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Bride of the Wolf
Susan Krinard
Riding off into the sunset…can be deadly Rachel Lyndon yearns to escape her scandalous past, but her dreams for a better life seem ruined after she buries her fiancé on the Texas plains. Heath Renier has been evading the law by the skin of his teeth for years. Now he’s found a new identity as Holden Renshaw, foreman of Dog Creek Ranch. But the arrival of his boss’s mail-order bride, now a widow, upsets his fragile peace and threatens to expose his deadly secrets.Rachel knows that the mysterious and handsome Holden is the last man she should trust – especially once she’s seen glimpses of his true nature. When he’s suspected of a terrible crime she faces an impossible choice. But the heat of his gaze ignites something within her.No matter how dangerous the road ahead, she’s determined to give him the one thing he’s never truly believed he deserves: her undying love.



Praise for the Novels of New York Times bestselling author Susan Krinard
“Susan Krinard was born to write romance.”
—Amanda Quick
“Darkly intense, intricately plotted, and chilling, this sexy
tale skillfully interweaves several time periods, revealing
key past elements with perfect timing but keeping the reader
firmly in the novel’s ‘present’ social scene.”
—Library Journal on Lord of Sin
“Krinard’s imagination knows no bounds as she steps into the
mystical realm of the unicorn and takes readers along for the
ride of their fairy-tale lives.”
—RT BOOK Reviews on Lord of Legends, 4½ stars
“A master of atmosphere and description.”
—Library Journal
“A poignant tale of redemption.”
—Booklist on To Tame a Wolf
“With riveting dialogue and passionate characters,
Ms Krinard exemplifies her exceptional knack for creating
an extraordinary story of love, strength, courage and
compassion.”
—RT BOOK Reviews on Secrets of the Wolf
Also available from Susan Krinard
from www.millsandboon.co.uk
COME THE NIGHT
DARK OF THE MOON
CHASING MIDNIGHT
Susan Krinard
Bride of the Wolf


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
In memory of all the great Western movie directors I love:
Anthony Mann, Delmer Daves, and John Sturges,
and for the great Western actors:
Jimmy Stewart, Henry Fonda, Gregory Peck, Glenn Ford,
Richard Widmark, William Holden, Clint Eastwood, Audie
Murphy, Jack Elam, Eli Wallach,
and Lee Van Cleef.

Acknowledgment
Thanks to Susan de Guardiola and Jeri and Mario
Garcia for their help with the Spanish language.

Prologue
Pecos County, Texas, 1881
JEDEDIAH MCCARRICK WAS DEAD.
Heath rode carefully around the body sprawled at the bottom of the draw, gentling Apache with a quiet word. The horse was right to be scared. Jed hadn’t been dead more than a few days, and the scent of decay was overwhelming.
An accident. That was the way it looked, anyhow. Half Jed’s skull was bashed in, and his legs stuck out at strange angles. The rocks were sharp around here, and plentiful.
But Jed was a damn good rider. You had to be, in the Pecos, so far from civilization. The old man had been on his way home, just as his letter had said. He would have let go the cowboys he’d hired for the drive once it was finished, and he didn’t trust many people. He would have risked riding alone rather than let some stranger get close to his hard-earned money.
That was his mistake.
Heath dismounted and scanned the horizon. Jed’s horse was gone, so there was no way to be sure exactly how it had happened. Maybe something had spooked the animal: a rattler, a rabbit, a gust of wind. Heath couldn’t smell anything but the stink of rot, no trace of another human who might have been around when Jed died. Any hoofprints or tracks had been blown away. If some drifter or outlaw had helped Jed to his grave and taken his horse, he was long gone.
I should have been with him, Heath thought. But Jed hadn’t wanted him along.
The old man hadn’t acted like the others when he found out, when Heath was stupid enough to forget all the hard lessons he’d learned. Jed wasn’t easily scared. He hadn’t yelled or run away or tried to shoot him. He’d pretended it didn’t matter, that Heath was still like a son to him.
But Heath had known Jed was lying. He knew what he saw in the old man’s eyes. Jed had understood that Heath would never hurt him, but he was still human. The only reason he’d kept so calm and reasonable was that he needed Heath at the ranch to keep Sean in check. He’d been willing to use Heath’s secret for his own ends—until Sean was no longer a problem and he could run Heath off like the animal he was.
Heath laughed. It was almost funny that Jed was more worried about his nephew than a man who wasn’t even human. The devil knew why Heath had stayed on. He supposed that three years of friendship, of letting himself trust the man who’d saved his life, had held him at Dog Creek. That and his contempt for Sean. He’d owed Jed, and he had meant to pay off the debt. But Heath had been ready to ride out as soon as Jed returned and could deal with Sean himself. That would have been the end of it.
He just hadn’t expected this kind of end.
Apache snorted and tossed his head. “Easy, boy,” Heath murmured, and knelt beside the body. He touched the bloody depression beneath Jed’s thinning hair. The old man had probably died quickly. No sign of knife or gunshot wounds.
Closing his nostrils against the stench, Heath patted Jed’s waist and pockets. Nothing. If he’d brought the money back with him, he would have carried it in the saddlebags. Everything he’d received for the sale of fifty percent of Dog Creek’s beeves, driven north to Kansas and the rail lines.
Before he’d left, before Heath had made his big mistake, Jed had expected to make a good profit. Enough to buy better stock, make Dog Creek grow into a concern that could compete with Blackwater on its own terms. No more risky investments that brought Dog Creek to the brink of ruin. No more wild ideas. No more foolish dreams.
And no more free money for the worthless peacock of a nephew who thought he could bend Jed around his saddle horn like a twist of rope.
Heath’s lips curled away from his teeth. Sean had been Jed’s one weakness. It had taken the old man a long time to realize Sean didn’t care for anyone but himself. If Jed had lived, he would finally have shown his nephew that he wasn’t going to be led around by the nose anymore.
But Jed had waited too long. Once everyone found out the old man was dead and Sean got his hands on Dog Creek, he would sell it to the Blackwells. All Jed’s hard years of work gone for nothing.
The wind shifted, momentarily clearing away the stench and the raw feelings Heath couldn’t seem to kill. He caught a whiff of a new scent. Old leather and horse sweat, not Apache’s. He sucked in a deep breath and followed the smell to the base of the stony hillside that rose up from one side of the draw.
The saddlebags had been thrown far enough back under the rocky overhang that an ordinary man might never have found them. Heath crouched and dragged them into the light. They were full to bursting. He didn’t have to open the flaps to know what they contained.
Someone had put the saddlebags here. An outlaw would have taken them just like he would have taken Jed’s horse. Had Jed seen someone he didn’t know, gotten nervous and decided to hide the bags before he died?
Heath stood up, a knot in his belly. Maybe Jed’s death had still been an accident, and the old man had lived just long enough to try to keep the money out of the hands of any stranger who might run across him.
But there’d been another accident some years back, a trail boss who’d gotten his neck broken when Heath—who’d been using his own name then—was there to see it. Only, no one else had. And someone had figured out that he wasn’t who he claimed to be, a simple cowhand looking for work wherever he could get it.
Heath had never before been taken by the law despite all his years outside it. There’d been a jail cell and the endless wait for a trial, his fate settled before he ever stood in front of a judge. But they hadn’t reckoned on a prisoner who was stronger and faster than any normal man. After he broke out, they’d added another crime to his tally.
Heath tilted his face toward the sky and closed his eyes. If he’d been a normal man, he might have done the right thing and ridden to Heywood for the marshal. No one else in this part of West Texas knew what he could become. The money was still here. There was no reason for anyone to think he’d killed Jed. Even if someone remembered that other death hundreds of miles from the Pecos, no one had recognized him in three years, or made any connection between “Holden Renshaw” and Heath Renier.
But if there was a chance, even one in a million, that someone could put those facts together …
Not even a loup-garou could hang more than once. Heath had been ready to die plenty of times, even when the wolf inside him kept on fighting to keep him alive. But he could never go back to that cell, those bars, the man-made hell that left him alone in his human body, trapped by memories and feelings he’d outrun for so long. Remembering that the one man he’d let himself trust in nearly ten years had been just like the rest.
Apache nickered, feeling Heath’s anxiety. Heath calmed himself down and opened one of the saddlebags. A heavy bag of coins was neatly packed inside. Heath didn’t touch it. The other pouch held more coins. And something else. A bundle of small folded sheets, bound together with a bit of frayed ribbon, and a roll of leather tied up with a cord.
Thick paper crackled as Heath unrolled the leather. There were three sheets inside, dense with writing. He smoothed out the first across his knees.
Reading had never been one of his best skills, but he knew what he was holding. As he picked his way down the paper, the knot in his belly squeezed so he could hardly breathe.
The will left almost everything to him. The ranch, the proceeds from the sale—and money Heath hadn’t known Jed possessed, locked away in a bank in Kansas City. Money that made Jed a wealthy man.
Maybe Jed had been hiding that money from Sean, or from people he owed. Heath didn’t know what had been going on in Jed’s mind. He sure as hell hadn’t known about any will giving him Dog Creek.
Not that it mattered now. Someone had drawn a dark line all the way across it from corner to corner and blacked out the signature at the bottom of the page.
Hands shaking like a boy in his first gunfight, Heath unrolled the other two sheets. The second was a will leaving everything to Sean, dated two years ago. It, too, was crossed out.
The third will wasn’t signed or dated. The name at the top meant nothing to him.
Rachel Lyndon.
He picked up the smaller bundle of papers and lifted it to his nose. It smelled like Jed. And someone he’d never met.
Heath untied the ribbon, and one of the folded sheets fell into the dirt. The letter had been sent from Ohio. The paper was browned, the edges bent as if someone had read it over and over again.
When Heath was finished with it, he put it back with the other letters, rolled up the second and third wills in their leather sheath and set it on the ground. His heart was rattling around in his chest like brush tossed by the wind. He missed his first try at striking a spark; the second time he got it right, and nursed the tiny flame until it was just big enough to burn a sheet of paper. He watched the first will catch and smolder until there was nothing left of it but ash.
The leather sheath rolled sideways in the wind, and Heath picked it up. He was beginning to lose whatever sense he had left. Burning the will didn’t solve his problem. Jed hadn’t been much good with accounts and paperwork, but Heath couldn’t be sure that the ones he had were the only copies. The last unsigned will and what it contained could make it look as if Heath had a motive to kill his boss before Jed finished it. Before Jed went through with the crazy thing he’d planned.
But it didn’t make any difference if there were other copies of the will somewhere. Jed’s decision made it easier for Heath to be sure of his own. The old man had lied to Heath in more ways than one. Even if Heath hadn’t revealed himself, Jed would have ruined everything by bringing a woman to Dog Creek.
Any debt Heath had to the old man had been paid with hard work and loyalty. The woman Jed had planned to marry meant nothing to Heath, and he didn’t owe anything to most of the hands, who’d never much liked him anyway. Maurice was too good a cook not to find a place at some other outfit.
He would feel a little bad about leaving Joey, but he had some money he could give the boy before he lit out.
That was his last obligation. Sean could claim the ranch and sell it to the Blackwells, will or no will, and Heath wouldn’t try to stop him.
He pushed the sheath and the bundle of letters back inside Jed’s saddlebags, carried them over the hill and stripped out of his clothes. The Change was complete in a painless instant. The world came sharply into focus, every scent, every sound crisp as a December morning. He’d know if any human came within ten miles of the place.
Shaking out his fur, Heath picked out a likely spot and set about the task at hand. When the hole was wide and deep enough, he seized the saddlebags in his jaws and dropped them in. He covered the hole, scraping at the dirt with his powerful hind legs. Only when he was finished did he Change again and look over his work.
It was good. The ground was already rough, and a few tossed pebbles made the spot look just like everything else around it. No human would be able to find it.
Heath put on his clothes, secured his gun belt and returned to Apache, who sniffed at him and snorted. Heath mounted and urged the gelding out of the draw. The money could have been useful, but he didn’t want anything else from Jed. The old man could lie easy knowing he would keep something of what he’d earned.
A jackrabbit burst from the cover of a dead mesquite and bounded away. A cottontop cried from the brush. Heath felt the wide-open land all around him, beckoning.
One last trip to the house, and he would shake the dust of the Pecos off his boots forever.
“Adiós, Jed,” he said, touching the brim of his hat.
For the first time in three years, Jedediah McCarrick didn’t answer.
“SOMEONE’S COMIN’ TO Dog Creek.”
Sean could still hear Jed’s voice as he guided Ulysses down the steep slope of the draw. “She’ll be makin’ things different here,” the old man had said. “With her and the money I got from the sale, I’m goin’ to make Dog Creek what it ought to be. No more debt, Sean. No more money wasted on your gamblin’ and them bad ideas you talked me into.”
Only it hadn’t quite gone as Jed had planned. The coyotes and buzzards had done such a good job that Jed was already unrecognizable. Only his clothes and his gold tooth would identify him now.
Sean kept his distance and began looking for the saddlebags. He searched under every rock and bush, scraped at every rough spot in the dirt, circled the area in every direction until he knew he had to stop if he wanted to get back before the sun rose.
Cursing, Sean gripped the carved ivory handle of his gun and wished he had something to shoot. For the dozenth time he went over the encounter in his mind, searching for a clue, a hint of what Jed had been thinking when he’d hidden his money.
The old man had surprised Sean when he’d sent the letter asking his nephew to meet him at the western border of the ranch. Jed had made sure to arrive on the very day he’d promised. He’d planned it all carefully, just so he could give Sean the news.
Sean closed his eyes and leaned over the saddle horn. The first words had been a shock. He’d always had what he wanted from the old man before. The allowance, the education back East … everything but the life he deserved. The life Jed owed him. The life he could have when he sold Dog Creek to the Blackwells.
Now that was all undone. Sean had shouted at Jed, cursed him, even pleaded at the end. For once Jed hadn’t backed down.
