Wish Upon a Cowboy (11 page)

In the last few days, he'd done nothing but trip over her. Everywhere he turned, there she was. If he went into the barn to check on the mare, she showed up just a step or two behind him. Smiling that innocent smile. Looking up at him from those incredibly green eyes of hers.

She would stare at him as if waiting for him to kiss her again. Waiting for him to tell her she was right about him. But how could he do that?

For God's sake… a witch?

Warlock, his brain corrected, though it didn't matter a damn. Either way it was nonsense. Witches lived only in fairy tales or in minds far drunker than his at the moment.

He took a sip of the whiskey, savoring the liquid fire as it slid along his tongue and down into his belly. But he had a feeling that even if he drank a wagonload of the stuff tonight, it wouldn't bring him the oblivion he wanted.

Still it was worth a try. He grimaced tightly and tossed the whiskey down his throat. Before it had finÂished burning a trail down his throat, he was slamming the glass back onto the table and pouring himself another.

Should have gone to Jefferson tonight, he told himself in disgust. A few hours with one of Sal's girls would quench any man's fire. But even as he considered it, he knew it wasn't a solution this time. Not for him, anyway. Because none of Sal's girls was a blond-haired, green eyed… witch.

And none of them carried the power of a lightning bolt on their lips.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered thickly and reached for the bottle again. Even if the liquor wasn't helping, it couldn't hurt.

But before he could throw another drink into his already roiling stomach, one of his cowhands rushed up to him, looking back over his shoulder as if being chased by a ghost.

"What's the matter now?" Jonas grumbled. Had it only been a few days ago when he'd been congratulating himself on a long-standing string of good luck?

"Billy's in trouble." Stretch Jones leaned across his table and looked him dead in the eye.

Jonas blinked, bringing the blurry image of the tall skinny cowhand with an Adam's apple the size of a lemon into focus. "What kind of trouble?"

Stretch pushed his hair out of his eyes, leaned forward, and started talking again, his words tumbling over each other in a rush. "Some cardsharp's took most of his money and Billy's just drunk enough to complain."

Frowning, Jonas looked across the room toward the poker table in the corner. "Complain too loud, he's liable to get shot."

"Don't I know it, boss. That's why I come to get you. You tell Billy to leave it lay and he most likely will."

"He'd damn well better," Jonas growled as he pushed himself to his feet. "I don't need a dead cowhand just before roundup."

Stretch hunched his shoulders. "It would make more work for the rest of us."

Casual talk aside, neither of the men was going to let Billy die over a card game. As he pushed himself to his feet and started for the table in the corner, Jonas thought, at least this was something. Drinking wasn't helping. Maybe a good old-fashioned brawl was just what he needed. Besides, he couldn't just stand there and let Billy get shot, could he?

When he was still too far away to do a damn of good, he saw that he was too late. The gambler drew his pistol and aimed it at Billy.

That corner of the saloon went quiet.

A couple of men scooted their chairs back, getting out of range.

"It's in the fire now," Stretch said from behind him.

Through the haze of whiskey blurring the edges of his mind, Jonas cursed low and long. A careless shout from him might be all the surprise the gambler needed to jerk his finger on that trigger. And Billy would be dead.

Anger rumbled through him and vaguely he noted the distant drums of thunder.

He turned his dark gaze on the gambler's freshly shaved face and cold, empty eyes. Not much hope there. Seconds crawled by, as if the world hung in the balance and time forgot to move.

He shifted his concentration to the small pepperbox pistol the gambler held. An unpredictable weapon at best, Jonas knew it could be counted on to either fire one bullet, all five at once, or none at all.

"All we can hope for," he said softly, more to himself than to Stretch, "is that the damn gun won't work."

Time skittered into life again and the gambler pulled the trigger. Billy jumped in his seat, obviously expecting to feel the slamming white-hot pain of a bullet crashing into his chest.

But nothing happened.

Furious, the gambler jerked the trigger again and the same empty click sounded out in the room. He glared at the gun and tossed it angrily aside.

