Rocky Mountain Widow

Praise forJillian Hart

ROCKY MOUNTAIN MAN

‘This book’s intense emotions reach out to touch

readers. Betsy’s unwavering belief in Duncan and

willingness to fight to save him from himself is so

moving you’ll want to cry with happiness as

Hart plays on your heartstrings.’

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

HIGH PLAINS WIFE

‘Finely drawn characters and sweet tenderness tinged

with poignancy draw readers into a familiar story that

beautifully captures the feel of an Americana romance.

Readers can enjoy sharp dialogue and adorable child

characterisations while shedding a tear or two.’

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

MONTANA MAN

‘Ms Hart creates a world of tantalising warmth

and tenderness, a toasty haven in which the reader

will find pure enjoyment.’

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

COOPER’S WIFE

‘…a wonderfully written romance

full of love and laughter.’

—Rendezvous

“You don’t owe me a thing, Claire.”

“I owe you everything.”

“You can keep your money,” Joshua responded.

“But that would be charity, and I can make my own way.”

“I don’t doubt that one bit.” The centre of his chest tightened. He’d make sure she was safe, no matter what it cost him. It was the right thing to do. But this wasn’t about responsibility. He wanted good things for her, this woman with a place in his soul.

And then she came up on tiptoes, so close every hair on his body stood up on end, and pressed a silken kiss to his cheek. His heart thumped as she sank her white even teeth into her lush, rosebud-soft bottom lip, as if she were in deep thought. As if she were debating telling him one more time to butt out of her life.

No way, lady. Emotion drove him, a fierce need that had his fingers cradling her delicate chin. He breathed in her sweet rose scent and slanted his mouth over hers.

Jillian Hart grew up on her family’s homestead, where she raised cattle, rode horses and scribbled stories in her spare time. After earning an English degree from Whitman College, she worked in advertising before becoming a writer. When she’s not hard at work on her next story, Jillian can be found chatting with a friend, stopping for a café mocha with a book in hand, and spending quiet evenings at home with her family.

Novels by the same author:

LAST CHANCE BRIDE

COOPER’S WIFE

MALCOLM’S HONOUR

MONTANA MAN

BLUEBONNET BRIDE

MONTANA LEGEND

HIGH PLAINS WIFE

THE HORSEMAN

ROCKY MOUNTAIN CHRISTMAS

(short story in A Season of the Heart)

MONTANA WIFE

ROCKY MOUNTAIN MAN

ROCKY MOUNTAIN BRIDE

(short story in Western Weddings)

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Praise

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eightteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Copyright

Prologue

Bluebonnet County, Montana Territory 1884

“You shamed me again, woman.” Ham towered on the board wagon seat beside her, nothing more than a shadow in the night. “Again!”

Claire rubbed the bump her gold wedding band made beneath the mitten on her left hand and tried not to give in to the rising resentment. He wasn’t through maligning her for the night, not by a long shot. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t said a word while she’d waited outside in the cold for hours until Ham decided he’d had his fill of whiskey and poker.

Or that during this long wagon ride home across the high country plains, she’d never said a word, either. Not of his drunken state, his careless driving, or the fact that the ground had hardened with ice and no other driver was out on the roads in this frigid night. That anyone else had more sense than that. But not Ham. No, not Ham.

He chucked in his throat, a disgusting sound, and spit with great skill. “You made me look bad in front of the boys.”

The boys being a table full of grown men playing poker in the smokiest, seediest saloon in the county. Claire held her tongue, because she’d learned the hard way that when he’d been drinking hard, Ham became mean and was always looking for the chance to get meaner.

He was not a good husband. Was there a chance he could be a decent father? She rested the palm of her hand on the round of her slightly swollen stomach. The doctor today had said she was doing well and the baby’s first kicks were strong. That was happy news. But she’d had some spotting.

“You must be careful.” The doctor’s tone had been grave. “Follow my advice. Go home. Put your feet up. Have Ham get Mrs. Simms to come over and take care of things for a spell.”

She hadn’t gotten up the courage to tell Ham anything, and he hadn’t asked. He never did, especially when he’d been drinking. The alcohol changed him, and when he was like this she had to be careful not to anger him.

Mama had warned her about men. Whenever one comes courting, he’s the best man on earth, she’d said. Punctual, attentive and decent. He has manners and treats you right. Once he gets a ring on your finger, then it’s a different matter.

You were so right, Mama. Claire glanced sideways at the man who’d wooed her and charmed her and made her believe in the impossible.

As she looked at the bulky man swaying drunkenly at her side, reeking of cheap whiskey and stale tobacco smoke, it was hard to fathom a time when he had been mistaken for wonderful.

Her judgment had been poor and she regretted it greatly.