“You think you’re gettin’ the ranch,” he’d said. “You ain’t gettin’ a penny, not of this money or off the property. As soon as we’re married, it’s all goin’ to her.”
Some woman he’d found in an advertisement for mail-order brides. A female so desperate that she would expose herself in a newspaper, begging for a man to support her. A bitch from some little town in Ohio who had no claim on anything belonging to the McCarricks.
Sean had only meant to scare the old man at first. He’d pulled his gun and asked Jed where he’d put the money.
But Jed hadn’t talked. Sean had almost shot him then and there, until he realized just how stupid that would be.
It had to look like an accident, of course. One shot past the horse’s ear was all it took. Jed was damn fond of the bronc, but he should have known it had never been fully broken. It tossed Jed so hard that Sean didn’t have to lift a finger to finish the job, though he’d had to work a little harder to drive the horse far enough away that he could run it over a convenient cliff.
He’d meant to stay and look for the saddlebags. But he hadn’t been thinking clearly. Now he was paying for his lapse.
Jerking sharply on the reins, Sean turned Ulysses for home. The saddlebags might be lost to him, but he wasn’t about to give up on the rest. He’d already gone looking for the will Jed had spoken of, searching the house as soon as he could manage it without being seen.
But there had been no will, only a handful of receipts and random papers stashed in a hole in the wall behind the massive kitchen range that Jed had hauled in all the way from San Antonio.
Sean nicked Ulysses’s sides with his spurs, and the stallion leaped into a run. The cursed thing had to be somewhere. Maybe Jed had it filed away in some bank for safekeeping. If it was anywhere to be found, Sean would find it.
He rode at a reckless pace back to the house, running Ulysses to complete exhaustion. Most of the other hands, including Renshaw, were still on the range, and Maurice was nowhere in sight. Sean rubbed Ulysses down and returned to the tiny foreman’s cabin he’d taken when Holden moved into the house with Jed. He threw a chair across the room, smashed the mirror over the washstand and nearly put his fist through the window. When he could think again, he sat on the edge of the bed and composed his thoughts to an icy calm.
Jed had said the woman would be arriving on the next stage. The stage only came to Javelina twice a month, and Jed had been dead less than a week. Another was due in a matter of days. Rachel Lyndon would arrive expecting to marry a settled rancher who would provide for her needs.
But Jed was gone and she had no lawful claim on Dog Creek. If Sean planned things right, Rachel Lyndon could be encouraged to turn right around and go back to where she came from.
Sean allowed himself a smile and stretched until his bones popped. He would have a little talk with the drifter who’d come by the other day looking for work. Like most men, he was a sheep, easily led and ready to obey a man who knew how to balance bribery and threat.
Whistling a tune he’d heard last week at the Blackwells’, Sean went to clean himself up.

Chapter One
THE BABY THRUST its tiny fists in the air and wailed.
“It’s yours,” Polly said, pushing the bundle toward Heath. “Frankie said so right before she died.”
Frankie was dead. It was strange to think the woman he’d visited every month for two years, who’d given him what his body had to have, was gone. For just a minute he almost felt sorry. Whore that she was, she’d done nothing to deserve dying before her time.
But this …
Heath backed away, staring at the red and wrinkled face.
His? It wasn’t possible.
But it was. The last time he’d seen Frankie had been about eleven months ago. Heath didn’t know a damn thing about babies, but he thought this one was pretty new.
“He’s two months old,” Polly said impatiently, holding the baby closer to her chest. “Frankie died bringin’ him into the world. The least you can do is own up to your part in it.”
The letter in Heath’s pocket was fit to burn a hole through his vest. It had been waiting for him at the house the day he’d found Jed. He’d gotten only a handful of letters before, all from the old man. Never one like this.
Come right away, the letter said in Frankie’s stiff, uneven writing. You have a son.
The first thing he’d done was laugh. Frankie was a whore, but she did like her little jokes. Only after he’d read it twice more did he start to think she meant it.
If he’d been in his right mind, he would have ridden north, the way he’d planned, crossing the Pecos at Horsehead and heading into the Llano Estacado before anyone knew he wasn’t coming back.
He didn’t know if it was the human part of him or the wolf that made him turn south to Heywood, or which part was most scared when he looked at this helpless little mite that had spit on its face and a head almost smaller than Heath’s fist.
“It could have been any of the men she saw,” he said roughly, heading for the door. “Find someone else.”
“Renshaw!” Polly yelled, coming after him. “We can’t keep him here!” She shifted the baby in her arms and gestured with one hand at the garish wallpaper and cheap, gaudy furniture that made Polly’s room of a piece with the rest of the whorehouse. “We don’t have time to look after him, and what kind of life could he have as a whore’s son?”
Heath shoved his hat farther down across his forehead. “That ain’t my problem.”
“He’s your kid, Renshaw!”
The hair on the back of Heath’s neck bristled. He turned around and closed his eyes, letting the wolf take over.
At first all he could smell over the rank stench of the bordello were traces of the kid’s scat, the soap someone had used to wash it away, and a kind of milky musk. Below that was a human scent, but different, like the smell of a colt was different from its dam.
And under that …
Heath tried to tell himself he’d imagined it. It wasn’t as if he’d smelled loup-garou cubs before. But it was there, undeniable, faint but true. The odds against Frankie lying with another loup-garou at just the right time were bigger than Heath could calculate.
Hellfire.
Without warning, Polly pushed the infant into Heath’s arms. He nearly dropped it; only his animal reflexes spared it a nasty fall.
“Be careful!” Polly scolded. “Here. Hold him like this.”
She adjusted his arms so that they supported the baby’s head and tiny body. “There you are, little one,” she said in the gentlest voice Heath had ever heard out of her. She tickled the baby’s shapeless face with a fingertip. “See? Your daddy’s here.”
Heath was too numb to say a damn thing. Polly moved to the bed and gathered up a threadbare carpetbag. “This is what you’ll need at first. All of us pitched in. Warm blankets, cloths for diapers, a bottle. Enough cow’s milk to get you through tonight, and a bottle of formula for afterward. It would be good to find him a wet nurse.”
“I don’t know any wet nurses,” Heath mumbled.
She put her hands on her hips and stared at him with disgust. “You ain’t got no tits yourself, do you? If you don’t know how to keep him, take him where they’ll never know he’s a whore’s son and find some woman who wants him.”
Some woman. Heath caught himself before he could bare his teeth and snarl in Polly’s face.
But Polly didn’t know what the kid was. What could happen to a ‘breed if he ever ended up being raised by people like the humans who’d taken him in, then rejected him as a monster. Or like his real mother, who’d thrown Heath out for being half-human.
Quarter werewolf might never be able to Change at all.
Heath felt the fragility of the wriggling form beneath the blanket and thought of the future he had planned. He couldn’t just ride aimlessly into the plains with a baby tied to his saddle.
He would know better what to do when he was away from this place and out on the range where he belonged. Where he’d always belonged.
Polly tossed the carpetbag on the stained rug. “You’d better git. I heard Will Bradley thinks you cheated him at poker last time you was here, and I’m sure you don’t want no trouble.” She put up her hand to give Heath a shove, then thought better of it. “Mind you do right by him, Renshaw. If we find out any hurt has come to—”
Heath looked hard into her eyes, and she drew back. “Forget you ever saw him—or me.”
Her throat bobbed. Someone gave a raucous laugh, and a drunken cowhand, leaning on a skinny whore’s shoulder, staggered past the open doorway. Polly rushed out the door and closed it behind her. The baby opened its blue eyes and seemed to look at Heath with a kind of yearning. As if it knew …
With a curse too profane even for the most jaded harlot, Heath transferred the baby into the crook of one arm and picked up the carpetbag. He walked out of the room and left by the back stairs. They creaked under his boots, laughing at him all the way down.
It wasn’t easy to figure out how to carry the kid. In the end he rigged up a sling out of one of the well-worn blankets, tying it around his neck so the small, warm bundle was cradled against his chest. Apache snorted in surprise and craned his head around to stare.
“I don’t need no lip from you,” Heath muttered, reining the gelding away from the bordello. The baby yawned, showing naked pink gums, and Heath’s stomach dropped to the soles of his boots. It was so damn alien. He could kill it without even meaning to.
That day was just about the longest of Heath’s life. He managed thirty miles by dawn, using his night vision to steer Apache along a path over the rough terrain of the desert. Just after dawn the kid started to cry, and it didn’t take Heath long to realize that he wasn’t saying he was hungry. Heath used one of the other diapers and water from his canteen to clean the baby as best he could, fumbling with fingers made clumsy with uncertainty. Then he found the bottle, filled it from the small flask of milk and stuck the Indian-rubber teat near the baby’s lips. It only yelled louder.
Patience was a virtue Heath had learned in long years of running from the law, but it did him no good now. The baby wouldn’t take the teat. It was pretty clear that nothing Heath did was going to make it suckle, so he mounted up again and kept on going. The kid was strong. It was loup-garou. It would eat when it was hungry.
But he knew there was something wrong when he was forty miles from Javelina and it still wouldn’t take the bottle. Its cries got soft, like the whimper of a pup, and it didn’t look so pink anymore.
The slow panic Heath had felt only a few times in his life welled up like foul water. There wasn’t much of anything between here and Javelina. Dog Creek was ten miles to the north.
There weren’t any women there now, unless the Lyndon female had come in on the stage while he was gone. He hadn’t figured he would be around to see the spectacle, but instinct told him to run for the only place he’d ever thought of as home.
Instinct had a way of getting him in trouble almost as much as his human heart. The wolf wasn’t always right. But he could get the kid proper shelter and a bed at Dog Creek. Even if Jed had already been found, Heath didn’t see that he had any choice. He would find himself a wet nurse to look after the boy until he was well again, even if he had to drag some female to the ranch kicking and screaming.
RACHEL LYNDON STOOD at the door of the small general store, watching the dust rise from the street as a heavily laden wagon rolled by. The aged woman crossing the single main street hardly seemed to notice. She brushed absently at the sleeve of her drab dress, her gaze fixed on the faded sign of the tavern next to the store.
She was the only other woman Rachel had seen. It was a rough place, Javelina. A world away from Ohio. A world dominated by the plain, hardy folk of West Texas, a country with far more cattle than people.
Or so Rachel had read. Yet not all the reading in the world could have prepared her for this.
I will have a home, she thought. A home, and a husband who would be steady and respectable and would care nothing about her former life.
But she was still afraid. Afraid of the horses that seemed to be everywhere, snorting and stamping. Afraid of the riders who stared at her as if she were a rare and exotic beast in a cage—she, who was as plain as a sparrow.
She straightened and lifted her chin. Let them stare. They would never see her nervousness. She had as much right to be here as anyone.
Mrs. Jedediah McCarrick. Ellie Lyndon would cease to exist, along with her past. No more loneliness. No more taking any employment she could find, hoping that she might at last outrun the scandal. The end of wondering where her next meal would come from. Of fearing to get close to any man, lest he turn his back on her.
Lest he be like Louis.
She shook off the thought. Here she could be useful. Here she would never be tempted to return to what she had become.
Here she could forget.
A cowhand tipped his hat as he rode by. She nodded, unsmiling. A spotted hound wandered past the door, wagging its tail. She offered a pat. Dogs had always been kind to her. Forgiving.
The sun sank a little lower, driving long shadows before it. She had sent a letter to Jedediah informing him of the anticipated date of her arrival, but the stagecoach had been late. Apparently he had decided not to wait in town all day.
Lamps were lit inside the houses and public buildings, such as they were. The saloon door swung open, and a pair of inebriated men staggered out, singing off-key. Rachel hugged her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
Everything had gone so well until now—at least compared to the rest of her life. She’d advertised in the Matrimonial News, only half daring to hope that some respectable man from a place far away from Sheffield, Ohio, might respond. I am a single woman, aged twenty-eight, dark haired and with brown eyes, five feet four inches tall and slender, seeking correspondence with an honorable man of some means. Hardworking, excellent housekeeper, experienced in teaching and good with children.
Jedediah McCarrick had been the fourth to answer. His reply had been the best that could be hoped for: Dear Miss Lyndon, I am a gentleman of fifty-two years, height five feet ten inches. I own a ranch in Texas and am seeking a wife who will work hard to make Dog Creek a going concern.
There was nothing the least romantic in it. Why should there be, when there had been nothing the least romantic in her advertisement? Indeed, he met her needs perfectly. He owned property, so she would never be without food or shelter; he would not be a doddering old man at fifty-two, and he wanted exactly what she could provide.
And he had said nothing about wanting children of his own.
The wind, so warm during the day, had grown cooler. So much hope rested on this meeting. Hope she had not dared allow herself for so long.
“Fräulein?”
The owner of the store, a small, wiry German with a sharp, friendly smile, bustled up beside her and introduced himself. “I could not help but notice that you are still waiting, Fräulein Lyndon,” he said with what appeared to be genuine concern. “Wouldn’t you like to come in? I have coffee, and it is much more comfortable inside.”
Rachel summoned a smile, warmed by the offer in spite of her wariness. Perhaps people really were different here.
“That is kind of you, Mr. Sonntag,” she said, “but I prefer to remain here.”
Mr. Sonntag gave her a long, quizzical look. “You are a relative of Herr McCarrick’s, Fräulein?”
Her throat tightened. “Yes. I am.”
He waited for further revelations. When none were forthcoming, he nodded briskly and vanished into the store.
So no one knew. Surely if anyone in Javelina had guessed her purpose in coming, the owner of one of the town’s few businesses would be aware of it.
But she had not really deceived him; she would be Jed McCarrick’s relative in a matter of days, if not sooner.
Mrs. Jedediah McCarrick.
The thought kept her from panic as another hour passed, and then another. She grew colder. Something must have kept Mr. McCarrick. Perhaps his wagon had broken down or there had been some emergency at the ranch.
