whether I’m looking or not,” Isabel said, laughing. “You wouldn’t want me looking too closely at the kind of man I usually see.”

“And what kind is that? The man you went to help today?”

For some reason, Isabel felt her face flush. “Don’t start spinning any romantic dreams of him as a potential husband. He’s more the kind to bed all of Elish’s girls in a night, drink down most of his whiskey, shoot up the bar, then throw on his boots and ride out of town, bad leg or not.”

Esme swallowed the last of her coffee and shoved back from the table. “A dangerous man. Sí, you are right to stay away from that one then.” She said nothing more, but gave Isabel an appraising look.

Isabel got up quickly and took her bowl to the sink to rinse. “I must go to the shop for a few hours. Will you need help with dinner?”

“Of course not. Go then, since you are determined to listen to no one but yourself.”

“I always listen to you, Nana,” Isabel murmured, giving her grandmother a quick kiss on the cheek. “But all I have is enough. I don’t need the complication of another man in my life.”

Enough. Of course I have enough, Isabel told herself as she let herself into the front room of her house where she kept her shop. Her boys were enough. Esme and her newfound sister Katlyn were enough. Her borders were enough. Her work helping people was enough. The house was more than enough! Besides, if something—or someone—were missing in her life, it—or he—would have to have a lot more to offer than one of Elish Dodd’s reckless wanderers.

She knew that breed, and she’d had more than enough of them!

Isabel awoke early the next morning, determined to get to the Silver Rose, pay her obligatory call on Chessie’s wounded outlaw, and be done with him. Especially him. She rose before the boys, washed and dressed quickly, packed their lunch pails, and put a batch of cinnamon-and-raisin biscuits in the oven.

Just as she closed the heavy cast-iron oven door, Matt followed Nate into the kitchen.

Katlyn hurried in after them, looking, as usual, unsettled by the early daylight. It was later, fortified by breakfast and copious amounts of cold water, that Katlyn came alive in a burst of restless, infectious energy which often earned her raised eyebrows and disapproving frowns from Whispering Creek’s more staid residents.

But Katlyn, with a toss of her tumbled red curls and a flash of those lovely blue eyes, managed to charm them all and earn their indulgence for even her most outrageous acts.

“Oh, coffee,” she breathed in delight as Isabel offered her a mug. She tossed her haphazard pile of books and papers on the kitchen table and sniffed appreciatively at the steaming brew. “Cream and honey, too. You are an angel, Isabel. And you’ve made those wonderful biscuits.”

Nate rubbed his palm to his stomach. “Yum-my, does that smell good. My stomach’s aching this morning.”

“You have to save more for me this time,” Matt said, shoving past his brother. “Mama, he always gets more.”

“That’s ’cause I’m older and bigger.”

“It’s not fair!”

Isabel laughed. “Don’t I get a hug and a good-morning kiss?”

Both boys ran to embrace her, and she hugged them close, cherishing the warmth of the moment.

“Are you goin’ back to the Silver Rose again today, Mama?” Nate asked as he took his seat at the head of the small table.

“Yes, I have to check on the man I told you about, the one with the injured leg.”

“He sounds dark and mysterious to me,” Katlyn said around a mouthful of biscuit. “My kind of man,” she added, laughing when Isabel shook her head and shot her a disapproving look.

Esme came into the kitchen rubbing at the arthritis knotting her thin hands. “Good morning. I am glad you lit the stove so early, Isabel, there is a chill in the air today.”

Matt moved from Isabel to Esme. “Mornin’, Nana. It’s not cold, you’re just always cold.”

“That I am. It is because I am an old woman.”

“I like you old.”

Nate rolled his eyes at his brother. “That’s ’cause you never knew her any other way,” Nate interjected. “Mama says Nana was a real beauty when she was a girl. Isn’t that right, Mama?”

“Of course it is right,” Esme answered for Isabel. “That’s why your Mama is so beautiful. When she takes time to brush her hair and change her dress, that is.”

Instinctively, Isabel tried to smooth her wayward mass of hair. She realized in her rush to get up and dressed this morning she’d forgotten to braid her hair. Deftly, she twined heavy locks into a long braid and tied it with a bit of ribbon she kept in her apron pocket.

“Better?”

Esme answered with an ambiguous shrug.

Katlyn stifled a giggle, smiling back ruefully at Isabel as she put a hand to her own wayward hair. Though they looked very different—Isabel favoring their father and Katlyn her mother—they both laughed often over their shared inability to ever look neatly polished.

While the boys and Katlyn devoured the biscuits, Isabel organized her thoughts, deciding what medicines to take to the Silver Rose. She glanced outside, looking over the bunches of herbs, withered and faded by the sun, swinging on the long poles outside her windows. A dozen chimes, made from broken glass, bones, and stones, hung from the eaves and sang odd faraway music in cadence with the wind. The air smelled like pine and wood smoke and the scent of the drying herbs.

