Desperate Hearts Read online

  What little he knew about this woman suggested that her wounds ran deeper than the one on her arm. He shook his head. He’d spent most of his life avoiding entanglements with people, especially with women; he wanted to keep things just the way they were.

  He had no idea why fate had made her his responsibility—his life hadn’t prepared him for this. He had drifted for years, doing as he chose and answering to no one. But he had no choice except to see this through.

  He would need help, though.

  Pointing their ragged little band north, they headed toward Misfortune and one of the few friends he had in the world.

  * * *

  “Hang on, we’re almost there.”

  “You’ll like Chloe McGuire. She’s got a lot of grit, just like you.”

  “Doc Sherwood will have you patched up and on your feet in no time.”

  As the miles passed, Jace talked to encourage himself as much as Kyla. Whether she heard him or not he didn’t know. She had not stirred even once in all these hours. Only an occasional whimper escaped her.

  Darkness was closing in when he turned the last bend in the road and saw Travis McGuire’s blacksmith shop up ahead. Kyla, still unconscious, lay against him in his arms.

  The last time he’d ridden up to this white farmhouse, a year ago, he’d arrived with the single-minded intention of killing Travis. He had been blindly certain that his best friend and sister’s widower was responsible for her murder. Thank God he had come to his senses and they’d made their peace.

  But now as they approached, something seemed wrong here. The house was dark, even in the kitchen, and no telltale wisp of smoke rose from the chimney over the shop. The gate to the backyard swung lazily on the cold twilight wind, banging against the fence when a strong gust came up. Curtains still draped the windows but a feeling of abandonment hung over the whole place.

  What the hell was going on? he wondered. He slid down from the saddle and brought Kyla with him. Carrying her up to the front porch, he laid her on the swing to knock on the door.

  “Travis!” he yelled, pounding his fist on the frame of the screen door.

  There was no response.

  He glanced at Kyla, lifeless and pale now, slumped on the porch swing like a full-size rag doll. He could not take her any farther. Night was coming on, and the last few days had been hard enough for her. She needed shelter, and to have her arm tended. They had to stay here, whether or not they were invited. If Travis and Chloe didn’t like that, they could take it up with him later. The decision made, he pulled open the screen door and turned the doorknob.

  The dusky light revealed a front parlor with only a few pieces of furniture. He returned to the porch and picked up Kyla. She felt so small. Her head lolled against his arm and he carried her inside to a dark green settee.

  Confident that she would stay put, he left her to check the other rooms, baffled by the emptiness. It was the same in the kitchen—the stove was still there, but the cupboards were empty of all the food and most of the dishes. The kitchen table remained but one chair was gone. It was as if they’d taken sudden flight, grabbing what they could carry as they left.

  He looked out the windows at the coming night. He had brought Kyla here hoping for the help of friends, but it looked like they were on their own. He had to go for Doc Sherwood, and they would need food, even if he had to buy something from the saloon. Doc would know where Travis and Chloe had gone.

  He strode back to the parlor and pushed Kyla more firmly against the back of the settee.

  Crouching next to her, he studied her slack face and said, “Now, listen, I’m going for the doc, but I’ll be back as soon as I can, before you even notice I’m gone.” She mumbled incoherently, but her eyes remained closed and she gave no indication of understanding him. “You stay here, okay?” he added, feeling a little foolish.

  He lighted an oil lamp that still stood on a table by the settee, then with a final look at her, walked to the door and pulled it closed behind him.

  The fast ride down Misfortune’s one street proved to Jace that there was even less of the old mining town than there had been a year ago. A couple of the boarded-up buildings were beginning to lean on their foundations. Dark windows bracketed the length of the street. The whole place looked as if a good wind gust would carry it all away, leaving nothing but its memory. Only DeGroot’s Mercantile and the Twilight Star Saloon remained in business.

  When he came abreast of the abandoned Rose and Garter, a picture flashed through his mind of a hushed September afternoon, and the battle that he and Travis had waged on the second floor for the life of Chloe Maitland. When it was over, Jace had a bullet in his shoulder, and Chloe’s kidnapper was dead, shot twice in the heart by Travis. Despite the bitterness that had stood between them, Travis had saved his life, and Jace returned the favor by leaving Misfortune and taking his grudge with him.