The noise from the saloon increased. Rachel picked up her bag. Perhaps it would be best if she went inside rather than make a spectacle of herself, or become an object of derision. She turned to open the door.
The rattle of wheels stopped her. A wagon—a buckboard, they called it—had drawn up in front of the store. The lean, dusty man on the bare plank seat touched the brim of his hat as he settled the horses.
“You Miss Lyndon?” he asked.
Relief nearly choked her reply. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am.”
The man’s face clouded. “Well, ma’am, it’s like this. Jed ain’t coming.”
She barely registered the words. “I beg your pardon?”
There was no mistaking the man’s discomfort. He squirmed on the seat and cleared his throat.
“Jed sent me,” he said, “to tell you that he’s changed his mind.” He felt inside his coat and produced a leather pouch. “Jed said to give you this, for fare back to Ohio and a little extra for your trouble.”
Rachel had never swooned in her life, but the weakness in her legs was such that she feared she might not keep her feet. “There must be some mistake,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” The man held out the pouch. Rachel raised her hands as if she could ward off disaster before it could truly become real.
Changed his mind. It was not possible.
“I do not believe it,” she said, finding her courage again.
The messenger let his hand fall. “I only know what he told me. If you’d only—”
“I wish to be taken to Dog Creek.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, ma’am.”
Perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps she would only face further humiliation and the extinction of her last hopes. But she could not go running back to Ohio with her tail between her legs. Not without being absolutely certain.
“If you will not take me,” she said, “I shall find another way.”
The man’s expression of embarrassment underwent a rapid transformation. He scowled and pushed the pouch back under his coat.
“You’re making a mistake, ma’am,” he said. With a curse and a flick of the reins, he sent his horses off at a fast clip. Rachel began to tremble. She had convinced the messenger of her sincerity, but the effort had taken its toll. She felt breathless and weak.
But the decision had been made. She could not afford to return to Ohio now, even had she wished to. This had become a matter of survival.
Taking a firm grip on her bag, she went into the store. Mr. Sonntag offered to find someone to drive her to Dog Creek in the morning.
“You can stay here, Fräulein Lyndon,” he said. “I have several rooms in the back. It is the nearest thing we have to a hotel. No one will trouble you.”
Rachel was prepared to refuse. She had no money to repay such unexpected kindness. But in the end she agreed because she could not imagine spending the night on the street like a woman of ill repute.
Are you any better? she asked herself as she settled in the small, plain room Herr Sonntag had assigned to her.
She was. She must be. And Jedediah McCarrick would make it possible.
RACHEL WOKE EARLY the next morning. Mr. Sonntag insisted that she share his breakfast of bread and jam, and she was too hungry to refuse. A few hours later a man from the livery stable arrived with a wagon, and Rachel took out a few of her remaining coins, hoping they would be enough.
“It’s not necessary,” the grizzled driver said. “Sonntag arranged it.”
Rachel hurried back into the store to thank the German, but he’d gone out on some business. She resolved that she would pay him back as soon as she was in a position to do so.
The driver, Mr. Sweet, was not inclined to conversation, and Rachel had no desire to reveal herself to a stranger. She concentrated on absorbing the landscape. Beyond the tiny patch of green that marked the spring near which Javelina was situated, this was a stark, unforgiving world, in every way unlike the East. Rachel knew if she allowed herself, she would be very much afraid.
This will be my home. I will learn to love it.
The ride was long and dusty and hot. The road, if such it could be called, was rutted and hard. There was little shade, but the driver seemed to find it whenever there was a need to rest the horses. They passed over dry streambeds and rocky hills, and expanses of brown, hardy grasses.
The landscape changed abruptly as they drew alongside a strip of low green trees and shrubs that marked a rare watercourse. Sweet drove the wagon through the scrub and under a handsome live oak to the bank, where he let the horses drink from the clear, bubbling stream.
“Where are we now?” Rachel asked, breathing in the crisp, welcome scent of water and growing things.
“On the border of Blackwater, the Blackwell ranch,” Sweet said. He waved his hand at the opposite bank. “They own all the land to the north of Dog Creek. We’re only about five miles from Dog Creek Ranch.”
“Then we’re nearly there.”
“Hardly, ma’am. We got another fifteen miles past the border before we get to the house. There’s a good place along the creek about seven miles east of here where we can stay the night.”
The prospect of spending the night alone in the wilderness with a stranger did nothing to salve Rachel’s worries, but she forgot her concern when she saw a rider approaching from the opposite bank. Even from a distance she could see that he was not like the driver, or the man who had come to tell her that McCarrick had “changed his mind.” He rode erect, and his clothing was of a better cut and far cleaner. A gentleman, she thought.
The rider guided his horse down the bank and crossed the stream, the water splashing at his horse’s knees. “Mr. McCarrick,” Sweet said as the stranger stopped before them.
Rachel’s heart bounced beneath her ribs. She stared up at the rider’s blue eyes, long blond hair and tanned, handsome face. He was much too young and too tall. But his name …
“Good day, ma’am,” the rider said, touching the brim of his hat and smiling down at Rachel with bright curiosity. His voice was smooth, a pleasant tenor that bore an accent more evocative of the East than the Texas drawl Rachel had been hearing since her arrival. For just a moment it reminded her of Louis, and she stiffened.
“This here’s Miss Rachel Lyndon,” Sweet said before Rachel could respond. “She came in on the stage yesterday.”
Something flickered across the rider’s face, an emotion too quickly gone to grasp. “I’m Sean McCarrick, Miss Lyndon. Jed’s nephew. I was just on my way to meet you.”
A great wave of relief threatened to wash the starch out of Rachel’s spine. She offered her hand. “Good day, Mr. McCarrick. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
He took her hand in his and bent over the saddle to kiss the air above it. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Lyndon. We’d heard that the stage was delayed and wasn’t expected until this evening.”
Of course. That explained everything. Everything but the man who had tried to send her away.
“I understand completely, Mr. McCarrick,” she said.
“Sean, please.”
“Thank you.” She hesitated, afraid to push too much. “Is Mr. McCarrick indisposed?”
Sean McCarrick shifted his weight in the saddle. “No, ma’am. He’s away from the ranch at the moment and asked me to watch out for you.”
Away from the ranch? “I see,” she said, suppressing a new spark of panic. “Can you tell me when he’ll be returning?”
“He’s up north on business that couldn’t wait. I expect him anytime now.” Sean McCarrick gazed at her with concern. “I’m sorry for the disappointment, but I know Jed will be happy to have Sonntag put you up in town until he comes back.”
Rachel’s unease blossomed into terror. The man who’d try to buy her off had been correct. Jed didn’t want her. He’d sent his gentlemanly nephew to approach her in a subtler fashion, but the result would be the same. She would wait and wait in town until it became clear that Jed was never coming back. Not for her.
Once upon a time, fear and humiliation would have sent her scurrying in retreat. But she’d come too far. Anger bubbled up from some long-quiet source inside her heart.
“I wonder if you might tell me who came to meet me yesterday evening,” she said abruptly.
Because she’d learned to watch people’s faces, Rachel caught the almost imperceptible flash of dismay in Sean’s expression before it transformed into puzzlement. “Someone came to meet you?” he asked.
“Yes. A man who said that Mr. McCarrick had changed his mind and wished me to return to Ohio. He offered me money to leave Javelina.”
Sean frowned. “What did this man look like?”
She began to think more clearly. “Lean of frame, of average height, brown hair. He did not give his name.”
Sean’s frown deepened. “That description fits any one of a dozen men around this part of the Pecos.” He drummed his fingers on his saddle horn. “What exactly did he say?”
In brief, concise sentences, Rachel told him. “Who could want to do such a thing?” she asked, watching for any telltale slip in his demeanor.
There was none. He looked out across the desert plain, the muscles beneath his jaw flexing and relaxing. “I can think of only one man who would want you gone,” he said. “The foreman at Dog Creek. Holden Renshaw.”
“The foreman?”
“He’s had a favored place at the ranch he no doubt wouldn’t wish to surrender. My uncle has given him far too much trust and control, and as a result …” He hesitated. “To be frank, ma’am, he hates women. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he set a man to watch for your arrival and buy you off.”
Rachel could scarcely comprehend what he was saying. It seemed too fantastic to be believed. “Jedediah never mentioned this … this Renshaw.”
He shook his head. “Of course I can’t be certain he was behind it,” he murmured. “But I do advise you not to mention the incident to him.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry this has happened. You can see why it would be better for you to go back to town to wait. Once my uncle is home, he—”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. McCarrick, but that will not be necessary. I assure you that this Mr. Renshaw will not—cannot—deter me in any way.”
“But, ma’am—”
“I have every right to be there. You see, Jedediah and I were married in Ohio. I am Mrs. McCarrick.”

Chapter Two
HEATH DISMOUNTED, TAKING great care not to jar the baby. The kid had been so quiet those last ten miles that at times he had only known it was still alive by its breathing and slow heartbeat.
He lifted the edges of the blanket away from the baby’s face. Sick as it was, it was looking at him the way it always did, as if it could see right into his head.
You’ll be all right, he told his son for the hundredth time. I’ll find someone to look after you proper.
The baby made a soft noise and lifted its hand toward his face. As if it trusted him. As if it knew he wouldn’t let it die.
Heath looked around for the ranch hands. Sean wasn’t around, as usual. Most of the others were no doubt out on the range, but Maurice and Joey almost always stuck by the house, especially when Heath was away. Joey was a fast rider and could get to the Blackwell place in a few hours.
I should have gone straight there myself. But he hadn’t realized how sick the baby was going to get, and the idea of crawling to Artemus Blackwell for help made Heath’s hackles rise. Now he didn’t have any choice. Blackwell had a wife and daughter, and females knew about babies.
He was about to take the baby into the house when he heard the rattle of a wagon a mile or so up the track that ran west along the creek that gave the ranch its name. He tilted his head to listen. He knew the sound of every vehicle belonging to the ranch, and this wasn’t one of them.
The baby gave a thin, whimpering wail. Heath rocked it a little, the way he’d seen Polly doing. The kid went quiet again, and Heath tested the air for scent. The first thing he smelled was Sean on his palomino, Ulysses. The wagon behind him was a buckboard, and there were two people crowded onto the seat, one Heath recognized as Henry Sweet from Javelina. The other …
A woman.
Heath tensed. Strange females didn’t just show up at Dog Creek.
Unless Jed had asked them to come.
Cold certainty chilled the air in his lungs. It was her. Rachel Lyndon, Jed’s mail-order bride. The one Jed had never seen fit to tell him about.
Heath wanted to laugh, but the sound got stuck halfway up his throat. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known she was coming, but he’d never thought he would lay eyes on her.
The rattle of the wagon grew louder. Sean and the buckboard came into view, and Heath caught his first glimpse of the woman.
She sat upright on the hard seat, clutching a carpetbag to her chest. Her hair was dark, her body slender, even thin, and her gaze was fixed on the house. There was unease in her scent and tension in the set of her shoulders.
Sean rode straight up to Heath. “Renshaw,” he said coolly. “I hope you’re prepared for guests.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Heath growled.
He didn’t really expect an answer, and there wasn’t one.
Sean glanced at the blanket, then looked away again without seeing what was inside it and reined Ulysses around to watch the wagon approach.
“She just got in on the stage, nice and ready to take over while Jed’s gone,” he said. “You’d better clean yourself up. The lady may not decide to keep you on if you don’t please her.”
Something in Sean’s tone told Heath that the son of a bitch was sitting on information that he couldn’t wait to let out. He wanted Heath to ask who she was, why some female he’d never seen had any idea of “taking over.” He thought Heath didn’t know the truth, and he wanted to savor the moment.
But Sean could never keep his mouth shut for long. He smiled, not quite meeting Heath’s gaze. “Do you know who she is, Renshaw? Did my uncle tell you before he left for Kansas?”
“I know who she is,” Heath said between his teeth. “Rachel Lyndon. Jed’s intended.”
Sean’s smile froze. “You’re half-right, Renshaw,” he said, recovering his balance. “Her name is Rachel, but it’s not Lyndon, and she’s not anyone’s intended.” He grinned and looked full into Heath’s face. “It’s McCarrick. Rachel McCarrick. She and Jed were married in Ohio.
“She’s Jed’s wife.”
JED’S WIFE.
At first Heath didn’t think he’d heard right. He’d read Jed’s unsigned will, and the letter from the woman. It had been clear that Jed hadn’t married her yet, that he planned to do it soon after she arrived.
Someone was lying. But who?
Heath didn’t have the chance to call Sean out. The female was taking Sweet’s arm and climbing down from the buckboard, almost stumbling as she stared at the house.
Sean dismounted, tossed Ulysses’s reins over the hitching post and went to meet her. Heath gave her a closer look. Her eyes were brown, a few shades lighter than her dark hair. She wasn’t pretty, but she wasn’t ugly, either. She was somewhere around thirty years, not old, but there was a tightness around her mouth, a kind of tension that told him she wasn’t easy in her mind.
So this was the woman who’d written the letter that Jed had carried like something precious. The woman he’d cared enough about to woo and win and bring all the way to Texas.
She looked in his direction. Her shoulders lifted, and she started toward him, her plain brown skirts swishing with each firm step. He could feel her hostility through his skin and in his bones. She didn’t even glance at the bundle in his arms.
“Mrs. Rachel McCarrick,” Sean said, gliding up beside her. “Holden Renshaw, foreman of Dog Creek.”
At first Heath thought the woman was going to back away, but then he realized her hostility covered something else: fear. He could smell it sure as he could smell a skunk at ten paces.
“Ma’am,” he said coldly, briefly touching the brim of his hat. “Welcome to Dog Creek.”
She studied his face. “Am I welcome, Mr. Renshaw?” she asked.
He didn’t understand the question, and he didn’t much care. She wasn’t denying that she was Jed’s wife, and that meant she was lying. He hated that she was here, hated that she’d invaded this place and claimed it for herself, that a stranger held Jed’s loyalty just because she was human.
