The Lawman Claims His Bride (Love Inspired Historical) (15 page)

“Your friend sounds like a very wise woman.”

“Oh, she is.” Thinking of Bella brought on another batch of tears. Embarrassed at her loss of control, Megan buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Joining her on the edge of the bed, Mrs. Mitchell tugged her into a motherly hug. “You’re exhausted. You’ve left everything and everyone you know. You’re in a strange, new world.”

“I’m supposed to be happy,” Megan said. “I just married the best man I know, a man I love with all my heart. And I’m truly glad to be here with his family.”

“We’re happy to have you here.”

Megan pulled back and wiped at her cheeks. “How much do you know about me?”

“I know Logan loves you. That’s enough for me.”

Logan must have skimmed over the details of Megan’s past. “Do you know the circumstances of my birth? That I have no idea who my father is?”

“Logan told us all about your childhood, including why and how you ended up at an orphanage like Charity House.” There was compassion in the woman’s tone and no matter how hard Megan looked into her mother-in-law’s eyes she couldn’t find a hint of condemnation staring back at her.

She had to make sure Mrs. Mitchell truly knew
everything
about her. She wouldn’t start her marriage with secrets. “Did Logan tell you that once my mother’s stage career ended she went to work in a brothel?”

“Your mother loved you enough to send you to a Christian orphanage where you were able to break free of her sinful lifestyle.” She touched Megan’s arm. “Given the circumstances of your childhood, I predict you understand God’s grace better than most.”

Too choked to speak, Megan slowly nodded. Thanks to the godly people at Charity House, she’d learned that the Lord loved even the unlovable, including women like Jane Goodwin. The very arms that defeated death on the cross were open to all, including sinners, including a woman of questionable virtue, including her daughter.

“I won’t deny that your mother made many bad choices,” Mrs. Mitchell said. “But her decision to send you to Charity House ultimately led you to Logan. That’s what I call providence. God’s providence.”

Fresh tears filled Megan’s eyes. Jane Goodwin had given her life and had done the best she could with her limited resources. But in a matter of minutes, Mrs. Mitchell had become something more to Megan, more than Jane had ever been. She’d become a mother.

Chapter Fifteen

L
ogan hooked the heel of his boot on the corral’s bottom rail, leaned his elbows on the top and then looked out over the mountains. He rolled his shoulders, hoping to ease the multitude of knots. He’d forgotten what it felt like to put in a long day of hard labor on the ranch. Although every muscle in his body ached, he hadn’t felt this satisfied in years. Now all he wanted was a decent meal and time alone with his wife.

His sweet, beautiful Megan.

He hadn’t wanted to leave her this morning. Just thinking about what Kincaid had done to her, what he’d
tried
to do to her still made Logan’s gut churn with rage. Surely that explained why he’d been on edge all day. Why his instincts were on high alert even at this late hour.

The bulk of his uneasiness should be gone by now. Yet a sense of foreboding rode him hard, as if danger lurked just out of reach—waiting for the right moment to strike.

Unhappy with the direction of his thoughts, Logan waited until his brothers trooped inside the house before turning his attention to the north range. His gut told him something was out there. Or rather,
someone
.

Before he could decide whether he should investigate his suspicions or shrug them off as a result of exhaustion, his father joined him at the railing. “It’s a real blessing to have you home, son.”

Logan sensed a grim seriousness beneath the words, but he couldn’t pinpoint the source. “We had a good day,” he said carefully.

“We did.” His father dipped his bandanna in the water trough next to him and began scrubbing the trail dust off his face and neck. “More challenging than most.”

Logan conceded the point with a short nod. Several of the newborn calves had been hidden in thick, gnarled underbrush. The cow dogs had been undaunted, rooting out the most stubborn with ruthless, well-honed precision. “Sally Mae and Jake are worth their weight in gold.”

Smiling, his father continued rubbing the dirt off his neck. “That they are.”

As silence fell between them, Logan took in the view with another sweeping glance. The ranch was bathed in the soft, golden glow of late afternoon. He loved the Flying M, and the simple, uncomplicated life that came from working the land.

It was during quiet moments like these that Logan regretted ever leaving home. His fight with Hunter had been the catalyst. Logan had needed to prove he wasn’t like his gunslinger brother, that he was an agent for good rather than evil. In the end, the life of a lawman had fit him well. Or so he’d thought.

But now, after the events of the last two days, Logan wondered if he was only fooling himself. Maybe he wasn’t as in control as he’d always believed. Maybe he wasn’t the good devoted Christian taking the righteous path to which he’d been called. He knew—knew beyond a shadow of a doubt—that if he’d come across Kincaid hurting Megan, he would have done whatever necessary to save her.