  At the opposite end of town, Jace spotted Doc Sherwood’s house. Its windows were as dark as the others.

  “Goddamn it to hell!” he swore viciously. A piece of paper nailed to the front door fluttered in the chill wind that moaned down the corridor of abandoned buildings. He dismounted and took the porch stairs in two leaps to read a weather-bleached note that said Dr. Miles Sherwood had passed away last spring.

  So be it, then, Jace decided grimly, crumpling the paper in his gloved fist. He didn’t know why the job had fallen to him, of all people. But it was up to him to take care of Kyla Springer Bailey.

  * * *

  “All right, all right, I’m coming! Keep your britches on and stop that pounding.”

  The long shade covering the door of DeGroot’s Mercantile flew up, and Jace stared at the balding, bespectacled man who gaped at him from the other side of the glass. A napkin was tucked into the collar of his shirt and behind him, a light shown from the living quarters in back of the store.

  Several seconds passed before Albert DeGroot tore his astonished gaze away to fumble with the lock and open the door. The familiar scents of coffee, cured meat, and spices rolled over Jace, along with the smell of an evening meal.

  “Jace Rankin, I’ll be danged! If this ain’t a surprise! It’s been a long time since you were through these parts—why I b’lieve it’s been a year or better. It was after that sorry day at the Rose and Garter. I was just now setting down to supper. The missus and I usually eat about this time of—”

  “I need to buy some things,” Jace interrupted, pushing his way into the store. He’d forgotten how yappy the man was.

  Albert glanced down at the Henry in Rankin’s hand. “Well, uh, sure, sure!” He yanked the napkin from his shirtfront and hurried behind the counter to light a lamp.

  Jace fired off a list that included bandages, canned food, coffee, and another bottle of whiskey.

  “I only have moonshine from the Grover sisters,” Albert reported, holding up a mason jar full of honey-colored liquid. “We don’t get hardly any whiskey shipments through here anymore.”

  “It’ll do,” Jace countered.

  “What brings you to Misfortune this time, Mr. Rankin?” He glanced over his shoulder and shot Jace an eager, confidential look. “Hunting a bank robber? Maybe a killer? ’Course I have my hands full with this store, but I always thought my true calling was to be a lawman of some kind.”

  Jace stifled the urge to laugh. He’d encountered this attitude more times than he could remember: men with safe, boring lives who postured before their shaving mirrors, pretending to face make-believe outlaws. Men who rarely even handled firearms and imagined that being a bounty hunter was exciting.

  He had never thought of it as exciting, except for those times when someone like Hobie McIntyre pointed a gun at him, holding his life on the point of a moment. That wasn’t the type of excitement he wanted—the kind that triggered his survival instinct and left his insides churning for hours afterward. But he couldn’t let the pressure show—he had to keep it hidden. That kind of life could tell on a man eventually.


  He walked over to a stack of boys’ clothing and rummaged through them until he found a small pair of jeans and a blue shirt. If Kyla had to dress as a boy, she might as well have clothes that weren’t bloody or gunshot. He threw them on the pine counter. “Put these on the bill, too.”

  Albert peered over the tops of his spectacles at the denims, his wispy brows raised. “Those pants ain’t going to fit you.”

  Jace stared at him and made no response. Nervously, Albert whisked them into the pile of other merchandise.

  “This town has changed plenty since you were last here,” he said, moving from shelf to shelf to fill the order. “It’s gotten nigh on to impossible to keep this store. If it weren’t for the farmers—”

  “Where are Travis and Chloe McGuire?” Jace asked.