The chimes sang, a lark called, and Isabel suddenly felt fiercely glad to be here. This was her home, her family, and nothing and no one could take them from her.

Intending to take care of her chore at the Silver Rose before the town was in full swing, she packed up her basket. She then quickly did the dishes, and scurried the boys out the door with her, watching them until they disappeared around the corner on their way to lessons with Katlyn.

At this time of the morning, there was no one about to care whether she came or went or what business she had at the saloon. Isabel walked straight in the front door. Three cowboys and a man she recognized as a fur trader, drinking Elish’s dubious coffee and laughing with Chessie and Anita over the night’s escapades, barely glanced her way. Elish, unpacking a crate of whiskey bottles, looked up and grinned when the slatted wooden doors swung shut behind her.

“Well, if it ain’t our angel of mercy. You must be here to tend to our one-legged guest. I hope he’s still livin’. I hate it when they breathe their last in one of our beds.”

Isabel smiled. “I don’t think you have to worry about this one dying. He seems to me the kind of man who’ll live just to spite everyone.”

“Even you? From the way Chessie tells it, it was even odds whether you was gonna cut out that bullet or his heart.”

“He wasn’t particularly glad to see me, but he doesn’t have a choice.”

Isabel climbed the stairs and, at the top, didn’t hesitate in going to the man’s room. She knocked lightly at his door and, getting no reply, pushed it open and went in.

He lay sprawled out on the narrow bed, half covered by the thin quilt, his clothes in a heap on the floor, one arm flung over his head. He looked asleep but when she moved beside him and laid down her basket, his eyes snapped open and he half rose up. They stared at each other, his wary dark eyes meeting her cool blue ones.

For a moment, Isabel had the uncomfortable feeling of being stripped bare, from skin to soul. His eyes, she noticed, weren’t brown, but a deep gray, and from the look in them she got the impression he was a man who kept secrets, and who guessed them in others. Nana was right. A dangerous man.

Several beats of silence ticked off before he ended the standoff between them, flopping back down against the pillow, not bothering to pull up the quilt bunched around his waist. The morning light gilded his skin, defining the planes and valleys of his bared body, and picking out a scar running diagonally from shoulder to collarbone, and another slashed horizontally, just under his rib cage.

“You again. I thought you were a bad dream.”

“Did you also dream the bullet out of your leg? If so, I wish you would teach me the trick. It would make my work so much easier.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to make sure you hadn’t died in Elish’s bed. He hates that.”

“Then you’ve done your duty. You can leave me to suffer in peace.”

Isabel ignored his nasty expression. “I fully intend to, after I take a look at that leg.” She rummaged in her basket for a jar of salve and the ingredients for a new poultice. Without asking his permission, she pulled back the quilt enough to bare his leg to her scrutiny.

“Anything else you’d like to see while you’re down there?” Jake asked, annoyed when she didn’t so much as bat an eyelash.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before. Are you still in pain?”

“It’s nothing a bottle of whiskey won’t cure. Look, lady—” Jake propped up on one elbow and trapped her wrist with his free hand “—I’m sure you do a real nice job soothing stomachaches and curing skinned elbows, and you did get the bullet out of my leg. For that I’m much obliged. But your weeds are more likely to kill me than do any good and I’m not anxious to be knocking on hell’s door any earlier than necessary. I’ll send one of the girls along to pay you for your trouble.”

“Mister, for what I’ve been through trying to help you, you can’t afford my trouble. Now let go of me or I’ll yell loud enough to bring Elish and every cowboy in the saloon up here with guns drawn.”

He held on hard for a moment, his pulse thrumming against her skin. Isabel knew he sized her up with his eyes before releasing her wrist. She resisted the urge to rub at her skin, feeling the impression of his strength long after his physical touch.

“I’ll give you one thing, lady, nothing much seems to rattle you. Remind me to never play poker with you.”

“I’m not interested in playing any game with you. I came here to check your wound and that’s what I’m going to do. Now be still. Is this tender?” Isabel ran her fingers over the wound, probing gently.

Jake started at the touch of her, jolted more by her tenderness than the pain. “It hurts like hell. Did you bring any whiskey?”

“No, Mr.-whatever-your-name-is—I didn’t. I’m not a saloon keeper.” She thrust the jar of salve at him. “Here, put this on it daily for the next few weeks, if you have any desire to keep your leg from rotting off, that is.”

Jake eyed the thick, yellow-colored grease warily, then sniffed at it, drawing back with a grimace.

“It’s Coulter, Jake Coulter, and what is this stuff? It smells like horse dung.”

“Mouse.”

“Mouse what?”

“It’s mouse dung,” Isabel said matter-of-factly. “Mixed with butter, horsetail and a little turpentine. It’s quite useful.”

Jake stared at her, wondering if she meant it or if she were trying to bait him into asking a dumb question. “You’re not serious.”

“Of course I am. I use it often.”