“What are you lookin’ at, woman?” Just like that, Ham had worked himself up into a fury. “You don’t got any right to judge me, woman! I’ll drink what I want, when I want and with who I want.”

“All right, Ham,” she said quietly, gently, for it was the wisest way to manage him when he was like this. When he was so irrational, he was like dynamite ready to explode and devastate everything.

“And don’t you go givin’ me that look.”

It was better for her if she kept him calm, so it was desperation that made her set aside her anger. She didn’t like the way he treated her. She didn’t like how she had to behave to keep him rational. What else was she to do?

She wasn’t big and strong like a man. There was no way she could stop or overpower him. No, the best she could do was to keep him from getting more upset while he was so drunk. They were almost home. By the time they reached the little shanty at the top of the hill, he’d be ready to pass out.

And I’ll be safe until morning.

She took a shaky breath and purposely tried to appear serene, as if nothing were wrong and he’d never shattered one illusion about love and marriage.

“Oh, so now you think you’re better’n me.” He spit out another stream of tobacco and swiped his chin with the back of his hand. “Do ya? I’m gettin’ tired of you and your attitude, woman.”

“I’m sorry, Ham,” she soothed, sensing he was near to balling up his fist. “I didn’t mean anything. I was just thinking about—” Home, she thought as the blow struck.

Pain shattered her left cheekbone where he’d slugged her. Her head snapped to the side and the muscles in her neck tightened with more pain. Her head whirled, she saw dancing white lights in front of her eyes, and she clutched the seat to keep from falling.

“Maybe that’ll teach ya to smart-mouth me.”

Tears blurred her vision. Her jaw hurt too much to speak, so she only nodded obediently. There was no other way to behave. She knew, because she’d tried everything over time to find peace between them. Or at least, to avoid the pain she was in now. Her skull hammered from the shock and she swiped at her eyes.

Crying only made him angrier. She blinked hard until the blackness subsided and made sure she sat perfectly still. She’d learned a lot from her three years of marriage. Things she never thought anyone should know, but they made a difference now as Ham muttered on angrily about a woman’s place and how he worked hard and how costly she was to him.

He could rage on, use his fists and his words like weapons, but he wouldn’t break her. Despite the chilly night, for winter had come early to these high Montana plains, and despite the fact that her coat was thin and she wore light mittens, she refused to so much as shiver.

She had every reason to fight, for she could feel the faint fluttery kicks of her child. She’d not been sure this new life was a blessing. A helpless baby would be vulnerable to Ham’s drinking and his temper. It was a serious situation, but oh, her heart lit up again, like a lamp left too long unlit, and burned so brightly.

I will love you enough to make up for it, little one, she vowed, willing the promise through her fingertips and into her womb. I swear I will take such good care of you. First thing was to figure out how to convince Ham to hire the neighbor lady to come do the heavier housework. And then—

The wagon lurched, and in the dark night it was hard to know why. The horse gave a frightened whinny and the vehicle began to tip. Ham’s temper exploded. His swearing boomed as startling as thunder, frightening the horse more as he reached for the whip.

“Stay on the damned road, you worthless nag!” The whip shot into the air, hissing toward the mare’s flank. The rasp as the lash cut into flesh was followed by the mare’s sharp neigh of pain.

As if time had stretched out, Claire was aware of the wagon tilting to the right, and no matter how hard she tried to brace herself, she was falling. Ham’s weight pressed against her as he wrestled with the horse, fighting the mare’s panic. There was nothing but darkness—no moonlight or stardust to see by, just the hulking blackness of the high rolling hill and the prairie floor below.

We’re going to roll over. Her pulse filled her ears, making the screaming horse and Ham’s horrible shouting seem distant. Then came the clack and groan of the wagon wheels skidding.

Breaking.

They were going to die. There was no way she could stop it. This was the way her parents had died, and she could taste the panic on her tongue. Feel it crawl with icy fingertips across the back of her neck.

What about the baby? The seat beneath her seemed to heave and then suddenly, it was gone. She was falling, her arms flinging out. She tried to grab for anything, anything in the dark, but there was only air and gravity and the terrifying scream of the horse.

There was so much noise—the explosion as the wagon broke, the avalanche of earth beneath them, the horse’s hooves digging into the bank, and Ham’s voice bellowing foul curses. Loudest of all was the cadence of her pulse, eerily slow as time became meaningless. She was thrown backward through the dark and the night. Weightless.

The ground struck her like an ax in the center of her left shoulder blade. Air whooshed out of her lungs and pain slammed through her as the rest of her back crashed against the rocky earth. Her head reeled back and struck granite.

No, not my baby. She curled up to protect her child. She had to stay awake, she had to. But her vision flashed and her consciousness faded piece by piece, like a curtain being drawn against the sky. Wagon fragments and debris rained down on her.