  As if the question signaled a pause for conversation, Albert stopped and rested his elbows on the counter. “They moved to Baker City. Let’s see . . . they left in June, a few weeks after old Doc Sherwood died. That McGuire feller made a big gold strike up in the hills here. He and Chloe wanted to go somewheres more lively, I guess. Can’t say as I blame them.” He shook his head and chuckled. “The old-time prospectors around here, Lordy, they were mad enough to chew horseshoe nails. Who’d have guessed some outsider would come in here and dig up a fortune, considering the rest of ’em have been scratchin’ around up there since—”

  God, the man was a lunkhead, Jace thought irritably. He had no sense of urgency, no hint that he was getting on Jace’s nerves. He leaned close until his face was mere inches from Albert’s. “I’m in a hurry,” he said softly, letting impatience slide into his tone.

  Albert lurched upright. “Oh, sure, right away.” He grabbed a sack of sugar. “Did you say you were here to visit McGuire?”

  “No, I didn’t say. What about the house? Who owns it?”

  “Well, I guess they still do. McGuire paid off the mortgage and it ain’t like there was someone around here begging to buy it. He wouldn’t tell what they planned to do in Baker City. It was always so blamed hard to get information out of that feller.” Albert shrugged. “They just took what they could carry away in a wagon, happy as two peas in a pod, and left the rest. They could sure afford to buy whatever they needed when they got there. That was a real step up for Chloe, I’ll tell you. She scraped along for years after her father died. You know that’s how she and that McGuire feller came to meet. Looking for a blacksmith, she was and he . . .”

  The man prattled on, but his voice faded to a drone in the back of Jace’s mind. That was good news about the house, and it explained why some of the furniture was still there. They wouldn’t mind, then, if he and Kyla had to stay there for a while.

  He glanced out the window—full darkness had fallen. He needed to get back to her. She was burning with fever and hadn’t eaten for two days. He inhaled the aroma of food again—

  “You said you were just sitting down for dinner?”

  Albert waved a hand affably. “Oh, well now, don’t you worry about that. It’ll keep for a few min—”

  “What are you having?”

  “Mrs. DeGroot makes the best chicken stew in eastern—”

  “I’ll take that, too.” He plucked a crock from a pyramid of jars on display. “Put it in here. I’ll pay you for the jar and the stew.”

  “But that’s our—I mean—our supper—”

  Worry and fatigue exhausted his patience. Jace pulled five silver dollars out of his pocket and began flipping them at the astounded shopkeeper, one at a time. Five dollars was more than any meal was worth.

  Albert scrambled to catch the coins, but a couple of them bounced off his chest and rolled across the floor.

  Jace reached across the counter and gently grasped Albert by his shirtfront. He pulled him close, and murmured, “Now you shut up a minute and listen to me. I’ve got a sick boy to look after and I don’t have time to think about how we’re going to eat. I’ll buy this stew from you, and I’ll pay your wife good money to cook and bring the food to the McGuire house every day until we leave.” He released him and tossed the last dollar to him. “Have we got a deal?”

  Albert, speechless for once, could only nod.

  “Good. Then I’ll take that stew now.”

  The shopkeeper gripped the crock in an unsteady hand and disappeared into the back for a moment. A moment of heated murmured discussion followed, punctuated by the sound of an indignant female voice. At last Albert reappeared with the jar, redolent and steaming with stew, and placed it in the box containing his other purchases.

  “Mrs. DeGroot said she’d be happy to do your cooking, Mr. Rankin,” he said, his smile wobbly on his now-ashen face.

  Jace nodded and paid for the merchandise. “I’ll expect her tomorrow morning, then.”

  Hoisting the box, he turned and walked out the door. He glanced back once and through the window saw Albert DeGroot scuttling around on his hands and knees picking up the silver dollars.

  Maybe Kyla was right, he pondered as he untied his horse. Maybe every man did have his price.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Leave me alone!” Kyla thrashed and kicked on the bed, scowling at Jace as if he were a murderer, her eyes wild and unseeing, Her boot heel connected hard with his arm and he scowled back.

  “Ow! Damn it, Kyla, hold still!” he snapped, tired and frustrated.

  Where did she find the energy to fight like this, sick as she was? Some private demon chased her through her delirium, he was certain of that, making his job too hard.

