Chapter Three
An enraged scream echoed in the hills, slicing through the cold mountain air. Elijah Kincaid lifted his head and scanned the surroundings. He hesitated. The deer he had been gutting would probably be stolen upon his return, taken by the mountain cat that had been stalking his every move. He sheathed his hunting knife and slinked deeper into the woods as another cry pierced the silence of the night. He travelled downwind of the screaming and cursing. He moved swift, sure, and silent. Elijah veered left, his senses sharp as he followed the tracks barely visible through the trees and over the ridge. The icy wind lifted his flannel shirt and poncho, kissing over his skin like sharpened blades.
Within minutes he came upon the scene and watched from the shadows. His way was careful. He did not barge in to the rescue. Instead, he coolly mapped each man’s movement and probed the shadows looking for their backup. From the glow of the moon, he clearly saw two men struggling on the ground, while one stood watch. The one that watched twitched nervously, eyes flittering into the forest, and then back to the two on the forest floor. He ran his hands through unkempt hair. The nervous gesture gave away more than he knew.
“Do you think this wise, Hardin?” the watcher muttered. “The boss will know that you had her. She is bound to tell him. Better wait till he gives her to you.”
Elijah froze. The man on the ground tussled with a woman.
As Elijah peered closer, he realized the curve of the rump could only belong to a woman. She bucked wildly with surprising strength, trying to unseat the brute that held her down. He was struggling to remove her pants, and that was what had saved her thus far. Her attacker would have been buried inside of her already if she had worn a skirt. Elijah let his knife fly from his grip, and the only warning the watcher got was the silver glint in the darkened woods.
“Mother o—!” the watcher shrieked as the brute toppled off the woman, the hunting knife buried deep, severing his spine.
Elijah felt no guilt at his brutality. The man might live, he hoped he did, but he would be paralyzed for life. He should live to understand the depth of his punishment. Elijah despised men who took women by force, breaking their gentle spirits.
She heaved the man fully from her body, and scurried to her feet. Shivers racked her frame, and as he assessed her something teased him, a familiarity he could not place. Elijah stalked from the trees. The second the watcher spied him, he lurched back onto his horse, digging his heels into its side, and surged down the rocky incline. Elijah raised his brow as she scrambled for the gun that lay beside her attacker. Her hands shook too badly, the shot she fired zinged wide missing her man.
“Are you all right?” He asked, and as she spun to face him, the bandana knotted over her hair tumbled.
He hoped she did not hear his swift intake.
She stepped toward him, moving with the liquid grace of a dancer, sensual and feminine, so out of place in the raw savagery of the western plains. She was so dainty, elegant with stunning aristocratic features, sharp cheekbones, and full pouting lips.
“Elijah, I…”
The soft huskiness of her voice tugged something inside of him, and he buried the emotions only she could incite. She swallowed, visibly gathering her composure, pausing only a few feet in front of him. Her mass of midnight black hair rippled to her waist and big dark blue eyes held his glare, her head tilted in a show of defiance. Blood smeared her slanting cheekbones and the flowing shirt she wore, and her lips looked puffy and swollen. She licked her lip, a quick dart of her tongue in apparent nervousness. The action had arousal surging through him. It angered him that his body responded to her presence with such eagerness. He stalked around her, bent over her attacker and yanked his knife from his spine. Elijah wiped his blade on the grass and then sheathed it. He walked to face her, heart clamoring more than how he would have liked.
“Why are you here, Sheridan?”
Elijah. Every nerve in her body screamed in recognition and came alive. Thank God, he’d heard her screams. It would have been impossible to escape by herself. She had planned on mentally composing herself for their encounter on the journey to his cabin, but that had all went to hell.
Her gaze moved over him, hungrily taking in the slight changes. He was still sleek and fierce, only now he sported a rough-stubble of beard. His dark blonde hair was more untamed and disheveled. He was tall and lean with wide set shoulders, slim hips, corded muscles, and a ruggedly handsome face. A heated quiver of remembrance ran through her and she felt entrapped by his sheer magnetism. She wanted to touch him so badly.
The air grew colder by the minute as the intensity of the wind increased. The smell of her attacker’s blood reached her nose. Bile rose in her throat at the sickly odor, her body shivered, its feeble attempt to combat the chill.
Arctic green eyes assessed her. “Why are you here, Sheridan?”
The menacing chill he exuded rattled her. “I need your help, Elijah. I have been travelling for hours to reach you.” She moistened her lips and pressed on at his silence. “Could we return to your cabin to speak? It is very cold.”
