Chapter 4
Jameson opened his eyes and blinked hard.
The amber of a lantern glowed against the low ceiling above him, but darkness hovered all around him. That meant it was night, or maybe early morning. He could feel a mattress beneath his body and a pillow behind his head, along with a sheet draped over his legs up to his waist.
Where was he and what had happened?
He shifted, and pain gripped his arm and squeezed tight. A rush of memories flooded his mind. He’d arrived at the Longhorn Ranch in the middle of a shoot-out. He’d joined in the gun fight, sent the men fleeing, but in the process, he’d been hit.
While all of that was clear, the rest of what had happened was blurry. Somehow, he’d managed to get onto Cougar. Had the horse transported him to the house? Had the owner—perhaps the Widow Wilkes—brought him inside? And had she tended to him?
He lifted his uninjured arm toward the wound. Before he could test how it was doing, a hand captured his.
“No, sir,” came a woman’s whisper. “I’ve got strict instructions from Mimmi not to let anything touch your stitches.”
He tilted his head to find a woman sitting in a chair next to the bed. Not just any woman, but the most beautiful woman on God’s green earth, which was no exaggeration.
Long blond hair containing hints of strawberry dangled around her face, the waves adding to the fullness. Thick lashes surrounded eyes the color of the Texas sky in spring. Her features were flawless, with a slender nose, high cheekbones, and full lips.
Although her expression was serious and filled with determination, there was something so feminine and soft and vulnerable that he had the sudden need to lasso the moon for her.
Who was she, and why was she at his bedside?
“Miss,” he started, his voice groggy.
“Charlotte Wilkes—Lottie,” she cut in. “Owner of Longhorn Ranch.”
So this was Widow Wilkes. She was nothing like he’d expected, not that he’d really thought much about how the woman would look when he’d set out for the ranch and the work. He supposed he’d always pictured widows as older ladies who’d been weathered by life.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” he managed. “I’m Jameson Noble.”
She was studying his face intently. “Yes, you gave me your name when you arrived last evening.”
“I don’t have a recollection of much.” He glanced past her to the one-room home.
It was sparsely furnished. In addition to the bed, which took up a corner, it had a trestle table with two benches, a small stove, a sideboard with shelves, and a couple worn wingback chairs in front of a stone fireplace.
Sleeping on pallets upon the hearth were two young boys and an older woman.
A slump-shouldered Mexican was leaning against the closed door and seemed to be sleeping with his rifle resting on his lap, although from the way his fingers were curled around his gun, Jameson couldn’t be sure if the fellow was really asleep or was keeping guard over Mrs. Wilkes.
Probably the latter. After all, Jameson was a stranger, and they knew nothing about him. He could be a crook or a murderer, for all they knew. This woman had been foolish to bring him into her home like this.
As if reading his thoughts, her pretty eyes narrowed. “Why did you show up at my ranch earlier, Mr. Noble?”
“Heard the Longhorn is hiring ranch hands, and I came to get a job.”
Her gaze remained suspicious. “Where are you from?”
“I’m a drifter. I’ve been working since early in the year for the Double T.”
“That’s a good place to work.”
“I liked it.”
“Then why’d you leave?”
How much should he say about his relationship with Beckett Thorpe, the owner of the Double T?
From everything Jameson had gathered since working on the Double T, Waverly Thorpe had sired only one legitimate child: Beckett.
However, Waverly had a couple illegitimate children, including the Widow Wilkes.
Beckett hadn’t appeared to be close to any of his half siblings, hadn’t associated with them much over the years.
If anything, he resented his father for carousing and having illicit affairs.
It was possible Beckett didn’t know much about Lottie Wilkes, or if he did, that he wasn’t interested in her plight.
Whatever the case, Mrs. Wilkes was having to fend for herself without her half brother’s help. As a result, it was possible she didn’t like Beckett. It was even possible she’d grown up resenting Beckett because he was the real son, the one who got all the privileges and money and support.
Jameson knew all about resentment toward family and siblings. His own bitterness was embedded in him like a nail hammered into hardwood.