“To attract flies? Do you have a jar of leeches around somewhere as well? No—don’t answer that. Whatever this is, I sure as hell don’t want it smeared on me. Look, I’ve no doubt you mean well, you did a fair job cutting that bullet out—”

“Such generous praise. And I’m overwhelmed by your gratitude.”

“—but my leg probably needs stitches and definitely a good dose of sulfur powder and someone who knows how to administer both without a shaking hand.”

“Ah, I see. And did you gain this knowledge from some drunken fool who’s only claim to being a doctor is that he can cut off limbs and pour whiskey faster than the man before him?”

“And where did you get yours? From a vision after chewing peyote?”

“Well, if I did, it’s too late for you now. You’ve drunk my potion. Perhaps you’re already under my spell.”

The look she gave him, a little mysterious smile, a flash of laughter, roused in Jake a sudden, sharp awareness of her nearness. He could smell the wildflower scent of her, feel her warmth almost as a touch. It had been a long time since he’d let a woman get close to him.

This woman…He shook his head, trying to clear it.

“Am I?” he said, his voice rough-edged.

Piercing gray eyes locked with hers and for a moment, Isabel could think of nothing to say in reply.

She realized she hadn’t taken time to study him fully yesterday. There was certainly an almost frightening strength in him, and an unflinching directness in his eyes. But there were also lines in his face left by an experience of bitterness or suffering, she didn’t know which. It left her intrigued, wondering exactly what he was and why he was here. It also left her disconcerted, questioning her reaction to him.

Feeling shaken, Isabel took her jar of salve from him and jerked the quilt back up over his leg. “Since you don’t want my help, I’ll go.”

She started to gather up her basket and Jake watched her hands move over the jar and cloths, efficient, graceful. She riled him to the point of fury, but he liked looking at her, though he couldn’t have said why. He preferred his women lush and pliant, but with her delicate fairy face and her quick tongue she was neither. She didn’t even go out of her way to make herself particularly attractive the way most women did.

Her hair hung in a loose braid down her back and, as far as he could tell, she wore nothing but a thin cotton dress that looked as if the sun had scorched all the color out of it. There was nothing deliberately provocative about her. She seemed indifferent to the way she moved, except when she plied her dubious trade and then all the sensuality was in her hands, the intimacy in her touch.

“You aren’t coming back, are you?” he asked suddenly, surprising them both.

“I’m not a glutton for punishment. If you’re bored, I’m sure Chessie or Anita can find some way to amuse you.”

“Maybe I should have been more careful. I’ll be wondering now what spell you have cast over me.”

“I wouldn’t let it trouble you. I’m not adept enough to charm serpents into your room. Yet.”

She walked to the door and turned to give him a tight smile. “Goodbye, Mr. Coulter. I promise you, the only sorcery you’ll find here will come from the hands of one of Elish’s girls.”

Jake stared after her, torn between following her just to take away her advantage of getting the last word or trying to forget she ever lived to annoy him. Before he could decide, Elish Dodd appeared in the doorway, stopping Isabel from leaving.

“If you’re lookin’ for magic, you’re gonna have to find it somewhere else,” he said, stepping past Isabel to face Jake. “I just got word a dozen or more men finishin’ a cattle drive will be ridin’ in tonight lookin’ for whiskey and girls and I’m gonna need all the rooms I have. Since you ain’t in no condition to be takin’ advantage of the amenities here, you might want to consider a room in the nearest thing we got here to a hospital.”

“And where might that be?” Jake asked, already suspecting he knew the answer and not wanting to hear it.

“Why, in Mrs. Bradshaw’s house,” Elish said, flashing a grin between Jake and Isabel. “You know, the woman you’ve managed to rile enough for her to turn a knife on you. I’m sure she’ll take you in, she has this fondness for strays no matter how ornery they are.” Before he left, Elish winked at Isabel then turned to Jake. “But if I was you, friend, I’d sleep with one eye open ’til you get back on her good side.”

Chapter Three

“I’ll make room for you, cowboy.”

The purr of Anita Devine’s voice broke the awkward silence between Isabel and Jake. Caught in the moment of suspended tension, Isabel jumped at the sound, jerking around toward the doorway.

Anita posed there, her dark eyes roving over Jake with slow deliberation. Raven tresses spilled over her bare shoulders, a few spiral curls catching in the lace at her low-cut bodice. As her gaze slid over Jake’s body, a satisfied smile curved the edges of her painted mouth.

She sauntered into the room, petticoats swishing at her ankles, brushing past Isabel as though she didn’t exist, heading straight to the edge of the bed. Bending down far enough for her ample bosom to spill over the black lace at the scooped neckline of her dress, she smoothed a heavy wave from Jake’s brow.

“Elish told me about your dilemma, Mr. Coulter. And I’ve come to offer a solution. I’d be quite happy to make room so you can stay with me while you recover.”