But she obviously didn’t know Jed was dead, and neither did Sean.
“So you’re Jed’s wife?” he said, making her feel a little of what he was.
She flinched, so slightly that he knew no human would have caught it. “I understand that Mr. Mc—my husband is away,” she said.
“He’s been in Kansas, selling cattle,” he said. “Surprised you didn’t know that, Mrs. McCarrick.”
Her upper teeth, white and straight, grazed her lower lip. “Of course I knew he had been elsewhere on business, but he was to have returned by the time I arrived.”
Maybe she was telling the truth about that part, maybe not. Heath smiled, not trying too hard to make it friendly. “I don’t know what you’re used to back East, ma’am, but out here, things don’t run by clockwork.”
“You expected me, did you not?”
He knew a challenge when he heard it. Jed had surely planned to meet her when she arrived. Maybe she wondered why his foreman hadn’t known to fetch her in Javelina.
“Jed didn’t say when you was comin’,” he said.
“He told me,” Sean said.
More lies. “You know when he’ll be back, too?” Heath asked with a curl of his lip.
Sean hesitated, and little worry lines appeared between the woman’s straight dark brows. Heath came within an inch of feeling sorry for her.
An inch could be a long way if you wanted it to be.
Sean cleared his throat. “Mrs. McCarrick is weary from her long journey,” he said. “I’ll escort her into the house.”
One long stare shut Sean up again. Heath looked down at the baby, so covered up that it looked like a pile of rags. It chose that moment to stir and whimper. Sean jumped. So did the woman. They both stared in disbelief at the lump curled against Heath’s chest.
“You know anything about kids, Mrs. McCarrick?” Heath asked roughly.
She blinked at him. “I … I beg your—”
He showed her the baby’s pale face. “It’s ailin’. Can you make it well?”
Her gaze moved from the baby’s face to his, astonishment wiping every other emotion from her features. “Where … whose baby is this?”
“Someone left it, and I found it. Can you fix it?”
Surprised as she was, she landed on her feet just like a cat. “How long has it been since it has eaten?”
“It won’t eat at all.”
Accusing eyes met his, and she took the baby from his arms, taking care not to touch Heath more than she had to. “What have you been giving it?” she demanded.
His hackles rose again. “Some cow’s milk and stuff in a bottle. That’s all I had.”
“It must have milk. Fresh milk.”
Relief burned through his body like strong whiskey. She knew what to do. She could keep the baby alive.
Maybe she could do more than that. She was holding the baby close and humming softly, just like a real mother.
Heath cut the thought before it could get any further. He would be gone with the baby as soon as it could travel. “Go on in,” he said. “I’ll see to that milk.”
She met his gaze with a flash of defiance and walked toward the house, still cooing. Heath turned on his boot heel and walked toward the barn. Sean stepped into his path.
“What in hell do you think you’re doing, Renshaw?” he demanded. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but if you think you can order Jed’s wife around like a common servant—”
Heath took a single step toward him.
Sean backed away fast, his hands half raised, but his fear wasn’t enough to shut him up. “Where did you get that baby?” he demanded.
“It ain’t your concern, McCarrick,” Heath said slowly and clearly.
“It is my concern if it affects Dog Creek.”
“You never gave a damn about Dog Creek.” Heath leaned into Sean, who took another step backward. “Where did you meet her?”
Sean rolled his eyes like a horse about to spook, then took himself in hand. “In Javelina. Jed told me to watch for her.”
“Jed never told you a damn thing.”
“He never told you, either.” Sean attempted a grin. “If only I’d had a mirror to show you the look on your face when you found out who she was.”
Heath bared his teeth. “Take a look at it now.”
Hunching his shoulders, Sean laughed nervously. “Wondering what else Jed was hiding from you?”
“I knew he was fixin’ to marry.”
“But not that he was married.”
So Sean believed it. Heath saw no reason to set him straight and a couple of good ones not to. Sean would be boiling in his own juices by now, much as he tried to hide it by trying to defend the woman. He’d always expected Dog Creek to be handed to him on a silver platter once Jed was gone. He didn’t have to know about the wills, or Jed’s death, to realize that his plans for Dog Creek were in trouble, but he was just smart enough not to let on. For now.
“You know what I think?” Heath said, wanting to twist the knife a little deeper. “You didn’t know nothin’ ‘bout the woman until she showed up. Jed knew you’d be riled about it. He didn’t trust you.”
Sean stood straight and put on an offended look that probably would have fooled most of the folks he liked to impress. “Why should I be anything but pleased that my uncle has found happiness with a woman?”
“You was never interested in anyone’s happiness but your own.”
“Amusing that you of all people should say that, Renshaw. You’ve been manipulating my uncle since you first arrived.”
Hitching his thumbs in his gun belt, Heath half closed his eyes. “That’ll always stick in your craw, won’t it? That he chose me over you to run Dog Creek?”
Sean sneered. “He made a serious mistake. There’s always been something wrong about you, Renshaw. Eventually I’ll find out what it is.”
If Sean had been anything more than a weak, puling shadow of a man, full of empty bluster, Heath might have taken his threat seriously. He hadn’t forgotten the risk of his being here, but Sean didn’t know just how much things had changed, and he sure as hell wouldn’t do anything that would push Jed into taking Heath’s side over his.
Heath didn’t know that Jed had chosen against both of them.
Heath glanced back at the house, where Apache was still waiting patiently. “Look on your own time, McCarrick. Now you’re nothin’ but a hired hand, and you got work to do. See to my horse.”
“I’m not taking any more orders from you, Renshaw,” Sean spat. “Mrs. McCarrick’s in charge now. Once she realizes what a low-bred barbarian you are, she’ll have the sense to turn you out and hire someone more suitable.”
“Like you? That why you’re bowin’ and scrapin’ to her?”
“I am a gentleman, Renshaw. I have an excellent reputation in this county. The same can’t be said of you. In fact, I would think that the good people of Pecos County would be inclined to believe that you might be a danger to Mrs. McCarrick. A woman alone—”
Heath struck faster than any human eye could follow, clenching his fingers in the fabric of Sean’s coat and lifting him off his feet.
“You got a filthy mouth, McCarrick. Too filthy for the likes of Jed’s wife.” He let Sean drop, and the other man fell to his knees. “You got fifteen minutes to pack up your kit and clear out.”
Scrambling to his feet, Sean bunched his fists and crouched as if he was thinking about launching an attack of his own. He had just enough sense to think better of it.
“You can’t throw me off the ranch,” he said. “I am my uncle’s closest kin. You have no right—”
“This is my right,” Heath said, laying his hand on his gun. “Until Jed comes back, you won’t set foot on Dog Creek again.”
Sean’s hand hovered near his own shiny new gun with its fancy silver scrolling and ivory grip. “You aren’t the only one with—”
“Even if you knew how to use that fancy piece, you wouldn’t draw it. Not when you’d be the one left bleedin’.”
Sean opened and closed his mouth like a gasping fish. “You won’t get away with this, Renshaw. I swear you’ll live to regret it.”
Heath stepped around Sean as if he were no more than a pile of steaming cow dung and took Apache to the corral himself. Almost since he’d come to Dog Creek, he’d wanted to do what he’d just done. Jed had made that impossible. But there’d been nothing to stop him now, and even if Sean worked up the grit to try acting on his threats, Heath wouldn’t be around to deal with them.
Once he’d unsaddled the gelding, brushed him and given him a bag of oats, his thoughts quickly turned back to Mrs. McCarrick.
Rachel. He didn’t know what to make of her. He’d known a few females in his life, but she wasn’t much like any of them. Not like Polly or Frankie, hardened by a life of catering to the lusts of men. She talked like she had plenty of book learnin’, all fancy and proper with her words, looking down her nose at him. But she wasn’t soft, like the ladies in San Antonio with their fine airs and frilly dresses.
And she’d taken the baby right away. She’d held it like she cared about its welfare.
Because she didn’t know what it really was. And she never would. It didn’t really matter if she was lying about being Jed’s wife, or what would happen when she found out she never would be. For now, he had a use for Rachel Lyndon. The baby needed her. And as long as that was true, Heath had to try to forget how much he hated her.
SEAN DROVE HIS spurs into Ulysses’s heaving sides. His rage had gone beyond shock into a low-burning anger that only strengthened his determination.
“I am Mrs. McCarrick.” When the woman had spoken the words, Sean had believed at first that he’d heard her wrong. “Miss Rachel Lyndon,” Sweet had said when he’d introduced her. According to the drifter, who had fled as soon as he’d reported his failure to Sean, she had answered to that name in town.
It was a flat-out lie. “As soon as we’re married,” Jed had said. He wouldn’t have phrased it that way if they had already been wed. He’d wanted to make Sean suffer, so he wouldn’t have hesitated to announce that the deed was done and his worldly goods would be going to his wife upon his passing.
So Rachel Lyndon was a fraud. Sean could think of several reasons why she might prevaricate, among them her desire to go to Dog Creek in spite of Jed’s unexpected absence. She might see it as a way to protect her reputation in a strange place and assert her authority until Jed returned. Clearly she did not believe that he would resent her pretense.
Ulysses stumbled, and Sean sawed on the reins to bring the horse up again. Renshaw might have known that Jed intended to be married, but Sean was certain he hadn’t realized that Jed’s fiancée was on her way, or he wouldn’t have been gone when the stage was due. Renshaw had assumed that Sean hadn’t known, either, undoubtedly believing that Sean’s meeting with “Mrs. McCarrick” had been the merest chance.
It had been a blessing that Renshaw hadn’t believed Sean when he’d made the mistake of saying he’d expected Rachel’s arrival. If anyone ever found out what he’d told the drifter to do, or what Jed had said just before he died …
Sean laid his quirt to Ulysses’s flank, letting the wind burn his eyes. At least Renshaw didn’t know that Jed had intended to disinherit his nephew, or he would surely have rubbed it in Sean’s face long since.
But he had known Sean would be angry. As barbaric and uncouth as he was, he was not without a certain low animal cunning, and few in the county were inclined to cross him. Sean could still feel Renshaw’s hands clutching the lapels of his coat, feel that almost inhuman strength that could put even the most superior of men at a disadvantage.
The bastard would pay for that, of course. And that payment had been a long time coming. Too long. Renshaw had claimed Sean’s rightful place as Jed’s right hand and confidant. If Jed had done his duty and atoned for his brother’s sin of abandonment, it would have been different. But the money and education and petty privileges he had given his brother’s cast-off son had never been enough. They hadn’t filled the hole Sean had worked so hard to ignore.
If only Jed had loved—
Sean hit Ulysses again, pleased by the stallion’s grunt of pain. Those pitiful desires and the weakness that came with them were as dead as Jedediah McCarrick. Sean had set his own path, and it was as clear as daylight.
Renshaw’s bizarre rescue of an apparently abandoned infant might play into Sean’s hands in ways he couldn’t yet predict. Renshaw’s open hostility toward the Lyndon woman would certainly work to Sean’s benefit. And her apparent belief that Renshaw had tried to bribe her to leave, along with his brutish behavior, made it unlikely that she would ever regard Renshaw with any favor, no matter what she might think about the infant. Sean hadn’t lied when he’d told her that Renshaw would hate any woman who set foot on Dog Creek, and not even a brute would be tempted by her dubious charms.
Sean didn’t hate her. She was simply an obstacle to be removed. A woman who lied about her marital state must have secrets, and he intended to find them. He could beguile any woman he set his sights on, beautiful or ugly, old or young. Charm her into revealing her greatest weakness.
In the meantime, he would assign one of the hands to keep an eye on the woman—and on Renshaw. And he had to find and get rid of the will before he arranged for Jed’s body to be found. Jed had used a lawyer in Heywood once or twice to draw up contracts, and such a man might very well have handled the will, as well. Sean would send his most loyal sheep to look for the man. Then he would consider how to approach the lawyer without betraying an untoward interest in Jed’s posthumous intentions.
Plenty of ifs, and no guarantees. But Sean had never doubted his destiny. It was as inevitable as the sunrise.
He pulled Ulysses to a sharp stop before the Blackwells’ fine two-story house. He would not tell them the entire truth about his eviction from Dog Creek. Amy was very close to dropping from the vine into his waiting hand, and her parents were not far behind. A little finesse and he would simply increase their resentment of the man they believed had persuaded Jed to refuse their generous offer for Dog Creek, thwarting their ambition for undisputed dominance of Pecos County.
They didn’t know what ambition was.
Sean dismounted in an almost cheerful mood. As he ran up the steps to the wide, shaded veranda, the door opened and Amy walked out, dressed in a tight pink gown that must have come all the way from Paris.
“Sean!” she said. “I didn’t expect you this morning!”
He removed his hat. “Something has happened, Amy. I don’t like to trouble you, but—”
“What is it?” She hurried to meet him, gazing anxiously into his face. “Come inside and tell me at once.” She took his hand, and as she led him into the hall, Sean knew that he need have no more worries. When he had Dog Creek, he would have this woman. And when he had her, he would have this house and all the country from Dog Creek to the Pecos.
And when he was governor, Jed wouldn’t be the only one he left lying in the dry West Texas dirt.

Chapter Three
IF IT HADN’T been for the infant, Rachel wasn’t sure she could have done anything but stare and bawl like a child.
At first all she had noticed was the primitive look of the place—the ramshackle unpainted buildings, the piles of unrecognizable metal objects heaped around them, the barren earth beyond the single tree by the house and the meager stretch of green that marked the creek. Jedediah’s descriptions had always been vague, but she had pictured something very different. The house itself was far smaller than she had expected here in the West, where everything seemed so vast. There was no garden that she could see, no whitewashed fences, no evidence that anyone had ever attempted to make the house a home.
That is why I am here, she’d told herself. But then she’d seen the grim-faced man standing in front of the house, and she knew even before she had been introduced who he must be. When she had first looked into his lean, predatory face, she had known that this was a man capable of doing exactly what Sean McCarrick had suggested. His eyes—as much golden-green as gray etched steel that reflected light like those of an animal—emanated hostility as hot as the stark Texas sun.