Somewhere far away the mare squealed in pain, an eerily human-sounding scream of agony and then there was Ham rising up over her, miraculously standing, with the whip in his hand. She saw his mouth open and his arm raise, but her vision slid away.

There was nothing but blessed silence.

This was the last time, the very last time he was going to put up with Hamilton’s villainy.

Rage beat through Joshua Gable’s veins with the power of a fueled train barreling down the bottom side of a long steep slope, and he wouldn’t be surprised if, like a locomotive, steam whistled out of him. Likely the top of his head was near to blowing off he was so angry.

I’d like to wrap my hands around Ham’s throat and squeeze. Pain shot through his molars and he tried to relax his jaw. His teeth had been gnashed enough for one day.

But then the image of what he’d just come away from sent renewed fury through his body and his teeth clacked shut so tight, the audible grind echoed like a whiplash in the silent breadth of the cold winter night.

Wait—that wasn’t his teeth making that sound. It only seemed that way. That’s a whip. Striking flesh. A horse’s panicked neigh rang through the vast night, a hair-raising human sound of agony and terror.

Trouble.

His hand fisted around the reins and he was digging in his heels before it was a conscious thought. The pinto cannoned into the dark, hooves striking the frozen earth.

What mad men are out here tonight? Joshua bowed his head into the frigid wind and pressed his mount harder. He was glad he had his .45 strapped to his thigh and loaded. And, in case he needed it, his repeating Winchester strapped in its holster to the saddle.

Faster. Whatever trouble lay ahead, the coyotes began to howl somewhere nearby. The womanlike screams of the horse rose in pitch, shattering the night, tolling across the vast reaches of the prairie like an echo without end, and when the terrified scream ended abruptly, the silence spoke of death.

I’m too late. Remorse ripped like razor-sharp talons through his chest. He hated an animal’s suffering. Which was why his rage was fueled tonight. He’d come to stop Ham.

And if that no-good bastard was abusing another animal… Joshua felt the pressure build beneath the top of his skull. That horse better be all right, or I’ll—

A flash of lightning stabbed from the heavens, and in that brief instant of white, eye-burning illumination, he saw the motionless body of a horse sprawled dark against the crusted white rise. A shattered wagon. A beefy man with his arm uplifted and the sinuous lash snaking back for another strike, but it was not directed at the horse.

Is that a woman?

The skin prickled at the back of Josh’s neck with a horrible foreboding. As the flare faded into impenetrable black, he made out another shadow on the ground, but the darkness came too swiftly for him to recognize it.

And then his mind latched onto the image, and rage burned so hot he became like the night. Like the clap of thunder, he struck, uncoiling the lasso at his saddle horn. And as Ham’s whip snapped in the indecipherable shadows, Joshua felt destiny begin to unravel like his coiled rope. Fate was set when the noose fell and caught.

Got ya. One jerk was all it took to disarm the lowdown varmint who wasn’t even fit to be called a man. He vaguely registered the foul cursing of a drunk—yep, it sure sounded as if Ham was liquored up good.

Joshua hauled in his noose, coiled up the lariat for later use and seized the captured whip in his left hand. This left his right free in case he needed to draw.

“Hamilton, you coward. Are you always gonna pick on women and animals? Or are you ready to take on someone who’s your own damn size?”

“I could take you down with one hand tied behind my back, you son of a bitch. Get the devil off my land.”

“Or what? You’re gonna throw me off? I’m a man, not a helpless sheep.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Ham growled like a rabid dog ready to fight. His teeth were bared as another bolt of lightning knifed overhead in warning.

“It means I’ve found one carcass too many. How long have you been killing my sheep now? One month? Almost two? It’s not gonna drive me off the grazing land. And since the deputy won’t do a damn thing, I’m gonna make my own justice.”

The mare that lay like a hump at the side of the road became more visible as the clouds churning in the sky gave off a blue-black glow from the lightning. There was movement—not only the ripple and toss of mane and tail in the rough wind, but her sides rising and falling—short and uneven, but the mare was breathing.

He remembered the animal’s tortured screams and his guts clenched so tight he could taste the bile on his tongue. She was a greater concern, but Joshua knew if he mentioned the helpless woman as equally still on the ground, then Ham’s temper would go.

And Ham was much closer in proximity to his wife. He’d hurt her first, the vicious bastard. Joshua gripped the leather until the braid’s pattern bit into his palm, scenting the metallic smell of blood in the air and sour fear on the wind. The boiling rage that had first coursed through his veins turned to ice. Not from fear, but determination.

“When you kill my livestock, you’re taking from me. From my family,” Joshua growled.

“I didn’t kill those sheep. Not last week, not a month ago. Not today. Besides—” Ham’s voice rose in volume and acidity. “This is cattle county.”