Isabel stood to the side, caught off guard by Anita’s brazen proposition, though she didn’t know why she should be. Anita’s reputation was well-known all over the high country towns surrounding Whispering Creek. Women around town called her the Black Widow because she had a way of seducing a handsome man and using him up, leaving him with little more than his boots when she sent him walking.

Isabel tried to judge Jake’s response, but his expression gave nothing away. Only his eyes showed any reaction and the coldness there almost forced her back a step.

“What a generous offer,” he drawled, raking Anita with a dismissing glance that was far from flattering.

Anita’s eyes narrowed, but her smile stayed in place. “I’m part owner in this place, so my offer is sincere, I assure you.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is.” Jake shifted and looked directly at Isabel.

The moment his eyes settled on her, Isabel itched to turn her back on both of them and leave them to haggle over the living arrangements without her witness.

What did he want? For her to make him a better offer? Did he expect her to beg for his company?

Perversely, part of her wanted to insist he return home with her. She supposed the ridiculous urge was nothing more than instinctive feminine competition though normally she wasn’t at all given to that sort of nonsense.

Especially when Jake Coulter was the last man she should want sleeping under her roof.

Still, he looked at her with that faintly challenging glint in his eyes and she felt herself responding even while common sense called her a fool. He’d done nothing to indicate he needed or wanted her help, in fact he’d practically thrown her out when she offered.

Then again, she did have a vacant room and heaven only knew how long she might have to wait to find a new boarder. And she could ill afford a long spell with no rent on that room. Even with her shop, she barely made ends meet.

Aware both Jake and Anita now stared at her, Isabel drew herself up. “Well, Mr. Coulter, I was going to tell you I did have a room open up yesterday, but it sounds as though you have a fine offer for a very comfortable room right here—”

“I’ll take it.”

“What?” Isabel and Anita blurted out in unison.

Anita slapped her hands to her tightly cinched-in waist. “Are you sayin’ you’d rather go and stay with the witch and her brats than here with me? I’ll have you know I don’t make a habit of offerin’ to share my room with just anyone!”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Jake said. “A man’s got to be willing to pay the price and I’m sure your price is high.”

“I’ll make an exception for you, darlin’.”

“No, thanks.”

“No—!”

“I want someplace private, where I can find a little peace and quiet.” He looked back to Isabel. “You can promise that much, Mrs. Bradshaw, can’t you?”

“Not particularly,” Isabel said lightly. “I can offer you a measure of privacy. As for peace and quiet, once my boys get home from their lessons, the noise in my house could easily rival with a raucous crowd on a good night at the Silver Rose.”

“See there.” Anita leaned a little farther over, maneuvering closer to give Jake the best view of her voluptuous body. “Now is that what you call peace and quiet?”

Jake scowled at Isabel. “Can you give me a room or not?”

“I’ll rent you a room.”

“Then it’s settled. I’ll move in today.”

Anita stood up straight and squared her shoulders. “Suit yourself, but don’t come back here knocking on my door when you find out you’ve moved into a hornet’s nest.” Her eyes narrowed to catlike slits. “I won’t forget this insult, Mr. Coulter.”

Isabel couldn’t suppress a small grin as Anita flounced out of the room in a snit.

“You look pleased with yourself. Did you want me that bad?”

Jake nearly regretted the jibe when her smile upended and she frowned. He’d surprised himself in flatly turning down Anita Devine. He’d done it not because of the obvious services she offered in his recovery, or because Isabel could get him on his feet faster than anyone, but out of some instinctive reaction to protect Isabel Bradshaw.

Why she provoked that reaction he couldn’t say. She didn’t seem the type to want or need a man’s shelter. Yet he sensed some unseen vulnerability in her. Despite himself, she’d inspired a response even he didn’t expect.

Now he found himself enjoying the fire he’d sparked in her.

“Want you?” she sputtered. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Coulter. You were practically begging me to rent you that room.”

“Dodd says you have the only place in town that takes wounded strays.”

“I’m sure Anita would have given you her undivided attention.”

“I don’t want her attention. I want yours.”

“Really? I can’t imagine why. You haven’t missed an opportunity to insult me. And I can hardly offer you the same amenities as Anita.”

Jake let his eyes rove over her in deliberate suggestion. To her credit, she didn’t flinch away, but gave his bold appraisal back in full measure. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You’ve got those wonderful weeds.”

“I’m tempted to give you a double dose of them and have you hauled off to my house, with or without your blessing,” Isabel said, not really understanding his sudden faith in her healing ability and not certain whether she should be flattered or good and riled at him.

“You’re the only one in this town who can tell if this wound’s getting better or worse,” he reasoned. “And I’ll be helping you out by keeping your room rented until a more permanent border comes along.”

“So you’re doing me a favor now. I see. How kind of you, sir.”

“Let’s just say we can help each other out for the time being, okay? I have business here and I don’t want to get it done from a saloon.”

Isabel immediately stiffened. She’d been afraid of this. Still it was better to face the truth about Jake Coulter now. “Business? What business, may I ask?”

