West of Heaven. Victoria Bylin
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The rancher wrapped his muscular forearm around her waist and brought her upright so that his chest was pressed against her back. As the coughing eased, she smelled pine shavings and male perspiration. His hands shook as he spun her around.
“What the hell are you doing out of bed?”
“I just—” Her chest shuddered again. She couldn’t breathe, much less talk.
Holding her arms, he sat her down on the bed and held her steady as she hacked up something vile. With a growl of disgust, he handed her the rag she’d been using for a hankie and then stepped back from the bed. “Don’t push yourself. I want you well enough to leave.”
She wiped her mouth. “We agree completely.”
He pointed to the envelope on the floor with the muddy toe of his boot. “What’s that?”
“A letter from my husband.”
His eyes turned to agate as he picked up the letter and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed, and on the envelope she noticed a smudge from his warm hands. Wondering if she would see Hank’s fingerprints as clearly, she took the letter and slid it under her pillow.
After he took off his coat, the rancher poured coffee for them both and dropped into the rocker by the hearth. Steam misted the air as he lifted the cup to his lips, giving a damp shine to the whiskers hiding his face. She wondered what he would look like clean-shaven, whether his jaw was square or curved, and what his chin looked like. She suspected it was as hard as the rest of him and just as stubborn.
Stretching his neck and shoulders, he took a deep breath, causing the shirt to gape where a button was missing. He’d also torn the sleeve, probably months ago judging by the ragged hole.
Aside from being in need of mending, his clothes were just plain dirty. He could have passed for the town drunk, but she had never seen him indulge in the whiskey he’d used for her cough. He read dime novels at night, or else he browsed catalogs, making notes on scraps of paper he tucked between the pages. Sober and silent, he spent the evenings ignoring her, just as he was doing now. Except this morning she felt human again, and she needed answers.
Folding her hands in her lap, she asked, “What day is it?”
The rancher shrugged. “What difference does it make?”
It made a big difference. Back in Lexington she had kept a calendar by her bed, marking off the days. Time mattered, even if Ethan Trent didn’t think so. “I need to know how long I’ve been here.”
“Too long,” he said with a huff. Rocking forward, he jabbed at the fire with a broken broom handle. The logs crackled to life and embers plumed up the chimney.
“You must have some idea,” she insisted.
“As a matter of fact, I do. It’s been eight days, nineteen hours and twelve minutes since you showed up uninvited. Is that enough detail for you?”
She would have given five dollars to be wearing her riding costume, complete with boots, leather gloves and a riding crop. She had a good mind to tan this man’s hide.
“Is my horse still here?” she asked.
Nodding, he said, “She’s fit and ready to go.”
“Then I’ll leave tomorrow.”
Midas was less than two hours away. She’d tie herself to the saddle if she had to. She’d manage, just as she always did. Except Ethan Trent had risen from the chair, laced his arms over his chest and was glowering like a man on the wrong end of a bad joke.
“Mrs. Dawson, I want to be very clear. I want you out of here even more than you want to go, but it has to be for good. You’re in no condition to ride, and I won’t fish you out of another snowbank.”
He cocked one hip and glared some more. “You’re so thin you could fall through a crack. You can’t take a full breath without coughing, and we both know you haven’t eaten enough to keep a bird alive.”
“I’ll manage.” Except she could barely use the chamber pot herself, and the coffee cup in her hand weighed ten pounds. “I can take care of myself.”
“Like hell you can,” he said, scratching his neck. “But I’ll make you a deal. As soon as you can walk to the barn and back without gasping like a broken-down nag, I’ll ride with you to Midas.”
She bristled at being compared to a sorry excuse for a horse, but she held her tongue. “I know the way. You don’t have to go with me.”
“I’m not that kind of man.”
“And I’m not that kind of woman. I don’t want your help.”
“But you need it. I’ve buried enough bodies. I don’t want to find your bones picked clean by buzzards next time I go to town.”
“Really, I can—” A wet cough rose in her throat like cream in a butter churn. She tried to be discreet, but there was nothing dainty about the hack coming from her chest. Facing facts, she coughed as hard as she could while Ethan Trent poured a cup of water.
“Here,” he said, shoving it in her face.
It tasted fresh, giving her hope that tomorrow would be a better day. Putting the cup on the nightstand, she met his gaze. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll leave as soon as I’m well, but there’s something I have to say.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Do you read minds, or are you just plain rude?”
“You’re going to thank me for saving your life. I didn’t do it for you, Mrs. Dawson. I wish you had never come here.”
“That may be true,” she said. “But you’ve been considerate, except for the first night.”
“You should have asked for help.”
“You should have offered.”
The rancher walked to the window and slid the wood cover an inch to let in a bit of fresh air. A shaft of sunshine hit his eyes and he squinted against it. Through the whiskers, she saw his jaw clench in a wolflike snarl.
She had seen that look once before on a dog that had been run over by a wagon. Too young to know better, she had tried to pet it. The mutt had nipped her hand, drawing blood and leaving two small puncture marks. Louisa McKinney made sure her daughter never made that mistake again.
“You can’t trust an animal when it’s in pain,” she had said. “They don’t know what they’re doing and they don’t care who they hurt.”
Jayne still had a scar from the dog’s fangs, and she had never forgotten its eyes, watery and glazed with suffering.
The rancher snatched his hat from the nail. “I’m going back to work.”
As the door slapped shut, Jayne sagged with relief—until she remembered Hank’s letter waiting under her pillow. Her fingers trembled as she slid a half dozen sheets of paper out of the envelope. She riffled through them, catching words that made her stomach flip.
Dear Janey,
If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead. I love you, girl. I wanted to give you that “always” we talked about, but I can’t. I hope you can forgive me for what I’ve done. I’ve lied to you about so many things.
I never was a marshal. In fact, I’ve never had a thing I didn’t lie, cheat or steal to get. The past is ugly, but here it is. I met Timonius LeFarge a year ago in Wyoming and we started robbing banks together. We were good at it, but the last job went bad. A marshal named Franklin Henry Dawson chased us into the badlands.
I’ll never know if my bullet killed the man or if it was Tim’s, but it doesn’t matter. I saw his last breath as if it were my own and knew I had to change. Tim got drunk that night and passed out, so I took the money and the marshal’s badge and ran for my life.
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