  After he’d put the horses away in the shop, he carried her upstairs to this bedroom, grateful to find a bedstead here, as well as one in the small adjoining room. The mattress was, bare, but it beat sleeping on the ground in the rain. In the hall he had found a battered chest of drawers that contained threadbare linens, including patched towels and sheets, all worn as thin as tissue paper. How to make the bed with her on it was a chore he would think about later.

  Right now, he was trying to undress her, and having no luck. The best he’d been able to do was get her out of her coat and pull off one boot. He reached for the other one.

  “Don’t you dare touch me again, Tom!” she warned. Her husky voice was full of anger and fear. “I swear I’ll get Pa’s shotgun and blow your goddamned head off!”

  Hardesty, again, he thought, adding another black mark to the man’s name in his mind.

  “I’m not Hardesty, Kyla!” he shouted back, trying to make her see reason. “I’m Jace!”

  He jammed his hand through his hair. This was ridiculous, they were getting nowhere. He stood with the boot in his hand, wondering how to proceed. Her struggling had caused the wound on her arm to begin to bleed again, and it had to be tended. But she fought like a wild mare every time she felt his touch.

  Wild mare.

  An idea came to him. This was an area he knew something about; he had gentled his share of horses. A quiet voice and a light touch sometimes worked wonders. Maybe the technique would work with Kyla, too. He pulled a spindle-backed chair close to the bed and sat down.

  “Kyla, girl, listen now,” he said, keeping his voice low and soothing. He leaned close. “You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you. We’re in Misfortune, in the McGuires’s house. Travis and Chloe moved away, but they won’t mind if we use the place. We’re going to rest here for a while, till you’re better.”

  Her face was still flushed and damp. Checking for fever, he touched her forehead. She jerked away. If anything, she felt hotter than before. For a lucid instant her eyes locked with his and he saw her terror. He had no idea if she understood what he was saying, or was just responding to the sound.

  He hurried on, trying to quell her fear. “We’ve done some hard traveling lately, and that shoot-out in Cord really put a kink in our rope. Your arm is starting to fester and we need to take care of it.”

  Her eyes drifted shut, and a small frown lodged between her brows and stayed there. She turned her head from side to side, but she
was quieter, mumbling now and then.

  Carefully, Jace put his hand over hers where it rested on the blue-striped mattress tick. She didn’t pull away. It was hot, too, and surprisingly soft considering “Kyle’s” roughneck appearance. Her fingers were long and slender, their smoothness a remnant of the woman who remained hidden. It felt nice to lay his palm over her hand, he admitted to himself. Nicer than he wanted.

  She stopped fussing.

  He broke the contact. Leaving the chair, he paced to the end of the bed.

  “Well—we’ve got to change your clothes. There are no two ways about it.” He kept his voice down, but his tone became businesslike. He’d never felt as awkward as he did now. A flush crept up his neck and heated his face.

  He had undressed women in his time, slowly and quickly, depending on the urgency of the moment, with no hesitation or fumbling. But this was the damnedest situation he had ever found himself in. It had nothing to do with pleasure. If it had, at least he’d know what to do. But he was Kyla’s doctor by default and that seemed to make things more difficult instead of easier.

  For a moment he considered going to the general store to bring DeGroot’s wife back here to help. He rubbed his stubbled chin. No, that wouldn’t work. She was probably as nosy and annoying as her husband. And anyway, he had to protect Kyla’s true identity. Eventually, Hardesty’s men were going to come after them again. Whether it was Hobie McIntyre or someone else, the fewer who knew about her the better.

  Like it or not, he was the man for this job.

  “I made a deal with the owner of the general store to have his wife to cook for us,” he continued conversationally. “After all, you won’t be up to shooting any rabbits for a few days. But I didn’t tell anyone who you are or why we came here.”

  Kyla settled down, stilled by his words. He grasped her ankle and pulled off her other boot, dropping it on the floor.

  He knew that sitting her up to take off her shirt would be impossible; she would start fighting him again. There was only one thing to do. He reached for the long-bladed hunting knife at his waist. It would be tricky, but the blade was sharp and he was fast—