The look he gave her might have daunted a strong man, let alone a woman armed only with her wits and a single knife. Isabel, though, refused to back down. If she planned on taking Jake Coulter into her house, she needed to know who might come looking for him, guns drawn.

“You can ask,” Jake said. “I don’t have any answers for you right now. Don’t worry though, in this condition, I’m not too dangerous.”

“That’s not good enough.” What was he hiding, and more importantly, why? Her eyes strayed to the gun belt looped over the bedpost. “I have a family to think of.”

Jake followed her gaze but said nothing, only smiled, a faint, sardonic twist of his lips that made Isabel shiver and at the same time roused her irritation.

“I’ll be long gone before I’d put your family in harm’s way. Now, I could use another shot of that magic potion of yours. I don’t think I can get down the stairs without it and a large bottle of whiskey.”

“You won’t be able to get down the stairs with that combination, I guarantee it.”

“You have a better idea?”

Isabel had several, but she kept them to herself. I’ll learn your secrets, Jake Coulter, she told him silently, one way or the other.

Out loud, she told him, “I’ll give you something that’ll put you to sleep for several hours and from the look in your eyes, that will be a relief to both of us.”

Not waiting for his retort, she plunged ahead, taking refuge from his disturbing presence by organizing his release from the Silver Rose. “Besides, you’re going to need something for the ride home. I’ll ask Elish to help move you to his cart, but it’s a rough ride to my place.”

“So’s life,” Jake said with a short, mirthless laugh. “Go ahead and bring me my poison, witch.”

Jake woke to the voice of an angel singing and wondered if he’d died in one of Elish Dodd’s beds after all. Heaven, though, surely must be a lot less painful, he decided as he shifted a little in the direction of the sound. His leg ached and when he forced open his eyes, the glare of afternoon sunlight through an open window knifed his head. Wincing, he turned away, focusing instead on the unfamiliar room.

Heaven or hell, it was definitely not the Silver Rose. The high-pitched ceiling of the upstairs log cabin loft reflected a woman’s touch, from the woven, multicolored rug on the pine plank floor and the lace curtains at the window, to the earthenware jar of rosemary and lavender on the dresser. Her touch. Chessie’s witch; his angel of mercy.

She meant it, he thought, remembering Isabel Bradshaw’s threat to pack him off to her “hospital” with or without his permission. He didn’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed that she’d pulled it off.

Before he could decide, a hot drift of breeze carried the angel’s song into the room again, a clear, pure voice raised in a soulful Spanish ballad. Ignoring the wash of pain and dizziness, Jake flung back the quilt and limped to the window to look down on the garden below.

Isabel was there, singing to herself and a large raven perched on the rock wall beside her. As he watched, she bent to pluck a few sprigs from some leafy plant. She rubbed them gently between her fingertips, then cupped the leaves to inhale their scent before adding them to the collection in the basket looped over her arm.

Sunlight washed her dark-golden hair and Jake found himself wondering what it would look like, freed from its confining braid, spread over her shoulders and—

He cut short the thought, shaking his head to clear it. Whatever potion she’d given him was clouding his thoughts, making him crazy. He turned to move away from the window and shut out her vision. The stiffness in his leg made him awkward and he knocked against a small table, rattling the pitcher and bowl there.

The clatter, in the late day stillness, brought Isabel’s head up and for a moment, their gazes locked. Jake could almost hear her catch her breath and he felt himself holding his.

“What are you doing on your feet?” she called up, breaking the spell. She shook her head, giving an exasperated sigh. “I hope you aren’t going to be this stubborn over everything or I’ll never be rid of you. Get back into bed, I’m coming up.”

“Now there’s an invitation I can’t refuse,” Jake said, unable to resist baiting her.

Isabel only glared at him then quickened her step to the door below his window. Jake heard it slam behind her and smiled.

She found him propped up against the pillows, the quilt pulled carelessly up to his waist as if he’d just tossed it there after hearing her footsteps. He’d flung his shirt and it lay in a heap in the corner. She chose to ignore the reality he now wore nothing but the quilt.

Putting down the tray she’d carried up on the dresser top, Isabel turned to face him, determined not to give him the upper hand.

“If you’re going to lecture me about staying in bed, save your breath,” Jake said before she could open her mouth. “I’m beginning to regret even opening my eyes.”

“I’m not surprised. Do you always make a habit of acting before you think, Mr. Coulter?”

“Usually I don’t have the luxury of time to think.”

“Does that mean you’re usually on the run?” Isabel could see her bluntness surprised him. But it was obvious he wasn’t going to volunteer the information.

“I see subtlety is one art you don’t practice. And no, ma’am, I’m not usually on the run, although I’ll confess I’ve worn out a few saddles in the past years.”

“I see,” Isabel said, although she didn’t. She studied him a moment, then from the tray picked up a pile of fresh cloths and a new poultice she’d made. Setting them down on the bedside table, she poured water from the pitcher into the bowl, then turned to him again. “I need to look at your leg.”