Eyes that weighed her with a single glance and found her unworthy. A rival. A threat to his power. He had claimed he didn’t know about her imminent arrival, but of course he would have no compunction about lying to her if he had already tried to buy her off.
When he had said “So you’re Jed’s wife?” in such a sneering voice, she’d been almost certain that he meant to accuse her of deception. She had, after all, answered to Rachel Lyndon when the wagon driver had approached her in Javelina. Perhaps he hadn’t persisted in his challenge because he feared being exposed himself.
You are no less a liar just because he’s a liar, too, she told herself. But she had lied only because she had needed a reason for coming to Dog Creek after she’d learned that Jedediah was away. If her worst, most irrational fears were realized and he no longer wanted her, she would compel him to tell her so to her face. Unless and until that happened, turning back, even staying in Javelina, was not an acceptable option.
And if Jedediah had simply been detained on business, as Sean had said, he would surely understand her reasons for claiming a privilege she did not yet possess.
Rachel opened the door to the house, easing the infant into the crook of her arm as she pushed. She had no reason to disbelieve anything Sean had said; his interest in her seemed strictly and benevolently impersonal, and he had accurately predicted Renshaw’s reaction. If not for the baby, she would have deemed Holden Renshaw a thoroughgoing and unredeemable villain.
Yet when he’d held the child out to her and demanded that she help in that rough, deep voice, she’d been struck dumb as a lamppost. What sort of villain would bring a foundling home with him and express such concern about its well-being?
Glancing around the rustic parlor immediately inside the door, she saw that the chairs, like the table they surrounded, were handmade, simple and rough-hewn. She went to the nearest and sat, gently unwrapping the infant as soon as she was settled. Its skin was gray, its face far too thin.
It could not have been more than two months old. She cooed to it, waiting for it to open its eyes. Afraid, though she could see it breathing, that it might die in her arms.
A precious life. Small and fragile in body, just as she felt in her soul.
She lifted the baby so that its downy head rested against her cheek. A curled fist flailed, bumping her mouth. Alive. Wanting to live. Giving her the courage she so sadly lacked.
Whoever you may be, she told it silently, wherever you have come from, I am here to protect you.
Blue eyes opened. All babies had blue eyes at first, but this child’s were startling, as bright and intent as if they could focus on hers.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I see you.”
The baby—a boy, she saw, checking under his diaper—gave a gusty little sigh as if he understood. Nursery rhymes crowded into her head, pushing away her fear.
Once, she had sung such songs to the baby within her, certain he could hear her long before he was born. She had felt him move, kicking and punching as if to declare his coming independence.
Little Timothy had lived so short a time. Only long enough for her to sing a few verses of the song she loved most.
Hush little baby, don’t say a word,
Mama’s going to buy you a mockingbird …
The door opened, and Renshaw walked in with a pail in one hand and saddlebags over his shoulder. He set down the pail and moved past her to lay the saddlebags over a chair. In the pail, the milk steamed, fresh and pungent.
Rachel found her composure again and hugged the baby as if it needed protection from the very person who had found him. No one, least of all this man, would see her vulnerable.
“We will need something to feed him with,” she said briskly.
Without a word, Renshaw rummaged in the saddlebags and produced a bottle and several squares of white cotton fabric.
“Where did you get the bottle?” she asked.
“It was left with the kid,” he said. He went to the pail to fill the bottle, but Rachel stopped him with a cry of protest.
“Your hands must be clean,” she said.
He glared at her, though his face remained expressionless. He strode into the adjoining kitchen. A moment later she heard the squeak of a pump handle working and a gush of water.
Her heart was beating fast when he walked back into the room, looking like nothing so much as a panther with his lowered head and silent feet. Muscles bunched and flexed under his shirt and trousers, lending power to his grace.
He is handsome, she thought, surprised. It wasn’t easy to see at first because of the harsh lines of his features, but she could not deny it.
Handsome, like Louis. And nothing like him. There was a leashed energy in him, a feral quality she couldn’t put a name to. It was more than a sense of danger, more than the gun at his hip or a question of dubious intentions. It felt almost as if he could look into her eyes and make her do anything.
Anything at all.
Renshaw startled her by holding his hands in front of her face. “Clean enough for you, Mrs. McCarrick?”
His voice was milder than she had expected, and all at once her certainty of his guilt seemed less secure than it had been only minutes before. She looked up at Renshaw with all the confidence a married woman should display.
“Thank you,” she said. “Would you kindly fill the bottle?”
He stared at her a moment longer, then removed the cork, tube and rubber nipple from the bottle, knelt beside the pail and pushed the bottle into the milk. When the bottle was full, he thrust it at her.
“Feed it,” he said.
Swallowing fresh resentment, she took the bottle and rested the nipple against the baby’s lips. His tiny nostrils flared, and his mouth opened a hairbreadth.
“Mr. Renshaw,” she said, fixing her gaze on the baby’s face, “I would like to make one thing perfectly clear. I am not an employee at Dog Creek. I am not under your command.”
She couldn’t see his reaction, but she heard the sudden intake of his breath, as if he was about to speak. She concentrated on the baby again … on the way the rosebud lips opened wider, the miniature fists flailed toward the bottle.
“There now,” she said. “That’s it.” She nudged the bottle into his mouth, and he took it.
Renshaw’s worn, dusty boots shuffled on the scratched wooden floor. “Is it goin’ to be all right?” he asked.
“It is not an ‘it,’” she said. “It is a ‘he.’”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“One would be hard-pressed to realize it.”
Rachel had not lived so sheltered a life that she hadn’t heard far worse profanity than he uttered now. “I will thank you not to speak so in front of the baby,” she snapped.
“You’re tellin’ me he can understand?”
Once again she lifted her gaze from the suckling infant, focusing on the dark, strong brows above Renshaw’s striking eyes. “What do you intend to do with the child when he’s better?” she asked.
For once Renshaw seemed to have nothing to say. If the child was a foundling, presumably abandoned, the chances of his parents coming forward to reclaim him were dubious at best. Wouldn’t a man like him be eager to be rid of such a burden, as he had so obviously been relieved to consign the child’s care to her?
A man like him. Could she be wrong about him, too quick to base her judgment upon Sean McCarrick’s obvious dislike of his uncle’s foreman? Had her natural prejudice in favor of Jedediah’s nephew, so clearly a gentleman and so comfortingly respectful, colored her perception of this man?
Rachel bit her lip and watched him from the corner of her eye. “There is no need for you to remain,” she said. “The baby will rest after he is done feeding. You may return to your work.”
His brief laugh was more of a bark than an indication of amusement. “Oh, so I have your permission, Mrs. McCarrick?”
She averted her face quickly. “You have set me a task, Mr. Renshaw, for which you are ill suited, as I am unsuited for yours.”
“There ain’t much food in the house. We ain’t fitted out for a lady.”
One might almost have taken it for an apology. “I will make do,” she said.
“I’ll send Maurice to find out what you need. What he don’t have in the cookhouse, he can get in Javelina.” He cleared his throat. “Do you need anythin’ else for the baby?”
“Yes. As many clean cloths as you can get. And—” She almost blushed. “It is better if the baby has mother’s milk. A wet nurse, a woman who has just had a child herself …”
“Is that all?”
His mockery had returned, tempered by something else she couldn’t quite name. “I will see that you know if there is anything else,” she said.
He lingered for a few heartbeats more, then opened the door and went outside. Rachel didn’t breathe again until she had counted all the way to ten.
“There now,” she said to the baby. “He’s gone. You don’t have to be afraid.”
The infant burbled, bringing up little milky bubbles. She set the bottle on the table, picked up one of the rags Renshaw had taken from the saddlebags, laid it across her shoulder and gently positioned the infant over the cloth.
He did exactly what he ought to do, and promptly fell into a deep, contented sleep. Rachel almost imagined she could see the color coming back into his skin, the roundness of health returning to his thin body.
She sang to him for a while, afraid to disturb him, and then looked for a place to lay him down. There was no cradle, of course. She ventured cautiously into the short hall and looked into the two rooms that led off from it.
One, the smaller, was clearly the province of a man, though it was tidy enough. The bed, covered with an Indian blanket, was neatly made. The walls were bare save for a faded photograph of a pretty, dark-haired woman in a white dress. The air smelled faintly of horse, perspiration, leather … and him. He might be unpolished and blunt, rude and uncivilized, but these were not the quarters of an ignorant boor.
Who was the lady whose picture was placed across from his bed where he could see her every night before he went to sleep? A relative? An actress he admired? A former lover?
She backed away hastily and turned to the other room. It was as plain as the rest of the house, but somehow softer, with a quilted coverlet in muted tones and an empty vase on the table beside the bed. The house might not be “fitted out for a lady,” but some attempt had been made here, and the bedstead was wide enough to accommodate two sleepers side by side.
Jedediah got that bed for me. No one had ever cared so much for her happiness. Unwanted tears seeped into her eyes. When he returned, everything would be just as it should.
The bed was soft enough for a baby. She laid one of the spare cloths on top of the quilt and set the child down. He didn’t wake as she removed his diaper and carefully pinned on another. He would need a bath soon, but recuperative sleep, now that his stomach was full, was far more essential.
It felt strange, even wrong at first, to lie on the bed as if it belonged to her. She reminded herself that it was for the baby and settled him into the crook of her arm with a sigh she almost dared think of as contented. She tried to stay awake, certain that Holden Renshaw would soon come striding into the house with more questions and demands.
But her own body insisted on claiming its due, and she drifted into that half-world where anything was possible.
I will wait, Jedediah. I will not be afraid. I will make you happy.
And no one, not even Holden Renshaw, would stop her.
IT WAS DONE. Heath had committed himself, and there was no going back. Much as he hated the situation, much as he wanted to get as far away from humans as he could, he was bound by the baby. And the baby was bound to the woman until it was healthy again.
Not “it,” Heath reminded himself as he strode toward the bunkhouse. Him. Damn the woman. Wash your hands. Fill the bottle. Get back to work. She talked like a schoolmarm and gave orders like a cavalry sergeant.
Sure, the fear he’d smelled on her never completely went away. Most humans could feel that he wasn’t one of them without knowing why. He could make just about anyone afraid by staring them down or showing his teeth, and Sean had probably said plenty bad about him. Heath hadn’t exactly tried to prove the bastard wrong.
But Rachel had stood up to him, even though she must have had other things than him to be scared of. Whatever her reasons, she’d come a long way to a strange place to marry a man she could hardly know and found him gone. She must feel mighty alone.
Like everyone was alone in the end. Heath had no sympathy for her. She’d come here of her own free will. She hadn’t said much about herself in the letter he’d read; maybe those details were in the rest of the correspondence Heath hadn’t looked at. The words she’d written in her fine hand hadn’t been at all poetical, the kind Heath reckoned you’d send to a lover, just talk about when she planned to arrive and how she was looking forward to making Jed a good wife, whatever that was.
But there was something too quiet and humble in those words. Not like the woman he’d just left. It was as if they covered up secrets. Secrets she didn’t want even Jed to know.
Heath took off his hat and scrubbed at the sweat on his forehead. Rachel Lyndon was a puzzle, and he had no use for puzzles. She obviously had reasons for lying about being Mrs. McCarrick. He didn’t much care what they were, or why Jed had chosen her. He would let her keep that secret so she wouldn’t have to worry about her “reputation” living on a ranch full of men.
Hell, he wondered if she’d even figured out how her reputation could be ruined. If she’d ever taken a man into her body, he would eat something far worse than his hat.
Heath stopped in the middle of the yard. Mrs. McCarrick’s body was of no interest to him. Even if she hadn’t been Jed’s intended, he wouldn’t have given her a second glance. Too thin. Too unyielding. She wore the ugliest clothes he’d ever seen on a woman, and she wasn’t a wild hog’s idea of pretty. Even the most jaded whores knew how to tart themselves up. Frankie had been like that. She could almost make a man feel as if he was more than just another coin in her pocket.
But she’d still been a liar and a fake. Like all women.
Heath slammed his hat back on his head and kept on going. He had other things to worry about right now. Getting the things the woman needed. Finding a wet nurse. Where in hell was he supposed to locate a female who had a suckling infant and wanted to come out to the ranch to take on another?
“Holden!”
Joey skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m so glad you’re back!”
Heath kept walking, wishing the kid wouldn’t make him care that he’d be leaving without saying goodbye. “Where you been?” he muttered.
“Out with Charlie, brandin’ strays.” He skipped alongside Heath, his yellow hair flopping into his eyes. “You know I ain’t no shirker, Holden. I always do my share.”
“I know you do.”
“Is it true what I heard? About the lady?”
Heath sighed and stopped outside the bunkhouse door. “What’d you hear?”
“She came in from Javelina with Henry Sweet. She ain’t pretty, and she talks diff’rent. She says she’s—”
“Who told you all this?”
Joey ducked his head. “I was listenin’. You ain’t mad, are you, Holden?”
Mad at himself, not at Joey. The kid was too good at eavesdropping, and it bothered Heath that he hadn’t heard or smelled Joey nearby. He’d been too distracted by Rachel’s arrival, and that kind of distraction was a dangerous thing.
“Sean was spittin’ mad at you,” Joey said, grinning slyly. There was no love lost between him and Jed’s nephew, who’d always treated him like dirt. “Thought you’d never make him leave.” His grin went flat. “Is it really true that the lady is Jed’s wife?”
Heath grabbed Joey by his sleeve and pulled him back toward the stable. “Help me saddle Bess.”
The boy wouldn’t be put off. “Jed never said nothin’ ‘bout gettin’ hitched! You didn’t know, did you?”
Bess stamped and cocked her ears as Heath walked into the stable. “Guess he wanted it to be a surprise.”