Including killing the blackguard.

What sort of man did that make him? Good? Evil? Something in between?

A sudden urge to see his wife overtook all other desires. He needed to hold her and make sure she was safe.

He turned toward the house.

“Logan, wait.” His father set a hand on his shoulder.

Impatience speared through him. He wanted to shrug off the viselike grip but held steady. “I have to check on Megan.”

“I know you’re worried about your wife. We all are.” His father dropped his hand and held Logan in place with nothing more than a firm look, a look that said he had something important to say. Something Logan wasn’t going to like. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, about what happened to Megan in that brothel two nights ago.”

Logan’s chest tightened at the change in his father’s tone. “Are you worried I’ve brought the danger with us? That I’ve put the family at risk?”

“No.” His father flicked his hand in dismissal. “No. That’s not what’s bothering me.”

“But what if I did?” His gaze automatically shot toward the north range. Apprehension gnawed at him with the tenacity of little rat teeth.

“There’s no use worrying over what might or might not happen in the future,” he said in his matter-of-fact tone Logan knew well. “If someone comes to hurt your wife, or tries to threaten our family, then we’ll deal with it in the same way we always do, as a united front.”

Logan nodded, wondering why he didn’t feel more reassured. Maybe because he couldn’t stop thinking about Megan and the terror she must have experienced when Kincaid pulled his knife.

Lord, give me the strength to protect her and keep her safe.

“Like I was saying—” Cyrus rubbed his chin between his thumb and forefinger “—something doesn’t add up about what you said happened that night.”

A lot of things didn’t add up. “Where are you headed with this, Pa?”

“I don’t believe the woman I met this morning, the one who was determined to walk on her own steam despite her injury would have lost her memory just because she witnessed a murder.”

“Murder is
never
easy to see,” he said. “Especially for someone like Megan. She’s been sheltered most of her life.”

“You underestimate her. She’s stronger than you think.”

Under normal circumstances Logan would agree. Megan
was
a strong woman, and more capable than most. But she’d been brutally attacked by a bad man with evil intent in his heart. No woman, no matter how strong, could walk away unscathed from such an experience. “She was traumatized,” he said through a tight jaw.

“I’m not denying that what happened to her was a travesty. But what if something else caused her to forget the events of that night, something far worse than witnessing the murder of her attacker?”

Logan lowered his gaze, praying his father was wrong. But he couldn’t ignore the thumping of his heart, or the dread sweeping through him. Had Kincaid done something horrible to Megan, something so terrible that her mind refused to accept the truth?

His stomach roiled at the terrible possibilities that came to mind, things too awful to speak aloud. Shane had confirmed that Megan was still innocent. Could he have been wrong?

Logan banished the thought.

“What if your wife knew the identity of the man who killed her attacker? What if that’s why she can’t remember the events of that night?”

The question took Logan aback. “You think Megan lost her memory because she knew the man who killed Kincaid?”

His father nodded.

“But why?”

“Why else?” Cyrus pushed away from the rail. “To protect him.”

* * *

Still reeling from his father’s theory behind Megan’s memory loss, Logan went in search of his wife. He found her in his old room, asleep in one of the chairs. Her legs were stretched out on the ottoman while she hugged her sketchbook tightly against her. The ring he’d put on her finger the day before looked as though it belonged there, as though it had been there for years—a symbol as solid as his love for her.

She looked peaceful in sleep, tranquil even, and yet Logan couldn’t shake his uneasiness. He’d thought bringing her to the Flying M would alleviate his worries. Now his father’s suggestion had added additional confusion to an already uncertain situation.

Letting out a slow breath of air, Logan moved closer to the chair, careful not to wake his bride. The setting sun spread fingers of pink-tinted light across her face, making her features appear soft and radiant. She was so lovely, so
beautiful.
It took an ironclad will to keep from touching her.

For years, Logan had prayed for the day he could make Megan his wife. Marriage was where the two of them would become one, where their own family would begin. But she was still fragile from her ordeal. He
must
be careful with her.

He brushed a lock of hair off her face. His hand shook from the control it took to keep his touch light. He ached for Megan, had always ached for her, from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her.

But he found it hard to enjoy watching her now. His father’s words played through his head, taunting him. He had to consider the possibility that she knew the man who’d killed her attacker.

If Megan knew the man, that meant Logan probably did, as well.