“It’s becoming a habit with you. Do you enjoy it that much?”

Isabel smiled. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Flipping back the edge of the quilt, she busied herself removing the old bandages. When she’d finished, she ran her fingers lightly over the bullet wound.

Jake flinched at the gentleness of her touch and she glanced at him in concern. “Is it that painful?”

“No—no. It’s—I’m not used to being touched like that.”

“That I can believe. You have more scars than my furniture and believe me, with two boys in the house, that’s saying a lot.”

“You said you had children.”

She nodded, her attention fixed on cleaning his wound and reapplying a poultice and bandage. Her hands moved deftly over him, warm and sure, more soothing than the herbs she used to ease his pain. “My grandmother and sister live here, too. You’re my only boarder.”

“And your husband?”

“Is dead,” she said shortly. She kept her eyes down, not because of any pretense of modesty, Jake guessed, but because she wanted to guard her feelings from him.

“Don’t get any ideas that I can’t protect myself and my own,” Isabel said when he let the silence stretch between them. She yanked the quilt back over him, her stance defiant. “I’m used to doing it and it’ll take more than a down-on-his-luck outlaw to give me trouble.”

“That, I don’t doubt.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Why are you in Whispering Creek?” With her family to protect, she had to know. Obviously, Jake Coulter was no miner, and he didn’t have the smooth charm of a gambler, nor the rough edges of a cowboy.

He reminded her, instead, of a hunter, dark and dangerous, and not quite civilized.

“I’m here because I can’t ride out on my own,” Jake answered. “But you don’t have to worry. You’re not going to find my face on any of the sheriff’s wanted posters. No one will be looking for me here.”

“I see,” she said, unsatisfied. She decided to try another approach. “Where are you from, Mr. Coulter?”

“Jake. And where I’m from depends on what day it is. Yesterday I came from Taos. Does it matter?”

“I don’t know,” Isabel said slowly. “Perhaps it should.”

“It doesn’t to me, not anymore.”

The words were heavy with weariness and he closed his eyes against them, rousing both concern and curiosity in Isabel. Something had hurt Jake Coulter and it was more than a bullet. The healer in her wanted to know what it was. The woman in her warned against finding the answer.

“Mr. Coulter…Jake—”

The sound of a downstairs door slamming and a clatter of footsteps up the stairs stopped whatever Isabel intended to say.

There was a scuffling noise outside Jake’s door, and a flurry of whispering before Nate poked his head inside. He darted a quick curious glance at Jake, then looked at Isabel, his face suspiciously innocent.

“We wanted to know if we could have jam tarts. Nana made them, but she’s visiting Mrs. Parker, and well…we thought we’d ask.”

“Did you now?” Isabel shook her head, unable to hide her smile. “It sounds to me as if you needed a reason to come upstairs and meet our new guest.”

“It was Nate’s idea,” Matt piped up behind him. “He wanted to see the gunfighter.” He peeked around the corner, wide-eyed. “But we would like jam tarts, too.”

“Ah, I see. Matt, Nate…” She took their hands and led them just inside the room. “This is Mr. Coulter. He’s not a gunfighter,” she said, praying she didn’t lie, “and he’s going to be staying with us until his leg is healed. He’s not feeling very well, so he won’t be up to having any visitors for a while. Now go downstairs to the kitchen. I’ll be along in a minute and I’ll help you eat those jam tarts Nana left for you.”

Before Jake could respond, Isabel shooed her sons out the door and the boys scampered off, clattering noisily down the stairs. “You didn’t tell me I was contagious,” he said, watching after them.

“They’re very impressionable,” she said, not quite meeting his gaze. She quickly gathered up her supplies and put them back on the tray. “They’ve already decided you’re a dangerous outlaw and that you can tell them all sorts of exciting stories about gunfights and stolen gold. I don’t want to encourage them.”

“I don’t know any stories about stolen gold.”

“At least you don’t deny the gunfights.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I did.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Unless you want to confess you shot yourself in the leg.” Returning to his bedside, Isabel handed him a cup. “Drink this. It will help the pain.”

Jake sniffed warily at it, not liking the smell or the look of the pale-green liquid. “By the time you’re through with me, I’ll have tried every weed in the territory. Whiskey would be kinder.”

“Not to your head.” She waited until he’d downed the herbal brew, then gently pushed him back on the pillows. Her fingers brushed his forehead, pushing aside a heavy dark wave of hair that stubbornly refused to stay aside. “No fever. I think you’ll do, Mr. Coulter. A week or so and you’ll be up and around again.”

Her fingers lingered for a moment on his skin and Jake captured them with his own, absently rubbing her hand, enjoying the smooth feel of her. “Is that a promise, ma’am, or a threat to throw me out then?” he asked, his voice low and dark, teasing her.

“Perhaps both,” Isabel said, freeing her hand from his disturbing touch. “I must go. The boys will be waiting, and you need to rest. I’ll be back in a few hours with supper.”