Joey brought the saddle. “When do you think he’s coming home?”
Lying to the kid felt wrong, but Heath had been ready to lie a lot worse. “Haven’t heard from him in a while. He’s probably investin’ some of that money he got for the herd, maybe even buyin’ up new stock.”
“Oh.” Joey followed Heath as he led Bess outside. “You don’t like her, do you?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“You don’t like no females. I could tell you was mad as a hornet.”
Heath swung up into the saddle. “She’s Jed’s wife, and you got other things to worry about. I need you to talk to Maurice about askin’ the lady what she needs to be comfortable and make sure she gets it. I have somethin’ else to do.”
Joey gave Heath that look of pure trust that always made his chest tighten. “Things ain’t goin’ to be the way they used to anymore, are they?” the boy asked.
“Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
His words finally silenced Joey, though the boy was clearly not satisfied. Heath felt the kid’s stare raking across his back as he rode out.
It wasn’t going to be easy on Joey when he found out Jed was gone, and Heath wouldn’t be around to make it any easier. But maybe he would be able to do something he wouldn’t have been able to if he’d left for good the day he found Jed’s body.
Sonntag knew just about everything that went on in the county. He’d be able to tell Heath if anyone could use a boy to do small jobs around a ranch for food and shelter. And he’d know if some local woman had a new baby, though it could be complicated getting such a female to come to Dog Creek to act as a wet nurse.
He would make her come, if he had to. The kid was more important than any woman’s preferences, even if she was the queen of England herself.
JOEY WATCHED HOLDEN ride off, twisting a frayed piece of rope in his hands.
Holden was upset. Joey had known him for three of his sixteen years, ever since Holden had come to Dog Creek as a hand, and Joey could read his friend’s feelings like a book.
It wasn’t hard to figure out why Holden was riled. Jed hadn’t told him about getting married, and that must have hurt, the same way it hurt Joey. Holden was used to knowing everything that went on at Dog Creek.
And Joey couldn’t remember a single time when Holden had ever said something nice about a female. If he even knew any.
Wiping his hand across his nose, Joey stared at the house. He hadn’t risked staying around while Holden had been tussling with Sean, but something mighty interesting must have happened. If the lady coming to Dog Creek meant Sean was leaving for good, he was glad she’d shown up. Jed might be a little mad at first, but not for long. He loved Holden lots better than that no-good polecat Sean.
But what would Jed say when he found out about the baby? Where had it come from, and why had Holden taken it in?
Joey shook his head. That was a real puzzle. He’d never seen a baby, leastwise not up close. And he badly wanted to meet the lady. He would have to have a look-see for himself. Maurice could wait just a little longer to hear all the details.
Pushing his hat down on his head the way Heath liked to do, Joey crossed the yard. He paused in front of the door, tucked in his shirt and knocked.
No one answered. Joey opened the door, poked his head inside and heard singing. A woman singing a lullaby.
A hard lump settled in Joey’s throat. It was a song he knew from when he was a little kid, before …
You’re not a little kid no more. A song couldn’t hurt him, and neither could a lady, Jed’s wife or not.
He strode down the hall, hesitated just shy of the open bedroom door and knocked softly on the door frame.
The lady sat up, and Joey caught a quick glimpse of the bundle lying beside her, pinched the brim of his hat and stood up as straight as he knew how.
“Howdy, ma’am,” he said in his deepest voice. “Name’s Joey Ackerman. I work with Mr. Renshaw. He asked me to check in on you.”
Clear brown eyes met his. “How do you do, Mr. Ackerman,” she said very seriously. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Joey tucked his hands behind his back. “You’re Jed’s wife.”
Her eyes seemed to get darker somehow, like a storm cloud brewing on the horizon. “Yes. I am Mrs. McCarrick.” She was quiet for a while, and Joey had a chance to study her. She wasn’t exactly pretty, and she was thin, like she hadn’t had quite enough to eat. Joey knew what that felt like. The way she was sitting, like she was going to pop right up any moment, reminded Joey of a filly he’d seen once, looking calm but just about shaking with the need to run as fast as her feet would carry her.
He shifted his gaze to the bunch of blankets. “You, uh, need anything, Mrs. McCarrick?”
“I have all I need for the time being, Mr. Ackerman. Would you like to see the baby?”
Joey didn’t need another invitation. He moved to the side of the bed and peered into the screwed-up little face. Its eyes were closed, and its lashes were very long and very delicate.
“It looks right young,” he murmured. “Did Holden really bring him?”
Mrs. McCarrick stroked the baby’s silky hair. Joey watched the caress with a sort of hunger he hadn’t felt in a long time.
“So it would seem, Mr. Ackerman,” Mrs. McCarrick said.
“Joey, ma’am. No one calls me Mr. Ackerman.”
“Of course. Tell me, Joey. Have you known Mr. Renshaw long?”
Joey swelled up with pride. “Since he came to Dog Creek, ‘bout three years ago.”
“I can see that you think well of him.”
“Sure. I been here since I was eleven, and he’s the best foreman we ever had. No one can work cattle or ride and break horses like he does. It’s like he has some magic power over ‘em.” He shuffled his feet. “You shouldn’t judge him by how he acts sometimes, ma’am. He ain’t as mean as he looks.”
She tilted her head, considering his words as if they were important. “And Jedediah?” she said. “Are he and Holden good friends?”
It was a mighty strange question to ask, he thought, ‘specially since she was Jed’s wife and should know things like that. “Jed never trusted nobody like he trusts Holden.” He rubbed at the fringe of hair above his upper lip. “You didn’t know much about Dog Creek before you came, did you, ma’am?”
“Only from Mr. McCarrick’s description. He and I married in Ohio.”
“Guess this is quite a change for you, ma’am.”
She shifted around, tight as rawhide drying in the sun. “Have you been to Ohio, Joey?”
“Me? No, ma’am. I like it here just fine.” He searched her eyes. “Hope you like it here, too, Mrs. McCarrick.”
“My name is Rachel, Joey.”
Rachel. It was about the prettiest name Joey had ever heard. “You must be tuckered, ma’am. Rachel,” he said. “I’m goin’ to talk to Maurice, but I’ll be around case you need anything. Just whistle.”
She smiled, and Joey thought that smile changed her face completely. “I’ll do that, Joey. Thank you.”
His feet hardly touched the floorboards as he left the house. Now that he’d seen her, he didn’t understand why Holden didn’t like her. She was a right proper lady, and he could see she liked the baby, even if she’d never seen it before today.
Maybe she’d like him, too.
Joey nearly ran to the bunkhouse. Holden was wrong about Rachel. She was going to make Dog Creek a better place.
As soon as Jed was home, everything was going to be just fine.

Chapter Four
“MERCI, MAURICE.”
The big Frenchman beamed, his round face reddened from the sun and his eyes twinkling with effusive good humor. Rachel had liked the cook, who turned out to also be the blacksmith and launderer, from the moment he’d entered the house with offerings from his own stores in the ranch cookhouse. Like Joey, he seemed delighted to meet her and eager to see her well settled.
“It is nothing, madame,” he said. “I am honored to assist the wife of Monsieur McCarrick.”
She returned his smile. “I hope I will be able to lighten your load at Dog Creek,” she said. “I can certainly assume the washing duties.”
“Mais non, madame. It is not necessary.”
“I came here expecting to work hard, and that is what I intend to do. I may, however, require your advice as to what my husband prefers to eat.”
“Ah, the talent of cooking is wasted here, madame,” he said with an exaggerated shrug. “Beef, beans and biscuits. Biscuits, beans and beef.”
She laughed. “Then it shall not be so difficult, n’est-ce pas?”
With a great sigh, Maurice shook his head, bowed and left the house.
Rachel’s heart was almost light as she laid the loaf of bread on the table and took up the knife Maurice had brought. Between him and Joey—and perhaps Jedediah’s nephew, whom she wanted very much to trust—she was beginning to feel she might have friends at Dog Creek.
Joey had been perfectly charming. He was every bit the boy trying to be a man, earnest and serious. But he hadn’t been able to conceal his fascination with the baby. Or his natural friendliness and willingness to help.
In that respect he was very little like the man he so obviously admired.
Rachel’s smile faded as she cut a slice of smoked salt pork. It felt strange to be alone in this house now that the sun had set. The first night noises had brought her to an uneasy alert: coyotes howling, ominous scratchings from behind the walls, the keening of the wind. She was just frightened enough to be angry. Angry that Renshaw hadn’t come back to visit the baby. That his brief show of solicitude before he had left had been worth so little.
But of course he had no concern for her at all.
Checking the lantern to make sure it was still burning well, she listened for the baby in the bedroom. He was still asleep, oblivious to the loneliness that lay so unexpectedly heavy on her own shoulders. She had thought she was accustomed to such loneliness; she’d had so few people to rely upon during her years of struggle. It was ridiculous that she should feel bereft when she was soon to have companionship and a true purpose.
The bitter thought she could never quite conquer rose to mock her hope. What would they think if they knew my shame? If they guessed how thoroughly I have deceived them?
Even Jedediah knew nothing of it. How much more would Holden Renshaw despise her if he was aware of her deepest secret?
Why was his opinion of any concern to her at all?
He will never know. No one here will ever know.
Someone rapped on the door. Her heart fluttered treacherously. Had Holden Renshaw finally returned?
But it was not the foreman. Sean McCarrick tipped his hat and smiled in that same very charming way when they’d first met.
“Mrs. McCarrick,” he said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all.” She stepped back to let him enter. “Would you be seated?”
He glanced at the table and her plate. “I see that Renshaw actually considered the possibility that you might be hungry.”
“I am sorry I haven’t much to offer you, Mr. McCarrick.”
He took one of the chairs and removed his hat. “I don’t expect anything, ma’am. I just wanted to be sure that you and the baby are safe and well.”
“He is sleeping, thank you.”
“He’s all right, then? I admit I was surprised when I saw Renshaw with him. He’s the last man I’d expect to care about an abandoned child, let alone bring one home with him.”
Though she had entertained the very same thought, Rachel found herself bristling at Sean’s comment. “Yet he did so,” she said tartly.
He regarded her with obvious curiosity. “Has he won your good opinion, Mrs. McCarrick? Offered some defense of his attempt to send you away, perhaps?”
“I did not ask him about it.”
“I completely understand.” He smoothed his fine woolen trousers. “It wouldn’t be wise to confront him, under the circumstances. You’ll have ample opportunity when Jed returns.”
Rachel could not feel at ease, though there was no reason why she should not. They sat quietly for a few moments. Finally Sean cleared his throat.
“I’ve come for another reason, Mrs. McCarrick,” he said. “I’ve left Dog Creek.”
“Left?” she echoed. “But why?”
“I see you are not aware of what transpired after Renshaw gave you the child. It must seem strange to you, ma’am, but it has become impossible to continue here in my uncle’s absence. As I believe I mentioned before, Renshaw abuses the authority my uncle left him, and he treats … well, I have come to find his behavior intolerable.”
That was no surprise, considering the way the two men had glared at one another that morning. Harsh words had hardly been necessary to establish their mutual dislike.
“I’m sorry to hear it, Mr. McCarrick,” she said.
“Sean, please.” He smiled warmly. “Your concern is gratifying.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the door. “I have no desire to create trouble for you, which is why I have come to speak with you while Renshaw is absent. He has resented me ever since he came here three years ago. It has always been his intention to turn my uncle against me and steal Dog Creek.” He sighed. “Jedediah is a good, honest man—too trusting, I’m afraid. As difficult as it is to believe, Renshaw has been very skilled in making himself Jedediah’s confidant. He schemed to convince Jed that I was unworthy to act as foreman.”
Renshaw hardly seemed capable of such subtlety, but Rachel had not seen him with Jedediah. “It’s a terrible thing to be shut out by your own people,” she said, her voice thick with memory.
“It is, ma’am. A hard thing indeed.” He leaned forward, searching her eyes. “You speak as though you know how it feels.”
Had she been just a little less uncertain, she might have confided in him. It would be such a relief. But she knew it would have been the height of folly to admit even part of the truth.
“My parents died when I was very young,” she said.
“My deepest sympathies, Mrs. McCarrick.”
“Rachel,” she said, trying to smile. “It was a very long time ago.”
“I was also an orphan,” he said. “When my father died, Jedediah took me in and raised me as his own son.” He laid his hand over hers. “We have something in common, Rachel. I think we’ll be good friends.”
His words were too bold, and she drew her hand away. “I hope you will feel more welcome here when Jedediah returns.”
He leaned back again. “I hope you’ll speak to my uncle on my behalf. I have no doubt he’ll listen to you.” He hesitated. “I also hope you’ll take my advice, Rachel, and remain alert to any attempts Renshaw may make to undermine your position here. He will no doubt attempt to frighten you away.”
“I am Jedediah’s wife,” Rachel said. “Even if he were to dare attempt it, I assure you that I will not allow him to intimidate me.”
“I believe you. I don’t believe he will resort to physical means, but he is by nature a violent man. Be wary.” He rose abruptly. “I’ve taken too much of your time. If you should need an advocate, I won’t be far away. I’m staying with the Blackwells and hope to have employment with them very soon. Send a hand with a message to Blackwater anytime.”
It seemed a gallant offer, though Rachel could not quite shake the feeling that Sean expected greater intimacy than she was prepared to give. She rose to see him to the door. “Thank you for coming, Sean,” she said. “You have made me feel very welcome.”
“The least I can do for kin.” He tipped his hat. “I hope to see you again soon, Rachel.”
As soon as he had gone, she went back to the bedroom. The baby was just beginning to stir. He opened his blue eyes and smiled.
She knelt beside the bed. “What am I to think, little one?” she asked him, tracing his cheek with a fingertip. “I ought to trust Jedediah’s nephew. He is the closest thing I have to kin here, and he has been kind.”