There was no mercy in the eyes that regarded her.
“No.”
She clamped down on her reaction to his flat refusal. She knew this would not be easy. “What I have to say will take some time,” she insisted.
She parted her lips in a wordless cry as he walked away. The wild cry of a mountain lion rose in the air, hauntingly beautiful. Her heart thumped and she hurried after him. “Elijah, please!”
Anger burned through her as he ignored her. She grabbed his shirt with force, hoping he would stop. He spun to face her, his movement screaming controlled ire. She released his shirt, scalded from the fury that flared from him. He contained it so quickly; Sheridan wondered if she had seen it. “I have no horse, I…I need your help. I would not have travelled so far if it was not necessary.”
“State your piece and then get off my mountain.” His low snap had her freezing.
She hesitated. Pain squeezed her insides at his iciness. She had thought time apart would have softened him. But at least she had his attention. She needed to get him to go back with her. “Jericho Sullivan wants Whispering Creek,” she forced out. “He thinks the range belongs to me completely as Thomas’s widow. He does not know of your stake in it.”
Derision curled Elijah’s lips. “That is simply solved without you trekking up here. Inform him of my ownership.”
She met his eyes beseechingly. “He is also trying to force me to marry him. He came to the ranch today and—”
She broke off at his low rough chuckle. His raking glance undressed her. He lowered his eyes to her breasts, then to the juncture between her thighs. His voice went hard, contempt leaking into his tone. “Did you travel to let me know that another man wants to mount you? Stop wasting my time. I care not if he takes you.”
She flinched at his crudity, and embarrassment flushed her cheeks. Rage surged through her that he would so casually suggest she gave herself to another man. Once he had touched her with such heat she had burned and feared for her sanity. She remembered all the whispered promises in the dark, when he had been in her, riding all night long, wrenching screams and cries unfettered from her. She wrapped the anger around her like a shield, preferring it to the pain that slapped at her. How could he be so aloof after all they had shared? “Elijah, I—”
He slashed his hand in an impatient motion and stalked off.
The wind gusted, blowing her hair into her face. “There is a baby boy who is depending on you!”
He grounded to a halt and she wished she could see his face.
She braced herself as he slowly turned to face her.
“Is that the best you can do?” he drawled in silken provocation.
Her heart thundered and her hands shook. She pressed on doggedly. “He is your blood, Elijah.”
His frame jerked. “What did you say to me?”
She inhaled shakily, not daring to remove her eyes from his face. “You have a little boy on the ranch that needs you. We need your help.”
He suddenly looked mean, and unforgiving. She stumbled back from him. Her mind screamed in the silence. She almost took back the words. Oh god. She wondered why she and Beth ever thought such a plan would work, but Sheridan could think of no other way to get him off the mountain. The silence raked, nagging at her already ragged nerves. “Please help us.”
In two quick strides, he stood in front of her. One of his hand circled her throat with deceptive softness. “When you say he is my blood…”
His eyes blazed alight with an emotion that shook her. She did not fool herself into thinking it was pleasure. Was it fear? Surely not.
“What do you mean?”
The low rasp of his voice was decidedly discomfiting. She would have preferred if he had shouted. “It means exactly that. There is a baby on the ranch who needs you.”
His eyes narrowed to mere slits. His rough callused thumb ran over her lips and her eyes widened at the unexpected caress. “If you are lying to me, Sheridan, I promise you will regret it.”
She knew he could feel the wild fluttering at her throat, and he must be hearing how her heart thundered. “I have never lied to you.” She regretted the words, the second they uttered from her lips. The single lie she had told him in the past was the reason for his distance.
“Elijah, I...” She swallowed tightly, shivers wracking her frame, tears of misery leaking from her eyes. “I would have not come up here if I did not need your help. Please hear me out.”
Sheridan prayed he would unbend and listen to her. She could not return to the ranch without him.
***
Another innocent child needed him. The nightmares rose dark and painful, licking at the edges of his control, fraying it. A gaping wound, too much blood, and a haunting cry begging Elijah to save them. He forced the memories back with ruthless will power and tried to concentrate on Sheridan’s words.
Please hear me out.
Her voice seeped through his torment, pleading with an edge of desperation. That was the note that tugged at him. She had never sounded desperate before. The pulse beneath his thumb tripped and picked up a fast rhythm, but it was her eyes he watched. She was truly afraid and he hated to see fear in her eyes.
The idea of another life depending on him, another life that may be snuffed out because of his failures, savaged him.
Her eyes were imploring, glistening with tears.