Jake stared after her, wondering what had caused the crack in her cool facade, and why he found it so pleasing to know he’d played a part in it.

Isabel had just finished cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, and was getting ready to make certain the boys had fed and watered all their animal boarders for the night when a loud rapping sounded at the front door. Pushing her hands down her skirts to dry them, she hurried to answer it.

“Cal,” she said, opening the door to a tall, squarely built man holding a battered hat between his hands. “What brings you here this time of day?”

Isabel forced herself to sound casual, but she’d known Calvin Reed all her life, even before he’d taken over as sheriff in Whispering Creek, and knew he wouldn’t be stopping by twice in two days simply to chat. She remembered her grandmother’s talk about Jerico Grey and wondered just how much of it had been rumor.

“Wearin’ out my welcome, am I, Belle?” Cal asked.

Isabel smiled a little over the familiar nickname, one only Cal used. He’d taken to calling her that ever since she was a little girl and Calvin Reed had been a young deputy, paying court to her mama after her papa had abandoned them.

“Of course not,” she said, leading him inside with a hand on his arm. “Come inside and I’ll get you some coffee.”

Cal ran a hand over his graying hair. The lines in his face seemed deeper, and his eyes sober, telling Isabel more than any words he was worried over something.

“I hate to turn it down, but I’d best get my business out of the way first. I need to speak to your new boarder, if he’s in any shape to have a conversation. Elish tells me you slipped him one of your fine elixirs to get him out of the Silver Rose this mornin’.”

“He’s well enough to talk to you.” Isabel hesitated, then started, “Cal…”

“Now don’t you worry, honey. I just want to see what his business here is. With this recent string of robberies at the mines around here, I can’t be too careful.”

“Do you think…” Isabel stopped, not certain if she wanted to put her fears into words. But it would be better to know. “Is it Jerico?”

“Now Belle—”

“Is it? He did it before. He was robbing camps all over these mountains before he fled the territory.”

“Don’t you worry, now. I know you were sweet on him once. Don’t bother to tell me it’s not true,” he said, holding up a hand to ward off her protest.

“I was a girl, in love with the idea of loving a dangerous man. You can trust my illusions about Jerico faded quickly. If you’re thinking he’d come back to Whispering Creek for me, you’re mistaken.”

“You’re probably right. I suspect his reasons for headin’ this way have more to do with him havin’ the law on his tail in Texas.”

Isabel saw a shadow of doubt in Cal’s eyes and put her hand on his arm, looking straight at him. “If I knew anything, I would tell you. The thought of Jerico coming back here, after all these years—” She shook her head, trying to rid herself of her uneasiness. “I seem to have a knack for attracting the wrong kind of man,” she said with a small smile.

“Like your new boarder? Well, now, he’s probably just what he appears to be, one of them thorns in a sheriff’s side whose luck’s run a little muddy. I’ll have a talk with him, but I doubt he’s too dangerous.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Isabel said more to herself than Cal as she turned and led him up the staircase, to the loft.

She knocked once at Jake’s door then opened it halfway and looked inside. Slouched in the rocker he’d shoved next to the window, he was looking out at the deepening evening, a slight frown tensing his face. He’d pulled on a man’s robe he’d found draped over the bed, loosely tying it at the waist.

He turned slightly when he heard Isabel step into the room, and then looked back to the window with a view of the rear garden. “Back again with your weeds so soon?”

“No,” Isabel said, watching him carefully for his reaction. “You have a visitor. Sheriff Reed wants to meet you.”

“Yeah, I’ll just bet he does,” Jake drawled.

He shifted to look at Cal and surprised Isabel by grinning. “I suppose you’ve decided I’m responsible for robbing every mining office between here and the Texas Panhandle.” Rubbing a hand through his hair, he gave a wry shrug. “Can’t say that I blame you.”

“Then maybe you can tell me why you are here in Whispering Creek, and we can get this settled and leave Mrs. Bradshaw with some peace of mind.”

“I don’t know if it’ll give her any peace of mind but I’ll tell you why I’m here. Jerico Grey.”

Isabel caught her breath and the slight sound caused Jake’s gaze to shift sharply to her. She tried to keep her expression blank, to conceal the twist of emotion she felt hearing Jerico’s name over again after not even thinking it for so many years, and this time hearing it from a stranger.

“What’s your business with Grey?” Cal asked, his expression wooden.

“The same business I’ve had for over six months, only now I intend to finish it.” Pushing himself up out of the rocker, Jake limped over to the corner where Isabel had propped his saddlebag and fished out a mud-spattered badge. He turned and handed it to Cal.

Cal rubbed away the dirt and shook his head. “Well, I’ll be damned.” Answering the question on Isabel’s face, he smiled broadly and said, “It looks as if we were paintin’ us a devil’s face on an angel, Belle. Mr. Coulter here is a Texas Ranger.”