So few people had ever been truly kind to her. Yet she couldn’t feel entirely easy with Sean or the things he had said, and upon reflection she began to understand why. He had admitted to a certain weakness of character in his unwillingness to stand up to Jedediah’s foreman in his uncle’s absence. He had suggested that Renshaw had attempted to bribe her in Javelina, yet he had not confronted the foreman with his suspicions. He had clearly suggested that she might find it difficult at Dog Creek while Jedediah was gone—that Holden Renshaw could be a threat to her, even capable of violence—yet he was leaving nevertheless. His offer to be her advocate seemed little more than empty words.
And there were other questions. Was she to believe that Jedediah possessed such poor judgment that he would listen to unjustified criticism of his own nephew by his foreman? Was Holden Renshaw so consumed by jealousy and greed that he would scheme to undermine Sean at every turn? Had he given the baby into her care while simultaneously intending to drive her away? How could he hope to make her leave when he had accepted her as Jedediah’s wife? She could make no sense of it.
He ain’t as mean as he looks, Joey had said. The boy seemed to look up to Holden Renshaw as an older brother, perhaps even a father. His account, brief as it was, could not be more thoroughly opposed to Sean’s.
But that only meant she must be even more wary. She knew that if she reported Sean’s visit to Holden Renshaw, or confronted him openly with what Sean had told her, she would get no closer to the truth. Guilty or not, Renshaw would simply deny Sean’s accusations and doubtless fling a few of his own.
That Renshaw could be dangerous she did not doubt; she had determined as much from the very beginning. She did not like him in the least. But those considerations could not possibly illustrate the full truth of his character. Had she not recognized even before Sean’s visit that her first impressions might be wrong?
Eyes like brooding thunderstorms, gliding muscle and a panther’s grace …
Kicking vigorously against the blankets, the baby gurgled. Rachel shivered and kissed his silky forehead, relieved to turn her thoughts to something less perilous. It was already clear that the child would recover from whatever had ailed him. He would live, and thrive, and grow.
“We shall do very well together, you and I,” she said.
For as long as she was permitted to keep him. She would have given a great deal to do so, though her feelings seemed dangerously impulsive. If his parents were never found … if Jed were willing to accept him …
It was too soon to hope. She would go on as she always had, minute by minute, hour by hour, taking each day as it came.
She lay down beside the baby and listened for Holden Renshaw long into the night.
THE UNSEASONABLY hot morning sun had robbed Javelina of life. Anyone with sense was indoors at the saloon next to the general store, in the livery stable or in the few houses that lined the single dusty road through town.
Heath stopped in front of the saloon, helped Lucia Gonzales to dismount from her mule and secured the animal’s lead to the hitching post. It had been a long and dirty ride from the Gonzales place at the far western border of the ranch, but Heath had found what he needed.
He’d expected the pay he’d offered would be enough to convince Lucia to leave the tiny farm her husband and sons struggled to keep alive. There had been an argument between the señora and her man, but it hadn’t lasted very long. Lucia was to live at Dog Creek with her own baby for as long as she was needed, and Luis and their three nearly grown sons would just have to get along without her.
As much as Heath hated to admit it, Lucia was as close to a truly decent woman as he’d ever met. She had made him welcome, insisting he stay overnight in their tiny casa so that she and Heath could start fresh in the morning. And she hadn’t complained once during the ride. She was so quiet he barely knew she was there at all.
Just the opposite of Rachel Lyndon.
Hell. He needed a drink. “We’ll go in for a spell,” he said, giving Bess a command to stay put. “The saloon has a dining room that caters to the stage trade. They’ll have somethin’ for you there.”
Lucia smiled at him. “Gracias, señor.”
He didn’t like being thanked any more than he liked being beholden. He gestured for her to precede him, and they walked through the side door that led into the dining room with its two small tables. It was empty except for two of the three women who lived in Javelina. Neither one of them offered a greeting as Heath showed Lucia to the other table.
“You wait here,” Heath told Lucia. He walked into the saloon and leaned on the bar, catching the bartender’s eye.
“One lemonade,” he said. “And a whiskey. Straight.”
Riley gave him a startled, curious look and went after the drinks. The handful of men at the bar and tables—drifters and unemployed cowhands, mostly—looked up at Heath and went straight back to their drinks. Heath ignored them and picked up the whiskey Riley brought him. The stuff almost always made him feel a little sick; the smell and taste were too strong for his loup-garou senses. He drank it anyway.
The bartender plunked the lemonade on the bar and set him up for another drink. “Heard Jed’s still not back from Kansas,” he said, wiping a glass with a stained towel.
Heath downed the second drink without answering.
“Heard about Jed’s missus,” Riley said.
Heath ordered a third whiskey and nursed it, turning the glass around in his hands.
“They say you found a baby, too,” Riley persisted.
“That’s right.”
It was obvious that Riley wanted to hear a lot more, but he didn’t ask. Heath finished his drink, threw down his money and returned to the dining room with the lemonade. He gave it to Lucia and walked over to the store.
Sonntag greeted him with his merchant’s smile, hovering expectantly. “You found the lady?” he asked.
Heath nodded briefly. Sonntag was one of the few folk in the county who never seemed wary of him. He picked up a roll of cheap cotton and a few other things he thought Mrs. McCarrick might need before Maurice came to town with the wagon. Sonntag called his attention to a fancy painted cradle he claimed he’d just gotten in from San Antonio.
“The best money can buy,” the storekeeper said in his thick German accent. “Where did you find the baby, Herr Renshaw?”
Heath straightened from his inspection and gave Sonntag a steady look. “Be best if people kept more to themselves and worried less about other people’s business.”
Sonntag stood his ground. “You have done a good thing, Mr. Renshaw.”
Heath nudged the cradle with the toe of his boot. “Ain’t got much call for somethin’ like this in Javelina.”
The storekeeper’s eyes gleamed. “For you, Herr Renshaw, and for the new bride, I would offer an excellent bargain.” He pushed up his spectacles. “How is Mrs. McCarrick?”
“Fine,” Heath said through gritted teeth. He strode to the counter and removed a few coins from his money pouch. “You get any more of that jam in?”
“One jar.” Sonntag cocked his head. “No cradle today, Herr Renshaw?”
“I’ll think about it.” Except he wouldn’t be thinking about it at all, because he wouldn’t be making any more personal stops in Javelina if he could help it. Sonntag hadn’t had any ideas about helping Joey find work somewhere else, and Heath didn’t figure anything new would crop up in the next few days. He went out for his saddlebags, dropped them on the counter and left Sonntag to pack his purchases while he looked over the patch of wall the town used for announcements and the rare advertisement.
When he saw the poster, it was like looking in a cracked mirror. The face in the drawing was almost completely covered with a full black beard, mustache and long, unkempt hair. The eyes were the same, but the artist had the nose wrong. The scar across the wanted man’s neck was knotted and ugly. Heath Renier, accused of murder, rustling and armed robbery, had last been seen near Dallas four years ago.
“Quite a villain,” Sonntag said, coming up behind him. “I would not wish to meet him in a dark place.”
Heath let out his breath very slowly. “When did this come in?”
“From San Antonio, with my new goods yesterday. It is a great deal of money, nicht wahr? Ach, what I could do with such money!” Sonntag shrugged. “But men like that are not easily found. His appearance may be nothing like this picture after so many years.”
Heath returned to the counter and grabbed the saddlebags. “Maurice will be along for more later.”
“Very well, Herr Renshaw.” Heath could feel Sonntag’s stare as he left the store, weighing him, wondering. He touched the neckerchief around his throat.
If Sonntag or anyone else had recognized Holden Renshaw as Heath Renier, he would have been arrested by now. But it was a bad sign that they were putting out posters this far south and west. It meant the law was still on his trail and getting closer.
The kid had to get well soon, though Heath would be safe a while longer if he was careful. Coming into Javelina all normal-like, after everything that had happened, probably even worked in his favor.
Just as he put Lucia up on the mule, he heard hoofbeats behind him, coming fast.
He turned around. Amy Blackwell’s bay mare pulled up hard, raising dust hip high.
“Holden Renshaw,” she said, her pretty face twisted with anger. “I hope they hang you for what you’ve done.”
Heath’s heart slammed a dozen times before he got it under control. He touched the brim of his hat.
“Afternoon, Miss Blackwell,” he said. “Reckon they have some hangin’ rope at Sonntag’s. You mind tellin’ me what I’ve done first?”
“You know perfectly well,” she said, tossing back the blond hair she always wore loose around her shoulders. “Sean came to us as soon as you ran him off.”
The tension went out of Heath’s body. He’d never doubted that that was where Sean would have headed first. He’d been in good with the Blackwells for some time, playing up his education at some fancy school back East and the highfalutin manners Jed had paid so much for. Sean had hankered after Amy, too.
Looked like he was getting her.
“Sean tell you why?” he asked. “Or did he just howl like a burnt coyote?”
Her gloved hands tightened on the reins as she shifted on her sidesaddle. “Must there be a reason when a gentleman is run off his own ranch by a jealous cowhand?”
Heath let her see the edges of his teeth. “It ain’t his ranch yet, Miss Blackwell. If he promised to sell you Dog Creek, he’s layin’ you a false scent.”
Amy edged her mount a few steps back and flung up her head like a rebellious filly. “You may be interested to know that we intend to employ Mr. McCarrick at Blackwater. He is not without friends.”
“You want Sean for a friend, Miss Blackwell, that’s your lookout. But he’ll use you, just like he uses anyone he thinks he can string along.”
Amy swung her arm up, and for a split second it looked as if she might try to hit him with her quirt. She didn’t. She just stared at him, hate and confusion in her eyes.
“When Sean’s uncle returns, he will hear about this,” she snapped.
“It’s Sean who should be scared of that, ma’am.”
With a sharp, angry cry, Amy jerked her mare around and kicked it into a run.
“The señorita is very angry,” Lucia said solemnly.
“Yeah.”
“When will Señor McCarrick return?”
“Soon.” Heath took the mule’s lead. “Let’s get on home.”
It was near evening when Heath and Lucia reached Dog Creek. He smelled something wrong as soon as they got near the house.
Joey was waiting for him in the yard, his wiry body vibrating with tension. “Holden!”
Heath dismounted and helped Lucia dismount. “What is it?”
“The hands! They all up ‘n left …’ ceptin’ me ‘n Maurice. They rode in from the range a few hours ago. Didn’t say a word, just lit out again right away.”
Heath pulled off his hat and raked his hand through his hair. “Where the hell’d they go?”
“Don’t know. But—” He bit his lip. “Maurice says Sean was here talkin’ to El and Gus last night.”
Sean. Heath hadn’t seen this coming, and he should have. The son of a bitch would have made the most of Heath being gone. He had a way of making people follow him. People like Amy, too blind or stupid to see through his lies.
The force of his own anger pulled him up short. Why was he so mad? It wasn’t as if he had to worry about problems like this much longer.
“This here’s Señora Gonzales,” he said to Joey. “You show her into the house.”
“But, Holden, we ain’t done brandin’! What are we gonna do?”
“We would have let most of the hands go in a couple of weeks, anyway. Now git.”
Joey didn’t like it, but he did as he was told. He touched his hat to Lucia and led her to the house. When he returned, Heath set him to unsaddling the mule.
“How’d it go with Lucia?” he asked.
“Mrs. McCarrick was sure happy to see her. They showed each other their babies like they was prize bulls.”
Heath was in no mood for laughing. He saw to Bess, shouldered the saddlebags and headed for the house, aware that he stank of sweat and horse and needed a bath.
And he needed a run. A good, hard run to clear his mind and remind himself that he was almost free.
He entered the house without knocking. The whole place smelled of warm human bodies, strong coffee and something good cooking in the kitchen. Rachel was sitting at the table, the baby in her arms. Lucia sat beside them with her own kid, and Heath could see that he’d interrupted their talk. The dim light made Rachel seem different somehow. Not sharp and skinny, with a tongue like a knife, but gentle, like Lucia. It gave him a strange, unsettled feeling in his chest.
Especially because she didn’t look scared now, or suspicious, or angry. She almost looked happy, as if she’d just been given some pretty ribbon or one of those shiny copper pots he’d seen at Sonntag’s.
She almost looked glad to see him.
“I have been speaking with Lucia,” she said with a smile that gave a sparkle to her eyes. “I am grateful that she is willing to help us.”
Grateful. He hated that word; it bothered him worse than her smile. He didn’t want to hear in Rachel’s voice or see it in her eyes, or care if she was glad to see him or not. None of it was real.
He’d planned to do whatever she told him, treat her right so she would stay as long as he needed her. But now that he saw her again, all “grateful” as she was, the old bitterness was rearing up, stronger than reason or sense. Rachel Lyndon troubled him too much, and a day and night away hadn’t eased that feeling. Every time he was around her, it only got worse.
Lucia didn’t make him feel that way. She was quiet. She hadn’t tried to argue or order him around. And she would never betray him, because she would never know any more about him than she knew now.
If Lucia took over the baby’s care, Heath might never have to speak to Rachel again.
“You mind leavin’ us alone, señora?” he said to Lucia.
She gathered up her baby, nodded to Rachel and went into the hall.
“That wasn’t necessary,” Rachel said, some of the light going out of her eyes.
“How’s the kid?” he asked.
“Much better than when you brought him. He will be better still when he has …” She hesitated, getting a little red in the face. “When he has the nourishment he needs.”
Heath didn’t let his relief lead him off track. “Now that Lucia’s here,” he said, “you won’t have to look after the kid no more.”
She blinked and clutched the baby a little tighter. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard what I said.”
“Perhaps you misunderstood my request for a nurse. Mrs. Gonzales has a family of her own. I would not impose upon her any more than necessary. And I certainly have no plans to surrender the baby’s care to anyone else.”
Confusion wasn’t a feeling Heath suffered often, but this woman had him balancing on a broken fence rail with prickly pear thick on either side. She couldn’t really care as much as she pretended. She was acting on some female instinct, the way any animal did, the same way the wolf in him knew how to be a wolf without ever being taught.