Joshua didn’t miss the muted rasp, although Ham pitched his voice high enough to try to hide it. Ham was sneaky, but Joshua had learned long ago how to deal with sneaky varmints. And he knew exactly what Ham planned to do next.

As the blackness closed around them, thunder cracked overhead. Joshua let the rolling crash from above hide the snap as he sent the whip snaking through the darkness. It struck with a vengeance before Hamilton could draw.

Victory. Joshua tasted it as Ham cursed in pain and the gun thudded to the earth.

“I need three things from you, Hamilton.” He aimed his .45 at the drunk’s chest. “Restitution for the sheep you killed—”

“That’s what happens when those worthless varmints are too stupid to stay where they belong.”

“I leased the grazing lands fair and square. They’re mine, and they belong there—” Joshua paused as the woman moaned. He waited. “Ma’am, are you all right?”

“She’s about as dumb as one of your lambs. Too stupid to live. I—”

“Shut up, Ham. This is a matter for the law.”

I’m not dead. Claire tried to concentrate, but the voices faded and then returned. The pain in her head boomed like a firing cannon inside her skull. She tried to move, but pain paralyzed her and she realized that something warm was trickling down her face.

Blood. She also realized Ham towered over her, jerking and trembling like he did in a rage, right before he became lethally violent.

Her thoughts were fragments. What had happened? Was the baby safe? Who was shouting at Ham? She couldn’t recognize the man’s voice. Couldn’t he understand the danger? Ham had to be talked to quietly, steadily until he calmed. It was the only way. She had to get up and intervene. Groggy, she tried to sit up.

I can’t move.

Panic crowded into her throat and she shoved at something hard. Something wooden. A piece of the broken wagon pinned her hips to the ground. Her fingers gripped the broken edge of board and she gritted her teeth, heaving. She felt as if a razor blade sliced through her low abdomen.

The baby. She collapsed onto the ground, dizzy as the heated voices rose in volume and threats. What was going on? She could only see an upward slash from the ground to the sky until lightning blinded her.

Ham’s furious bellow. It was going to be even worse for her as soon as Ham got her home. “I ain’t takin’ this from a sheep man!”

“The deputy is your good buddy, I know, but listen up good—”

Claire caught a glimpse of the intruder as the rolling thunder drowned out their argument. He sat on horseback, a big bold cut of a man as dark as the night, as powerful as the thunder, and as lethal as the fierce lightning that pounded overhead.

Ham’s fingers inched to his revolvers, ever present in their holsters, strapped to his thighs within easy reach. How many times had he threatened her with those guns?

Claire closed her eyes, trying to find strength where there was none. Hope when she’d given up. Whatever tiny drop of relative safety she’d been able to forge for herself in her marriage was about to be gone, but she couldn’t let Ham hurt this man, she couldn’t—

Ham’s fingers curved around a beloved revolver. She could smell his glee—he loved to cause harm, or worse. And the mounted man, he didn’t see the danger, Claire realized as she tried to shout a warning, but there was no voice. Something was wrong with her throat.

Hell exploded. Thunder merged with bullets, lightning with gunfire, and the pummeling ice that fell like hunks of granite from the vengeful sky beat so loudly she could not hear or see, only feel the danger as violence and murder rose on the heartless wind.

Ham fell to the ground beside her, cursing in pain and clutching his shoulder. It wasn’t over, she knew with chilling certainty as Joshua Gable kicked the fallen revolvers out of harm’s way and consciousness faded. She heard Ham’s threat to kill Gable come from very far away, and then steeled arms lifted her from the ground and carried her away.

She woke up later in her own bed, alone. She heard the echoing sound of a single gunshot, and knew by the silence that followed that someone was dead.

Chapter One

Eight Days later

It was a bad day for a funeral.

Joshua Gable swiped snowflakes from his eyelashes so he could see into the heavy gale, then jammed his gloved fist back into his coat pocket.

It had taken the grave diggers most of the week to cut through the frozen ground. As if the Fates had done everything in their power to hold back this death. There would be no peaceful passing for Halbert Hamilton, Jr. Instead, a fury of cutting north wind and vicious iced snow made it feel as if hell had frozen over, had burst up from the new grave in the ground to welcome a like soul.

For a man few could stand and most despised, a lot of the local folks on this sparse corner of the county had come. Some attended out of relief, Joshua suspected, that the hard man was gone. A few grieved his passing. But most were here out of curiosity, for no one knew what had befallen the rancher—if one could call him that—and what had rendered him dead.

Well, some knew.

Joshua swallowed hard, glad he stood back from the bulk of the crowd. It took all his self-control to fight down the tight grip guilt had on his stomach. If he’d had his way, he wouldn’t have come. He had no respects to pay the man who’d been his sworn enemy. He had not an ounce of grief or sorrow to express.