“He’s a…” Isabel stared at Cal a moment, trying to decide if she felt relieved Jake Coulter wasn’t an outlaw or angry for how thoroughly she’d been taken in by his appearance.

As Cal’s words sank in fully, she whirled on Jake, her eyes blazing. “I suppose you enjoyed playing the wounded gunslinger, letting me believe I’d let an outlaw into my house, around my boys. You have a strange way of amusing yourself, Mr. Coulter.”

“If I wanted entertainment, I’d have stayed at the Silver Rose, Mrs. Bradshaw. I came here for rest and privacy. I’d just as soon Grey didn’t hear that I’m laid up. None of us want him to come looking for me under your roof. I don’t know how much you know about Jerico Grey, but you can trust me when I say he’s not the kind of man you’d ever turn your back on.”

All traces of warmth had vanished from his face as if they’d never been there and Isabel felt a shiver up her spine looking at the ice in its place.

Jake Coulter might be one step on the right side of the law, but Cal was wrong. He was dangerous, maybe even more so than the man he vowed to bring to justice.

Jake watched her, trying to decipher the odd play of emotions on her face. Anger, worry, he could understand. What confused him was the strong sense that Isabel Bradshaw’s interest in Jerico Grey was more than concern a woman alone would have for herself and her family knowing an outlaw was somewhere in the area.

She seemed strong-willed enough to face down the devil if necessary to protect her own. Yet one name washed the color from her face and put fear in her eyes. At least he thought it was fear.

He didn’t realize he’d been staring at her, trying to figure her out, until the sheriff cleared his throat.

“I’d like to talk to you more about this, when you’re feelin’ up to a walk to my office,” Cal said. “Until then, you’re right, it’s probably best everyone in town thinks you’re another drifter Belle’s taken under her wing for a spell.”

He said something else but Isabel didn’t hear the rest of the conversation between the two men. Jerico was coming back to Whispering Creek and Jake Coulter wanted him dead. What kind of man had she taken into her home? Yet how could she turn him out when he was wounded?

“…you tomorrow, Belle.”

She started, realizing Cal was talking to her. “Yes, yes of course.”

“I’ll see myself out, let you get back to your business.” Shoving his hat back on, he nodded to Jake and gave Isabel’s arm a reassuring pat before clomping back down the stairs.

As his footsteps receded Isabel turned to look fully at Jake.

“I’ll leave. Tonight if possible.” He limped toward the bed and shoved the badge back into his saddlebag. “I’ll see if I can sweet-talk my way into Anita’s room at the Silver Rose.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t go walking around town in your condition. Lie down before you fall down,” she commanded, coming to him and pushing a hand flat against his chest.

“I’m going. I had to tell the sheriff the truth. But now that he knows why I’m here, word’s bound to get back to Jerico. I can’t guarantee your safety.”

“I don’t recall asking you to be my protector. You’re hurt, I can help you. That’s the end of it.”

“Is it? Well, I don’t recall asking for your help. In fact, I distinctly remember telling you to stay out of my life. Yet, here you are.” He gestured to her hand, still pressed against his bare chest.

Isabel suddenly became acutely aware of the hard wall of muscle under her palm, and that she stood close enough to him to feel the heat and tension in him.

“Get back into bed,” she said, jerking her hand away. “I refuse to let you go wandering around Whispering Creek, making yourself an easy target for any drunk with a gun. A dead patient isn’t good for business.”

Jake said nothing and for a moment, Isabel thought he would ignore her and limp away anyhow. But finally, he sat down heavily on the bed, raking his fingers through his hair. “Just don’t count on me.”

“For what?”

“For anything. Anything at all. I’m here to do this job and then I’ll be moving on to the next one. That’s all I can promise.”

“Do you think I’m so desperate for male companionship I’ll be begging for your attention by week’s end?” Isabel nearly laughed at his arrogance except the shuttered look on his face stopped her. His expression told her he hadn’t made the comment lightly and she wondered what meaning she was supposed to find in it.

“Let me assure you, the only promise I want from you is that you’ll pay your rent on time. Five dollars a week for the room, breakfast and supper. I do laundry and linens once a week.”

“Does that include your weed potions, too?” he asked, a hint of a smile playing with a corner of his mouth.

“Those are on the house. I couldn’t charge for anything you take so much pleasure in.”

There seemed to be nothing else to say, but in the hush that suddenly fell between them, Isabel sensed there was much more, yet neither of them knew how to give it voice. She finally forced herself to end the strange, tense silence, and, murmuring a quick good-night, left him alone.

Jake leaned back against the pillows. He felt completely thrown off center by her. It was a disarming, unsettling feeling unlike any he’d ever known with any other woman.

Not even his wife. It irritated him, like a splinter just under the skin. And it annoyed him even more that he had to depend on her to get back on his feet.

Nothing about Isabel Bradshaw was easy, he was discovering. Except the way she touched him. And that, if he was honest, disturbed him most of all.

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