Animals could turn on their own get, and so could human females. They could throw their young away if they got too troublesome, turn from love to hate in an instant. And Rachel Lyndon wasn’t even the kid’s real mother.
Rachel looked up then, and Heath saw that her eyes were wet. She was afraid again, but not in the same way as before.
She was afraid he would take the baby away.
You’re crazy. But somehow he knew he was right. She wanted to keep the baby, even though she didn’t know the first thing about what he was.
Because she didn’t know what he was.
Easing down into a chair, Heath looked at his callused hands. Loups-garous healed fast, and a Change could erase most all the damage that could be done to a man by wind and weather, knife and gun. But if you pushed your body hard enough, even a hundred Changes couldn’t erase all the marks left by a lifetime of hard living.
He almost reached up to touch his neck again, that one wound so bad it had almost killed him. The scar he’d never lose. He remembered that wanted poster in the general store. How did he think he could ever take care of the baby, even when it was old and strong enough to do without the things only a female could provide? What kind of life could he make for a child?
Better than the life he’d had. The kid would never know what it was like to …
He shook off the memories and looked at his son. The boy seemed to be holding Rachel as hard as she was holding him, his little fists clenched in the shawl around her shoulders and his head snuggled under her chin. He turned in her arms just enough so he could look back at Heath.
There wasn’t any way the kid could understand what Heath had said, but his little round eyes spoke just the same.
I need her.
Hellfire.
“I ain’t interferin’ between you and Lucia,” he said, looking away from both of them. “You do what you think is right.”
A little at a time, Rachel’s shoulders relaxed. She rested her cheek against the baby’s, looking just like a picture of the Madonna Heath had seen once in a church. Benevolent, distant, untouchable.
“You must be very tired, Mr. Renshaw,” she said, her voice a lot easier than his thoughts. “Lucia will rest in my room. If you will hold the baby, I’ll make biscuits and coffee.”
A Madonna who wanted to cook for him. And wanted him to hold the baby.
“I don’t expect nothin’ like that from you, Mrs. McCarrick,” he said gruffly. “We got Maurice.”
“I’m sure he is an excellent cook.”
“Good enough for us, I reckon. Maybe not what a lady is accustomed to.”
The word lady came out sharper and angrier than he’d meant. He only had to see the new stiffness in her body to know she was back to old Rachel again.
“You cannot possibly have any idea what I am accustomed to,” she snapped.
“The way you talk says plenty,” he snapped back.
“Because I have an education? How is that proof of prosperity, Mr. Renshaw? In fact, I have known what it is to—”
She clamped her lips together and blushed. He saw pain in the hollows under her eyes and in her pinched lips. Pain he had noticed before but didn’t want to see.
Who in hell was she? And what exactly had she “known”?
“Mr. Renshaw,” she said suddenly, the way someone does when they want to change the subject in a hurry. “There is another issue we must discuss. Where do you propose to sleep tonight?”
The question caught him by surprise. She must have noticed the other bedroom and realized it was his. It made sense that she would want him out of the house right away.
But there was that sense of something hidden that Heath had felt before; it was in her voice and in her eyes, crouching behind her propriety, clawing its way closer to the surface and shredding what was left of the Madonna’s mask. An unexpected wildness in the brown eyes that glanced at him and quickly away.
He flared his nostrils to take in her scent, so subtle under the stronger smells—laundered cotton, the lingering fragrance of soap, a hint of perspiration. And another he knew as well as he did every bend and twist of Dog Creek.
The truth caught his body before his mind. His cock hardened, straining against his britches, and his breath came short.
Rachel was aware of him. Not just as Jed’s foreman, someone she didn’t like or trust, but as a man. Male to her female. Her scent gave her away sure as the smell of bluebonnets announced the coming of spring. She was thinking about things no married woman should. Things he had decided a prim-and-proper lady like her would probably never think about at all.
And he was thinking the same, even though she wasn’t pretty, couldn’t be trusted and thought he was beneath her.
When she ought to be beneath him, her legs wrapped around his waist …
Heath cursed under his breath. Didn’t matter who or what she was. He couldn’t stop his body from reacting. He’d never been inclined to fight what it needed, even when he wanted nothing as much as to stay far away from anything with tits.
Once, years ago, he’d make the mistake of touching a woman like her. Her kind always denied that kind of wanting because it went against what they wanted to believe. Females like Frankie expected nothing but money from a man. They were as honest as any woman could be; they knew what they were and didn’t try to pretend any different. He could leave their beds and never have to look at them again.
If he ever got into Rachel’s bed …
Heath didn’t want to think about that. He didn’t want to feel anything for Rachel Lyndon. Not even mindless animal lust.
He grinned at her. “That an invitation, Mrs. McCarrick?” he asked.

Chapter Five
SEEING HER FLINCH didn’t help nearly as much as Heath thought it would. She went so pale that he thought she was going to swoon, and he almost got up to catch her.
She didn’t swoon. The color rushed back into her face, and her eyes went so cold that they could have covered the range in ice.
“I see I have been mistaken in assuming that you were worthy of my husband’s trust,” she said.
If a man had said that to Heath, he would be looking at a broken jaw. But Heath had never come close to hitting a woman. Not even the ones who’d tried to kill him.
“I’ll be movin’ out of the house tonight,” he said, getting up.
She set to rocking the baby, pretending Heath didn’t exist. That rankled more than any spiteful thing she could have said.
“Did Joey tell you about the hands?” he asked, just to make her look at him again.
The poisoned air between them cleared away, and it was all businesslike the way it should have been from the first. “He mentioned something about their leaving,” Rachel said without taking her eyes from the kid. “It will be difficult to run the ranch without them, will it not?”
“It ain’t your worry, Mrs. McCarrick.”
She met his gaze with that familiar spark of defiance. “It is if it affects the baby.”
“It won’t. I already know where I can—”
What in hell was wrong with him? He was explaining himself to her like some sniveling clerk telling his boss the missing money wasn’t his fault. The kid was making him go soft as a banker’s hands.
And it wasn’t as if he had to worry about running the ranch much longer.
“The baby’s your lookout,” he said. “Dog Creek is mine.” He got up. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“You didn’t have any.”
“Thanks for the offer, then.” He turned to go and stopped again. “Somethin’ else. You came to Dog Creek with Sean McCarrick. Where’d you meet him?”
She hesitated. “On the way from town. He said that Jed had sent him.”
“He’s a liar. Jed never told him nothin’ about you.” The stubborn set of her jaw only made him angrier. “Maybe he told you some stories. Maybe you don’t believe anythin’ I say. But he’s the one who got all the hands to leave. He can’t be trusted as far as you can spit.”
“I don’t spit, Mr. Renshaw.” But her tart reply masked an uneasiness Heath could smell a mile away. “Why would Mr. McCarrick do such a thing?”
“‘Cause he’d do anythin’ to see the ranch fail rather than see me keep it goin’ till Jed—” He broke off, unable to give voice to the lie.
“You hate him,” she said.
“Not half as much as he hates me.”
“He left Dog Creek because of you.”
“Who told you that? Joey?”
“I …” She bit her lip. “Yes.”
“I should have run the son of a bitch off a long time ago.”
“What did Sean ever do to you?”
“It ain’t just what he’s done. It’s what he is.”
“And what are you, Mr. McCarrick?” Her glance fell to his Colt. “I was told that the West could be a violent place. Is that why you carry that gun?” She swallowed. “Would you use it on someone you hated?”
“What in hell did Sean tell you?”
She pulled back like a turtle into its shell. “Nothing,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry for asking.”
He doubted that very much. Her opinion of him was fixed, no matter what her body wanted. And he didn’t care what she thought of him. He didn’t.
But the Colt, as much a part of him as the hand that wielded it, hung heavy with her scorn. He’d used it more than once on someone he’d hated, someone who wanted to kill him. But not since he’d come to Dog Creek. It was a piece of his old life, one he hadn’t quite been able to let go, but he’d never planned to use it on a man again.
You ain’t doin’ it for her, he told himself as he unbuckled the belt, dropped it on the table and went to leave.
“Wait. Please.”
He waited, though he didn’t want to be around her one more minute. “Ma’am?”
“I understand that we have neighbors. The Blackwells.”
He wondered why she’d brought that up now, and who had told her about the Blackwells. “Yeah,” he said. “We share a border with Blackwater along Dog Creek. They have the biggest spread in the county.”
“I see. There are ladies at Blackwater?”
“Amy and Mrs. Blackwell. Fine ladies the both of them.” He frowned. “Why?”
“Would it be expected of me to visit them?”
What Jed knew about visiting manners could fit on the tip of a lizard’s tail, but he did know he didn’t want Rachel involved with the Blackwells. “You just got here,” he said. “The Blackwater house is near twenty miles away. No one’s expectin’ you to run around the county just yet.”
She nodded so fast that he knew that was what she’d hoped to hear. “Thank you, Mr. Renshaw.” All stiff and formal again. And that was a very good thing. Heath pinched the brim of his hat and walked out, an itch between his shoulder blades, anger in his gut and the ache still in his loins. She’d put those feelings there, and they were going to stick as long as he stayed at Dog Creek. And if she couldn’t get her own lust under control, she would be suffering the same way.
That didn’t make him feel much better. He didn’t want her distracted. Little as he wanted to admit it, Rachel was right about one thing: no one else could take care of the kid as well as she could. Even if she believed Sean’s lies, whatever they’d been, that wouldn’t affect her feelings for the baby. The feelings she believed were real.
His pace slowed as he got near the cabin that Sean had vacated and he would soon be occupying again. He’d been thinking a lot about what he had to do to make the baby well so the two of them could get away. He’d thought about Joey’s future. He’d even tried to warn Rachel about Sean.
But even then he hadn’t let himself think about why he had to warn her, or what she would do once Jed was declared dead. Sure, he’d driven Sean off the ranch, but that had been more for himself than for her, and Sean would only stay gone until Heath wasn’t around to make sure he did.
What was the point in warning her, anyway? She didn’t believe what he’d told her, and her opinion of Sean, whatever it was, wouldn’t affect Heath when he was hundreds of miles away or change anything Sean decided to do.
There was a ball of lead inside Heath’s chest worse than anything he’d felt since he’d left the house. When he’d buried the saddlebags and the wills, he’d stopped caring what happened to Dog Creek. Jed’s intended hadn’t been real to him then, and he’d never even dreamed of the baby’s existence.
The kid would be taken care of, no matter what Heath had to do to make sure of it. But there wouldn’t be anyone to stand beside Rachel. Sean was a coward and a weakling, all hat and no cattle, but he was smart in his own way, and he did have friends in the county. He didn’t know that the greatest obstacle to his ambitions—Jedediah—was already out of his way, but that wouldn’t keep him from scheming about how to make sure Jed’s wife never got what he thought was his by right. Even once the truth was out and the new will, if Jed had left other copies, made Sean’s claim harder to push through.
And if Sean ever suspected Rachel was lying about having married Jed …
She’ll leave, Heath thought. She might think she wants Dog Creek for her home now, but that’ll change. She can’t fight on Sean’s level.
Heath reached the door to the cabin and stopped. He owed Rachel something for taking care of the kid, but the rest wasn’t his problem. She wouldn’t want his help anyway; she might feel sorry about losing the baby, but she wouldn’t mourn when he was gone.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt much to give her the means to tide herself over once she left Dog Creek. That would have to be enough.
Stepping back from the door, Heath went straight for the stable. He had one more job to do before the day’s work was done.
HHAT WAS WRONG with her?
Rachel sat up on the bed and dropped her head into her hands, fruitlessly. The baby lay undisturbed beside her, oblivious of her feelings. That was the only blessing.
Oh, how she had tried to prepare herself for Holden Renshaw’s return. She had been so certain that she could face the foreman again with composure and objectivity, with all the polite and distant neutrality that was absolutely necessary under these precarious circumstances.
She had failed. She had been so grateful when Lucia had arrived; Renshaw had been gone so long because he had been fulfilling her request for a wet nurse, and that could only count in his favor.
But then he’d told her that she didn’t have to care for the baby any longer, and it had seemed that her worst fears were being realized. She was just a tool to him, a tool to be tossed aside when she was no longer of use. Just as Sean had said, Renshaw was scheming to drive her away.
For a little while, anger had bolstered her resolve. She’d felt safer behind that shield, protected from his glittering, uncanny eyes. Then he’d turned the tables on her again. You do what you think is right.
Trusting her. Forcing her to once again question Sean’s suggestion that Renshaw had been behind the attempted bribe in Javelina. Compelling her to let down her guard again, until she had almost gone so far as to tell him …
Rachel lifted her head and stared blindly at the bare wall. She’d almost made an admission that would show Renshaw just how desperate she had been to leave her old life behind. And then, afraid that he would think too much about what she’d almost said, she had blurted out the question that had been in her mind ever since she had looked into his room.
Where do you propose to sleep tonight?
His gaze had met hers, and she’d felt as if he were stripping off her clothing, dress and corset and petticoats and undergarments, to reveal her quivering nakedness. For one awful moment she had imagined what it might be like to give herself to such a man, feel his long limbs and hard muscles moving against her body.
She closed her eyes. No matter how resolutely she tried to shut the memories out of her mind, no matter the terrible consequences that had come from her one and only indiscretion, she could still feel it. Feel the ecstasy of Louis lying over her, inside her, arousing such painful joy that she had become a wanton, lost to all reason.
That wanton should no longer exist. She should have died on the day her aunt had cast her, penniless, into the street. When the life sheltered within her, the fragile flame sparked by what she had thought was love, flickered out.
But that shameful other self had outlived the infant Rachel had wanted so badly. Oh, she had managed to believe herself cured during the hard years that followed, through Jedediah’s epistolary courtship and her journey from Ohio. She had told herself that what she must do with Jedediah would be only a way of making him happy, a task no different than sweeping the floor or washing his shirts.

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