Yep, it was probably for the best if he didn’t bring up Beckett with this woman. It didn’t have any bearing on his working on her ranch. Besides, he wouldn’t be staying beyond a month.
The longer he hesitated in answering her question about why he’d left the Double T, the narrower her eyes grew. “Usually when my boys are thinking too long on an answer to my question, it means they’re putting together a lie.”
“Reckon the truth about my leaving the Double T is complicated,” he admitted. “But I wasn’t fired, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
She studied his face, probably testing the truth of his words. “If I asked Rodrigo for his opinion of you, what would he tell me?”
Rodrigo was another one of Waverly Thorpe’s illegitimate children, and he was also the manager of the Double T. “He’d tell you I was a hard worker, trustworthy, and dependable.”
“Is that right?” The doubt was still etched into her brow.
His arm was beginning to throb. Or maybe it had been throbbing all along, and he just hadn’t noticed how badly it hurt until now. He repositioned himself slightly to take some of the pressure off the injury.
Her attention shifted to his arm.
Someone had extracted the bullet and stitched him up neatly. The skin was splotchy red and bruised, but the wound looked clear and didn’t appear to be festering. Had Mrs. Wilkes been the one to fix him up?
“I’m obliged for the doctoring,” he said.
“You’ll have to thank Mimmi.” She cocked her head in the direction of the woman sleeping on the pallet near the children. “She’s as good as any physician.”
“I’m obliged to you, too, for taking me in.”
“I wasn’t sure if I should have. I’m still not sure.”
“You should have put me in the barn.”
Both of her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Really?”
“You can’t be too careful of strangers in these parts.”
“What do I have to fear from you?”
“Nothing. But what if I’d been a dangerous man?”
“How do I know you’re not dangerous?”
“Because I scared off all those men who were trapping you in your house.”
“And a dangerous man wouldn’t do that?”
“Not unless he had something to gain.”
She sat back in her chair and folded her arms across a man’s shirt that was in sore need of washing. A vest hung loosely over the shirt, and she was wearing men’s trousers and cowboy boots.
He’d seen women in men’s clothing before. That was nothing new. In fact, it was probably to be expected in her case since she had to shoulder all the ranch work, which would be cumbersome in a skirt.
“Do you have something to gain here, Mr. Noble?” Her soft question held suspicion again.
“Just work for a few weeks, maybe a month. That’s all.”
“Why here? If you heard the Longhorn is hiring, then you also heard the ranch is run by a woman.”
“I heard it.”
“And?”
“Working for a woman doesn’t intimidate me.”
She was silent for a moment, studying his face. “I suppose it’s easy to work for a woman if you know you’re only staying a month.”
“A couple weeks or a couple months. It’s all the same to me.”
She expelled a long, tired breath. In the soft light of the lantern on the bedside table, her features looked suddenly exhausted, and the half circles under her eyes were dark.
“Since you sent my neighbor and his men running and took a couple bullets to do so, I suppose the least I can do is hire you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He pushed up to his elbows. He’d lain in her bed long enough. Time for him to move to the barn. He tossed aside the sheet. Even if his chest was bare of his shirt, at least he still had his trousers on. Not that he was a prude. But his mother had raised him to be polite.
His arm and the wound throbbed, but he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed all in one move.
She bolted forward and laid a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Lie back down. You can’t get up yet.”
Holding in a grimace, he scanned the end of the bed and the floor for his shirt. No doubt it was blood-stained and had gun holes in it. But he didn’t have many extras and would have to wash and patch it.
She grasped him more firmly. “Please, Mr. Noble—”
“Jameson.” Mr. Noble sounded too much like his father, and he didn’t want to be reminded of his father.
“Fine. Then you’ll call me Lottie.”
“That isn’t proper—”
“That’s what I insist on from everyone.”
“All two of your hired help?”
His sarcastic comment must have caught her off guard, because she paused in her effort to shove him back down and peered at him with her wide eyes—eyes that were so big and blue and beautiful.
He glanced away. He wouldn’t allow himself to think about her eyes like that, now or anytime. Instead, he maneuvered away from her hold and pushed up from the bed.