At the same time, Billy realized he wasn't about to die and lunged across the table, hands outstretched, reaching for the other man's throat. The young cowhand grabbed hold of the gambler's fancy ruffled shirt instead and yanked him off his chair. The two of them went down amid a crashing of chairs and a chorus of shouting voices.

"Luck, boss!" Stretch slapped him on the back. "You always did have the damnedest luck!"

Luck, he thought, and for one wild, terrifying minute he found himself wondering if it really was luck, or was Hannah's story more true than he wanted to know?

Stretch raced past him to join in the fight and Jonas stood stock-still a moment or two longer, asking himself if the pepperbox had failed because it was basically a lousy weapon… or had he, somehow, caused the gun to misfire?

A war whoop worthy of a howling Comanche shattered his bizarre thoughts and he ducked in time to avoid a thrown chair as it whistled past his head.

The saloon erupted around him. This was no time for thinking. Jonas eagerly joined in the tight, choosing the closest man to him and landing a roundhouse punch to his jaw. As that same man jumped to his feet and buried his fist in Jonas's stomach, he consoled himself with the knowledge that at least this he understood.

*  *  *

Something heavy landed with a thud that shook Hannah out of a restless sleep. Sitting up in bed, she flipped he braid behind her shoulder and listened for another minute before getting out of bed and opening her bedroom door.

Her bare feet tingled with cold against the wood floor and the night air seemed to pierce right through her white cotton nightgown. Shivering slightly, she peered into the darkened main room, wishing she'd left a lamp burning.

The only light came from the banked fire, and its dim orange-red glow only seemed to define the darkness, rather than illuminate it.

Then one of the shadowy shapes moved. For one brief instant, thoughts of haunts and demons flew through her still-sleepy mind. But when the shadow stood up, outlining itself against the backdrop of what was left of the fire, Hannah sighed at her own foolishness. Of course it was Jonas.

"Who the hell left that damn sofa in the middle of the damn room?" he muttered and she wondered vaguely why his voice sounded so garbled.

He took another step and every bone in his body seemed to collapse. He folded in on himself and landed with another loud thud.

"Good heavens! Arc you all right?" she said as she hurried toward him, her inventive mind drawing up images of a raging fever, or a hideous wound spouting fountains of blood, or… She stopped short when the smell hit her.

Wrinkling her nose, Hannah tried to breathe without inhaling. Whiskey fumes permeated the room like a thick fog hanging over Boston Harbor.

He wasn't sick.

He was drunk.

"Good Lord."

He lifted his head from the floor as though it weighed a hundred pounds. Staring up at her, he blinked, stared, then blinked again. Snorting a laugh that ended in a groan of pain, he muttered, "First witches… now angels."

"Angels indeed," she said with a disgusted shake of her head. Still, her lips twitched slightly as she looked down at herself, imagining what she must look like from his befuddled perspective. Billowing white nightgown. Blond hair. The odd light thrown by the dying fire.

His head dropped to the floor again with a smack.

"You're drunk. Mackenzie."

"Shhh," he warned, lifting one finger to lay it crookedly across his mouth. "You'll wake Hannah."

"I'm Hannah," she told him with a reluctant smile.

"She's a witch," he confided, then winked at her. The fact that he had to pry that eye open again with his fingertips rather spoiled the effect.

"Really?" Hannah asked. Wasn't this nice? It only taken a gallon or two of whiskey to make believe her. Still another smile tugged at her lips. He did look ridiculous, sprawled across the floor. Hardly the image of a powerful warlock.

He held up one hand and it swayed limply back and forth in front of him like a flag on a windless day. "Angels are better than witches," he said in that strange garbled tone.

"I suppose so," she granted, already wondering how she was going to get the man off the floor and into his bed.

"Stopped the fight," he told her and waved his hand.

Hannah grabbed it and tugged, trying to pull him to his feet. "Is that right?" A fight, was it?

"Saved Billy," he grunted as she braced her feet and pulled him halfway to a sitting position.

"That's good," she muttered from between clenched teeth. She'd never been so aware of what a big man the Mackenzie was. The muscles in her shoulders were screaming and she'd hardly moved him at all.

"Couldn't save Marie, though," he whispered.

Hannah let go.