His heart kicked double time. “What kind of trouble are you in?”
“Jericho Sullivan wants me as his wife.”
From what Elijah knew of Jericho, her objection would not mean anything. “And?”
She clenched her hands and pressed even closer to Elijah. “I do not want him. I do not delude myself in thinking Mr. Sullivan desires me. He wants my inheritance. There is also talk in town that he needs access to watering holes. He has expanded too rapidly and needs grazing land. Our land, and what King Sullivan wants, he gets,” she ended with a bitter snap.
A low groan emitted from the fallen rapist and Elijah glanced at him. He lived. Good. “Those were Jericho’s men?”
“Yes. They came after me when I left the ranch.”
She shivered in his arms, and Elijah knew it was more than fear. The wall of wind that blanketed the mountains knifed at his exposed skin, biting into his muscled flesh. She was soft and delicate, not conditioned for these situations. He cursed internally, despising his weakness for her.
He released her throat, and instantly missing the soft feel of her skin beneath his fingers. He drew his poncho over his head. “Put this on,” he commanded. “We will finish this at the cabin.”
“Thank you.”
He wanted to snap at the relief that lightened her eyes. She thought him capable of leaving her on the mountain path to fend for herself in the cold and without a horse. He sank into that bleak place he normally lived, trying to douse the heat and the need she roused in him. If only he didn’t crave her damned touch, taste, and scent so much. She was the only one that had ever been able to ignite such a yearning in him. Even the wife he had lost—Emma—had never inspired such turbulent need.
In the weeks he and Sheridan had spent together just after they’d met, he had wanted to claim her, and make her irrevocably his, despite his fears. After Thomas died Elijah had fought long and hard with that same urge. He knew it was a foolish desire, but he had still wondered, so great was Sheridan’s pull. Then his nightmares of blood and loss had tormented him, centering him as he imagined her broken, and dead. He had hardened himself completely against her. He had resisted all her lures, and the memories of the need that had stabbed at him from her big blues. The West was not for her, and before he had been an idiot to even think of taking a woman like her, a woman like Emma—gentle, sweet, and ladylike. A woman who had been pampered all her life and was not prepared emotionally and physically for harshness of the west. A woman he could not have faith in to be strong in the face of inevitable adversity.
The West was a harsh terrain, the land savage and uncompromising. A woman as sweet and gentle as Sheridan would need a man to survive the land. He had told her he would buy her shares in the ranch at Thomas’s funeral. Elijah had not given much thought to where she would go. But he knew staying was not a safe option for her.
And now she was here.
Gritting his teeth, Elijah did not acknowledge her further. He moved silently, not wanting to draw the predators of the forest attention to them. He gave up after she trampled behind him, loud enough to warn anyone that waited for them miles out.
In the cold silent trek his thoughts turned to Jericho. Elijah knew the Sullivan outfit, and his ambitious move for business and political power in these parts. But Elijah was more familiar with Jericho’s brother, Vincent Sullivan, having served with him in the army. Vincent was now the town’s sheriff, and Elijah nodded to him whenever he went into town for supplies. The last time had been almost a week ago. When not in town, he holed up in his mountain cabin contented to seclude himself from the world.
Thomas Galloway had been his friend. When he’d approached him about investing in his ranch, Elijah had taken up his offer, wanting to be a part of something other than his family legacy of Triple K. His father had made the Triple K ranch the powerhouse that it was, and Elijah wanted to start something for himself and worked to see it flourish. He’d signed on to be equal partner in their venture, and he and Thomas had defended the land with their blood. They had slowly built an empire that had started before the war, but flourished after it ended. The need for beef had exploded, and they had been there to fill the gap. They had held the ranch during war, protected it from Comanche and Arapaho raids. The Creek had been a haven for Elijah when he had lost his wife and son—Nathan, and returning to Triple K where the memories lingered had been too much. And now a man that fancied he wanted to own the valley thought he could just waltz in and claim Whispering Creek?
Elijah would be fair. Jericho Sullivan could not have known that Elijah was equal owner in the Whispering Creek spread. Before taking any action, he would assess where the man stood with his new knowledge. But Sheridan was right. Despite her objections, Jericho would still force her to his will. A woman without the protection of a man had a rough time of it. Instinctively Elijah knew he himself would never marry her. Once upon a time he would have done so, but that had been a moment of weakness he would carefully guard himself against from ever happening again.
He strode into the clearing that led to the cabin nestled deep into the mountain. It was a two-story wood and stone structure with three bedrooms up top, a wide-open living room, a large indoor kitchen, and a bathing area on the ground floor. He entered and with quick efficiency lit the tinder set for a log fire.
