Twilight

Damned stupid. Swaying and dizzy and remarkably stupid for allowing himself to be shot by Frank Wynne’s wife and for coming here in the first place.

He took a step, what he thought was a well-done step directly to the front. But the wind blew again, filling his shirt, and the ground rose up and angled crazily beneath him. This time, he reached for her, his fingers gripping the fragile length of her upper arm.

“Christian, get the door. That’s it, Mr. Stark. Lean on me. One step at a time.”

He complied, though it ate like hell at him. And he let her take him back into the house and into her room, again, despite his protests.

“Where do you sleep?” he asked the hovering Christian.

“Upstairs,” the boy replied. “But you can’t sleep in my bed. Mama says a made bed can’t be messed up till nighttime.”

“Hush, Christian.”

“I prefer the floor,” Rance muttered, falling rather solidly to that hooked carpet on which he’d earlier bled. He stretched his legs and closed his eyes. What could only be described as a groan of relief spilled from his lungs before he could snatch it back. Frank Wynne’s wife adjusted the pillow beneath his head, and he opened his eyes to find her leaning over him, peering closely at his shoulder. She blurred, and one golden, lemon-scented curl plopped upon his nose, then skimmed like silk over his chest, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

Her voice seemed to swirl about him, and he closed his eyes again and immersed himself in it. Oddly comforting, it was, that and the calming warmth of her breath upon his grimy face. Hell, only a fool would find comfort in these circumstances. On this day, he knew of no bigger fool.

“Sleep, Mr. Stark. I’ll tend to the bandage. Allow me. I’m...” Gentle fingers touched his skin, and those fires threatened to consume him. “I’m so very sorry, sir. You saved my life. And Christian’s. I’ll be forever grateful. Yes, just sleep.”

* * *

The kitchen door slammed, accompanied by the scrape of boot heels upon scrubbed floorboards. Yanked from sleep, Rance opened his eyes and stared at a ceiling in dire need of paint. He blinked. The ceiling remained in focus.

“Jessica!” A man’s voice ricocheted through the house. “God help me, Jessica, where are you?”

Jessica. The name left Rance’s lips in a hoarse whisper. Her name was Jessica.

“Jessica, my dear, are you there?”

The kitchen door slammed again, and Christian’s agitated voice retorted, “I told you she’s in there.”

“But I can’t go in there, in her... I mean, that’s your mother’s private...private.”

Bare feet plunked purposefully upon the kitchen floorboards. “He’s in there.”

“Who’s in there?”

“The outlaw.”

“The what?”

“He robs trains and stagecoaches. He has a knife.”

Rance shoved himself to a sitting position and instinctively reached for the weapon he kept in his waistband. Only none was to be found. He’d left his gun in his saddlebag with his misplaced horse, and his knife stuck in that rattler. Unarmed and wounded, he felt grossly incomplete and too damned vulnerable, particularly because this man’s voice rang with the sort of puffed-up indignation that typically preceded a brawl. Or a gunfight. And then heavy footfalls echoed through the short hall, just moments before a dark head peeped around the door jamb.

“Good God in heaven,” the man said, his voice choked, his narrow face paling.

Rance watched the man’s Adam’s apple work frantically in his throat and wondered why he felt so damned compelled to apologize. For being in this room? For killing Jessica Wynne’s husband? For taking a rifle shot through the shoulder? Or perhaps for the sudden surge of protectiveness stealing through him?

Christian scooted into the room. At his side dangled a waterlogged white cloth that left a puddled trail in his wake. “Oh, you’re awake. Here. This is for your head. Where’s Mama?”

“Get away, Christian,” the man bellowed from the doorway with all the self-righteous pomp Rance could have imagined. Christian didn’t move from Rance’s side. In three staccato strides, the man stood tall and angular, trembling and red-faced, not two feet from Rance’s boots. He was no younger than Rance, perhaps only an inch or two shorter, and boasted the long, slender limbs common to men of leisure. He was narrow of shoulder, cleanly shaven and shorn, with round wire-rimmed glasses perched regally upon his beaked nose. A gentleman, garbed in a gentleman’s collar and coat and smelling like mothballs, of all things.

“Do you want to get up, Mr. Stark?” Christian whispered for all to hear. “Are you gonna fight Reverend Halsey?”

“I demand an explanation of you, sir,” Halsey bellowed. “You there are in my fiancée’s private...private. You are aware of this?”

Rance grunted and managed to get to his feet, only once gripping the four-poster, which seemed to provoke the good reverend beyond measure.

“Avram! Good heavens, Avram!” She materialized, Jessica, breathless, flushed and flustered Jessica, her hair a wild golden halo about her face. She twisted her hands in her blood-smeared skirts and donned a smile that Rance couldn’t take his eyes from. Halsey barely favored her with a glance. His jaw, however, sagged open and he shoved an accusing finger at Rance.

“Good God, Jessica, you’ve a half-naked intruder in your private...private...and you stand here and smile at me?” Halsey ran a shaking hand over his protuberant brow. “My dearest, surely some sort of explanation is in order here.”

Jessica blinked and raised her brows. Her eyes darted to Rance, all over him, actually, and this shot a heaping dose of pleasure through him. Yes, more of that and he would be a well man in no time. Hell, his shoulder felt better already.

She held a hand toward him. “Why, Avram, of course I’ve an explanation.”

“You’ve a black beast of an animal eating what remains of your front yard, Jessica. You’re aware of this?”

Again, Jessica blinked. “Why, no.”

“My horse,” Rance said.

“Your shirt, if you would.” Halsey sniffed at Rance with decided repugnance. “Jessica, perhaps you shouldn’t look, my dear. It’s highly offensive that a man should bare himself before a woman who is not his wife in the Lord’s eyes. Particularly when a man is fashioned in the form of the very devil himself.”

Jessica’s smile quivered on her lips. “Why, yes, he’s... Well, he cannot help that, Avram. Besides, he’s wounded.”

“Wounded?”

“Yes, well, a minor catastrophe. All my fault. But later, Avram. Not to worry, though. Mr....I mean, Lo—Mr. Stark, that is, has very good reason for being here.”

“He killed a snake with his knife,” Christian offered.

Halsey ignored that. “He’s in the room where you sleep, Jessica.”

“Is he? Why, yes, yes, he is, isn’t he? And well he should be, Avram. The ceiling, yes, the ceiling needs paint and the floor requires stripping and a new coat of beeswax and—”

“Indeed it does, my dear, and that’s the very least of your worries. I say all the more reason why you should come to your senses before our wedding and agree to rid yourself of this nasty, flea-bitten farm.”

“It is not!” Christian yelled.

“Christian, don’t argue with Reverend Halsey.”

“But, Mama—”

“Avram—”

“Now, Jessica, my dear, this man here. Direct your scattered thoughts to him, if you will. Who is he?”