As he stood, the pain in his wound raced down his body so that he almost wavered. But he sucked in a breath and reached for his gun holster, which someone had hung on the footboard post.
Lottie was standing now too. “What are you doing?” Her voice rose, but then her gaze darted in the direction of the hearth and the pallets.
The children didn’t stir.
“I’m looking for my shirt.” He wrapped his gun belt around his waist and yanked up one of his suspenders at the same time to keep his trousers from sagging too low.
“No,” she hissed while striding toward a chest of drawers near the end of the bed. “You’re injured and need to stay in bed.”
“I’ll bed down in the barn,” he whispered back.
“You can’t. You’ll open your wound if you move around.”
“I’ll be just fine.” He finished buckling his gun belt and already felt winded. But with a grunt, he stuck his foot into one of his boots at the side of the bed.
“Mr. Noble—”
He shot her a glare.
“Jameson.” Opening a drawer, she glared back. “You won’t be any good to me if you’re weak and suffering.”
“I won’t be weak or suffering.”
“You will be if you start bleeding again.” She tugged something out of the drawer, then tossed it at him.
He reflexively caught it and realized she was giving him a shirt. That was mighty nice of her. He wouldn’t keep it, would just use it temporarily. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Now get back in the bed.”
He pulled the crisp shirt over his head, then stuck his uninjured arm into the sleeve. His movements were slow and jerky, but he was determined to get dressed and leave the house. As he reached for the second sleeve, he could hardly move to grasp it.
She stepped to his side and was frowning at him. But she lifted the shirt and gently helped him maneuver his injured arm into the opening.
When he was finished, he was dizzy and had to grab one of the posts on the footboard to steady himself.
“See,” she chided. “You need to take it easy.”
He didn’t respond. Instead, he straightened, rammed his foot into his second boot, then started toward the door.
The old cowboy who’d been sitting against it had stood at some point, had obviously been watching Jameson carefully, probably to make sure he didn’t harm Lottie. At least she had someone guarding her and helping her fight against her neighbor.
Jameson still didn’t know the particulars about the neighbor and why he’d been there shooting earlier in the day. But Jameson hoped he’d sent a message to the fellow that he couldn’t terrorize Lottie any longer.
As Jameson reached the door, the old cowboy moved out of the way. Jameson opened the door, then paused and glanced at Lottie, who was standing beside the bed, staring after him with her hands on her hips. The stance flattened her trousers and shirt, outlining a gorgeous body beneath.
He didn’t let his gaze linger, though. Instead, he nodded at her. “Much obliged for everything.”
With that, he stepped outside. He wished he could walk away with his usual firm stride. But he had to go slower than he wanted. Even so, he kept his back straight and his steps steady as he crossed the ranch yard.
Only when he reached the barn and was inside and away from scrutiny did he allow himself to bend over and gasp for a breath as the pain threatened to take him down.
He sucked in a lungful of air, then straightened. He searched the dark barn for Cougar. The horse was in the first stall with his saddle off. He appeared to be fed and groomed.
“Thank you,” Jameson whispered, grateful the horse had cared enough to deliver him to the house.
Cougar seemed to nod.
With a wave of exhaustion hitting him, Jameson hobbled to the haymow, lowered himself, and groaned as he lay back.
A memory of his mother’s sweet face hovering above him flashed through his mind from the time a few years back when he’d been sick with a terrible fever and cough. He hadn’t wanted to stay in bed then either, but he’d been too sick and had no choice. During that time, his mother had doted on him.
A shaft of homesickness speared Jameson’s chest. He missed Colorado, the high country, the beauty of the wilderness, the cool air, the rushing brooks, and the rugged mountains.
He didn’t miss his father or his brothers, but he missed his mother and his sisters.
No doubt his mother was worried about him.
Guilt pricked Jameson, as it did whenever he thought of his mother.
Had Beckett been right in encouraging him to reach out to his family?
The angst inside him swelled and pressed hard against his chest. Too much had happened. Too much betrayal. Too much tragedy. Too many angry words exchanged.
Jameson shook his head and closed his eyes. No, he wasn’t ready to contact them, and he wasn’t sure if he ever would be.