Mattie Silks had warned him he wouldn’t like what he found if he persisted with his investigation. What had the madam been hiding from him?

As soon as the question formed in his mind, Marc Dupree’s words came back to him.
I consider her my daughter. I would do anything,
anything
to protect her.

Had those words been a confession? Had Marc killed Kincaid to protect Megan?

It was possible. More than possible. But only a theory at this juncture. None of the evidence pointed to Marc. In fact, none of the evidence pointed to
anyone.
It was as if the killer had vanished into thin air.

Megan sighed in her sleep, the sound cutting through Logan’s troubling thoughts. He curled his fingers into a fist and forced himself to remain where he was, to keep his hands to himself.

She sighed again, then wiggled into a more comfortable position.

He gave in to temptation and moved a step closer. He ordered himself to behave like a gentleman. In hopes of distracting himself, he slowly pried the sketchbook out of her grip and flipped through the first few pages.

She’d attempted a handful of drafts of the snow-peaked mountains. None were complete, each drawing nothing more than a series of disconnected lines that hinted at a picture.

Studying the sketches a moment longer, Logan noted a shadowy figure in the lower right corner of all the drawings.

Kincaid’s killer?

Hard to tell. The general build and masculine set of the shoulders could belong to a number of men. Even Logan himself.

Patience,
he told himself.
All will be revealed in time.

Shutting the book, he placed it on the ground at his feet. He would ask Megan about the man in the drawings when the time was right. Not now.

Now
he just wanted to hold her and assure himself she was as well as she appeared to be in sleep. Forcing his heartbeat to settle, he sat on the edge of the ottoman, slipped his hands around her shoulders and gently pulled her into his arms.

She murmured his name, her breath warm against his neck. Then she curled into him, hugging him tightly.

Offering up a silent prayer for control, he buried his face in her hair. “I missed you, sweetheart.”

“Logan.” She rubbed her nose along his neck, her voice husky from sleep. “You smell good.”

He loosened his hold and tried to pull back.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him tighter against her. “I love your scent. I’ve missed it all these years.”

She punctuated her words with a kiss to his bare throat.

Had the woman no mercy? She was quite literally killing him. Unable to stop himself, he pressed his lips to her shoulder.

An answering shiver passed through her.

Logan forced himself to relax. Nothing special going on here, nothing out of the ordinary.

Who was he kidding? Love for his wife burned in his gut.

He closed his eyes and
again
prayed for strength.

It was a hopeless request. His control was all but gone. He had to put distance between them. At once. Rising quickly, he nearly stepped on the sketchbook in his haste to get away.

Breathing hard, he stared down at his wife. The dark smudges beneath her eyes were less noticeable and her face had taken on a bit more color than earlier in the day. “You look rested.”

“I feel rested.” She stretched her arms over her head and arched her back. The gesture pulled the bodice of her dress tight against her womanly curves.

Logan shifted his gaze. He noticed the sketchbook and retrieved it. “Here, you were clutching this in your sleep.”

“I was?” She paused, then took the book and set it on her lap.

Logan stepped closer, not sure what he saw in her eyes. She appeared to be debating with herself, perhaps deciding whether to tell him about her half-finished drawings.

“I attempted to sketch the view from the window over there.” She ran her fingertip along the top of the book in a slow, circular motion. “But every time I made it to a certain point in the drawing my head started spinning, aching really, and I’d have to stop to rest my eyes. I must have fallen asleep.”

The anguish in her voice tore at him. Logan wanted nothing more than to drag her into his arms and offer her comfort. But he wasn’t sure he could stop at just holding her. “Megan, I’m sorry. I—”

“Oh, Logan.” Her gaze whipped to his. “What if I’m never able to draw again?”

“Megan, darling, don’t despair.” He returned to the ottoman and wrapped her hand securely in his. “Shane warned you to expect a certain level of exhaustion in these first few days. Don’t try to rush your healing.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am.”

She stared at their joined hands for a long moment. Then she shook her head and pulled her fingers free of his.

“Logan, I should tell you. Your mother thought that we...that you and I had already...” Her cheeks turned a becoming pink. “She thought that we had already been...intimate.”

The embarrassment in her voice was impossible to miss. His first instinct was to protect her. Not as much from his mother and her inappropriate assumptions, as from himself. Because in the privacy of this room, with the idea of intimacy now hanging in the air between them, Logan found it hard to ignore his natural instincts to make this woman his wife.

He must be strong. He
must.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” He forced himself to speak slowly. Clearly. For himself as well as for her. “I won’t touch you until you’re completely healed.”