Jillian Hart Read Online Free Page A
Author: Lissa's Cowboy
a deputy for years. He knew how to fight for what was right. He also vowed to love Michael's son as he had once loved his own.
"How old is he?" A quiet question.
"He'll be five this July." She dipped her chin and stared hard at her hands, folded tightly in her lap.
"You love him. You're a good mother." He rubbed his forehead, encountered the bandage. "It's in your voice."
"Oh." She blushed, a pretty wash of pink across her delicate nose and cheeks.
"It's a nice thing to see, a woman who loves her child. Not all families are that way." His voice rumbled pain through his head, and just saying the words made him hurt.
How did he know about families? Maybe the doctor was right—he would be fit as a fiddle come morning. All he needed was sleep. How could he rest, though, when so much troubled him? The gray, painful fog of his mind beat through him. The questions he wanted to ask speared like lances through his rib cage.
The doctor had called this woman his bride. So, were they married? Did her son call him father?
Pain jammed through his skull. He gritted his teeth. He watched her rise from the hard-backed chair, her gray-checked skirts rustling around her ankles as she carried the tin cup back to the pitcher and filled it.
For him. She did this for him.
What was their relationship? How much did he care for her? He tried to remember any detail at all as she strolled toward him. This bride of his was a fragile-boned woman, lean and petite, and graceful. Kind, too—he could read it in her face, see it in her movements. He knew nothing else about her, other than that she loved her son.
Did she love him?
"Would you like more water?" Her voice was soft as a creek singing over stones.
"Yes." He was damn thirsty, even if the water upset his stomach.
She leaned toward him again, and he breathed in the scent of her—faint cinnamon and sunshine. His heart kicked in his chest.
He wished he could remember her, remember anything. All he felt was loneliness, and a painful blackness he couldn't think past.
The water tasted cool, and it wetted his throat and all the way to his twisting stomach. Pain rocketed through his head. He leaned back into the pillows.
She touched his cheek, her fingers gentle. How many times had she touched him like that? His eyes fluttered shut. He could not keep them open. He wanted to. He needed answers. He had to know who the hell he was.
There was only darkness.
Chapter Three
Morning light edged between the curtains, casting a gentle grayness across his face. Lissa stretched the kinks from her spine. Sitting in that chair all night, watching over John, hadn't been comfortable.
She'd gotten little sleep, especially since the doctor came every hour to wake him, but staying by her groom's side had been the right thing to do. She felt that all the way to her soul. This man had kept his promise to her. She would do anything she could for him.
Doc startled her. "I'll keep an eye on him if you want to attend the service."
Lissa gasped, surprised, when she saw him standing in the threshold, looking as haggard as she felt. Was it already that late? "I don't feel right about leaving."
"Trust me. That man of yours is going to be bedridden for some time. There will be plenty of time for you to watch over him. Go ahead and take a break. You need to go stretch your legs and check on your son."
Lissa hesitated. She did want to go to church, yet was it right, leaving John here alone? She did need to see the minister and thank him for his trouble, even if Blanche had already told him there would be no wedding.
"I'll just be gone a short while."
"Fine. If all is well, you can take your man home this afternoon." He stopped, glanced down the hall. "You have someone waiting for you out front."
Chad—and probably Blanche and her sons. Lissa reached for her reticule, her gaze sweeping across John's still form. His bandaged, broad chest was bare beneath that sheet, rising with each steady breath. He still
"How old is he?" A quiet question.
"He'll be five this July." She dipped her chin and stared hard at her hands, folded tightly in her lap.
"You love him. You're a good mother." He rubbed his forehead, encountered the bandage. "It's in your voice."
"Oh." She blushed, a pretty wash of pink across her delicate nose and cheeks.
"It's a nice thing to see, a woman who loves her child. Not all families are that way." His voice rumbled pain through his head, and just saying the words made him hurt.
How did he know about families? Maybe the doctor was right—he would be fit as a fiddle come morning. All he needed was sleep. How could he rest, though, when so much troubled him? The gray, painful fog of his mind beat through him. The questions he wanted to ask speared like lances through his rib cage.
The doctor had called this woman his bride. So, were they married? Did her son call him father?
Pain jammed through his skull. He gritted his teeth. He watched her rise from the hard-backed chair, her gray-checked skirts rustling around her ankles as she carried the tin cup back to the pitcher and filled it.
For him. She did this for him.
What was their relationship? How much did he care for her? He tried to remember any detail at all as she strolled toward him. This bride of his was a fragile-boned woman, lean and petite, and graceful. Kind, too—he could read it in her face, see it in her movements. He knew nothing else about her, other than that she loved her son.
Did she love him?
"Would you like more water?" Her voice was soft as a creek singing over stones.
"Yes." He was damn thirsty, even if the water upset his stomach.
She leaned toward him again, and he breathed in the scent of her—faint cinnamon and sunshine. His heart kicked in his chest.
He wished he could remember her, remember anything. All he felt was loneliness, and a painful blackness he couldn't think past.
The water tasted cool, and it wetted his throat and all the way to his twisting stomach. Pain rocketed through his head. He leaned back into the pillows.
She touched his cheek, her fingers gentle. How many times had she touched him like that? His eyes fluttered shut. He could not keep them open. He wanted to. He needed answers. He had to know who the hell he was.
There was only darkness.
Chapter Three
Morning light edged between the curtains, casting a gentle grayness across his face. Lissa stretched the kinks from her spine. Sitting in that chair all night, watching over John, hadn't been comfortable.
She'd gotten little sleep, especially since the doctor came every hour to wake him, but staying by her groom's side had been the right thing to do. She felt that all the way to her soul. This man had kept his promise to her. She would do anything she could for him.
Doc startled her. "I'll keep an eye on him if you want to attend the service."
Lissa gasped, surprised, when she saw him standing in the threshold, looking as haggard as she felt. Was it already that late? "I don't feel right about leaving."
"Trust me. That man of yours is going to be bedridden for some time. There will be plenty of time for you to watch over him. Go ahead and take a break. You need to go stretch your legs and check on your son."
Lissa hesitated. She did want to go to church, yet was it right, leaving John here alone? She did need to see the minister and thank him for his trouble, even if Blanche had already told him there would be no wedding.
"I'll just be gone a short while."
"Fine. If all is well, you can take your man home this afternoon." He stopped, glanced down the hall. "You have someone waiting for you out front."
Chad—and probably Blanche and her sons. Lissa reached for her reticule, her gaze sweeping across John's still form. His bandaged, broad chest was bare beneath that sheet, rising with each steady breath. He still
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