His head crashed against the floor. "Ow…"

She winced. She hadn't meant to drop him, but… "Who's Marie?"

"Dead. Dead and I didn't save her," he shook his head from side to side, groaning slightly with the movement. "Angel didn't save her, either." Jonas glared at her briefly.

"Who is she?" Hannah repeated, but his whiskey soaked brain was off on another tangent.

"Shhh, Angel," he told her and tried to lift his head again. Apparently, though, that concentrated effort was beyond him at the moment. "If we wake up the witch she'll put a hex on you."

"Oh, for heaven's sakes," she muttered.

"Like she did on me," he finished.

"I did no such thing," she snapped and for a moment thought guiltily of the potion she'd spent most of the evening cooking up. Well, she hadn't actually given it to him yet, had she?

"She's lying, angel."

"I'm not an angel," she said hotly. "I'm Hannah. And I didn't lie to you."

"Lies," he muttered and turned his head to one side, nestling against the wooden planks as though he were settling deep into a feather pillow. "All lies. Didn't save him. Couldn't save her."

Again, that reference to the mysterious Marie. Hannah's insides tightened up as she realized it would require a miracle to get any more information from him tonight.

"It's not a lie, Mackenzie," she whispered, shaking her head. "You are a warlock."

"Nope," he murmured softly and folded his hands across his chest. "Not."

And people said she was stubborn. Hannah sighed and turned around. Going to his room, she grabbed the quilt from his bed and went back to the fallen Mackenzie. She'd never get him off the floor, so she spread the quilt over him and left him there.

As she turned to leave, though, his voice stopped her.

"Hannah?"

"Yes?" She looked back at him.

He lay still as death, eyes closed. "It is you, then."

"What do you want, Mackenzie?"

"An answer."

"To which question?"

He paused and Hannah almost convinced herself he'd fallen asleep when he asked quietly, "If I'm really this witch you say I am, how come I can't make you disappear?"

Chapter Seven

Sunday morning dawned bright and clear. Not a single cloud marred the lake-blue sky. The snowcapped mountains looked close enough to touch, and a soft, cool breeze ruffled the clothes Hannah hung on the line.

A few of the men had gone into town and the rest, but for those sent to guard the herd, were recuperating quietly in the bunkhouse. Hannah couldn't help but wonder if every Sabbath here was spent in repenting the night before.

This place was so different from home. In Creekford, she would have been attending the local church services, then perhaps gone visiting with Eudora. Here, she handed out liniment and pieces of beefsteak to the men who'd come stumbling into her kitchen sporting black eyes and skinned knuckles.

Snatching up one of Jonas's shirts from the laundry basket, she held it tightly in both hands and realized that as different as this place was, she liked it. Here, she felt useful. She cooked and cleaned and cared for a group of men who were slowly coming to, if not like her, then at least respect her.

Oh, remembering what he'd said the night before, she admitted that Jonas would probably be happier if she'd leave. But he hadn't ordered her off his property, so maybe that was something in itself.

Snapping the wrinkles out of the shirt, she laid it across the clothesline and held it in place with two wooden pins at the shoulders. Thoughtfully, she smoothed her fingers across the worn, blue material. Not only was life different here, she was different.

She lifted her gaze to the far mountains and pulled in a deep, satisfying breath of the crisp air. No one on the ranch was judging her and finding her coming up short of expectations. No one here knew about witchcraft. No one realized that she was a complete failure.

As much as she loved Creekford, it wasn't easy living there. An entire town full of practicing witches could be fairly intimidating to a woman whose own powers were so ridiculously paltry.

For the first time in her life, Hannah's pitiful powers didn't mean anything. She was being judged, and approved of, just like an ordinary person.

"Are you tryin' to kill yourself?"

Elias's astonished voice lifted Hannah from her reverie and she half turned toward the sound.

"Wasn't last night enough?" the older man asked.

"Leave me alone, you old coot," Jonas complained.

Hannah left the laundry behind and walked around the corner of the house. Across the yard from her, she saw Elias standing outside the corral, watching Jonas tighten a saddle cinch on a black horse that looked mean even from a distance. Hardly realizing she was moving, Hannah started toward them.