“Elijah.”
He glanced at her lingering in the doorway. “The bath chamber is to your left. Get the blood and grime off you. The water is piped directly from the spring around the back, so it will be cold. When you are through, your bedroom is the first door up the stairway. I will prepare something to eat. Then we will talk.”
She nodded mutely and with jerky steps she disappeared.
Within minutes, the fireplace roared, shaving off the chill in the cabin. He took cheese and bread from the pantry, blanking his mind to the fact that she was stripping in the next room. With sharp movements he lit the earthen stove, put on a pot of coffee to brew, and sliced the bread. He paused in slicing up the cheese. He should wait until she came out, but the need to know if she had been the one to borne a child crawled over his skin and burrowed deep. In their time together, his need had been so fierce and all consuming; there had been no thoughts of protecting against a child. He strode to the bath chamber and flung the door open.
“Elijah, wha—” She inhaled sharply when he pulled the bloodied shirt she held in front of her as a shield and drew her to him.
She twisted her body in an attempt to gain her freedom, but his arms only tightened as he dragged her to him, unzipping the buckskin pants that clung to her like a second skin. She jerked and stumbled and he caught her. The cold of her skin shocked him and he ignored the burn of desire and righted her.
“What are you doing?”
“You know what I am doing, Sheridan.”
He crouched in front of her, his hands spanning the width of her belly. He splayed his hand over her belly, spreading his fingers wide. She stilled under his touch and he ignored the quivering of her stomach. She felt like liquid silk in his arms. He shifted her, looking at her hips and thighs, noting the smooth, unblemished skin. A blush covered her entire body. Her hands hugged her breasts in a cross motion in some attempt to protect her modesty. His lips quirked, finding the action ludicrous. He had seen and tasted every inch of her alabaster skin. She turned her back and he froze. Three perfect scars marred her beautiful skin. Whip lashes. His jaw clenched. He remembered how she’d gotten them, agony swept through him because he had not been there for her despite her betrayal.
“The baby is not mine,” she said softly. “I would have told you.”
He pushed aside the puzzling disappointment mixing with the abject relief. He rose from his crouch. “Then how is he of my blood?”
She arched a delicate brow. “You do have brothers. I suspect one of them is the father.”
“You do not know for sure?”
“Beth is very secretive, but I am certain he is a Kincaid,” she insisted with a stubborn tilt of her head.
Then she dropped her hands. Elijah froze, his gaze unable to tear itself from the lush pertness of her breasts. The minx. What the hell was she doing?
He jerked away from her, then stomped to the porch and lowered his frame into the rocker. The coldness soothed the flare hunger for her and grounded him. The wind whipped at him, punching him with jarring fists of cold. He remained seated, fighting the temptation to enter the cabin and take her. He lowered his head to shield his face from the chilly gusts.
Memories swirled and he gritted his teeth, biting back an oath. He had been so dissolute when he’d met Sheridan, and she had been a breath of fresh air, spicy, witty, and too soft for the savagery of the West, but, somehow enough for him. The hard, vicious way he had lived before and after the war had left no room for trust. But he had trusted her.
As a sergeant in the union Army he had seen too much death, and too much loss. He was broken after losing all he held dear, in a retaliation attack after the Sand Creek massacre. But being with Sheridan had made everything seem right. The sense of being broken, the displacement had been fixed somehow. He’d believed her when she said she was unattached, she had no man, had no one that she loved.
After days of dancing and flirting with him, she had crawled into his bed all soft, womanly, and inviting. They had come together with tempestuous passion. For three of the best weeks of his life, she had been his woman, and he’d hoped he would not let her go despite his fears. Then Thomas had returned and Elijah had learned Sheridan had never truly been his. Her deception had been a saving grace really, for without it, surely, he would have taken her to be his wife. And that would have been a blasted foolish thing to do.
***
Sheridan wished Elijah’s touch had lingered a little longer. The warmth of his palms had been a heated caress on her skin. Will I ever stop craving him? She wanted him so desperately she couldn’t stand the ache. Sheridan closed her eyes in bittersweet longing, wondering if he would ever soften toward her. She’d fought against heartbreak every day since they have been separated.
She removed the soaked pants and dropped them on the floor with the remainder of her bloody clothes. The shirt could not be saved, but she would rinse her pants and drawers and lay them out to dry. She turned on the spigot, crying out at the cold of the water. Sheridan dashed under the piping, moving with grim efficiency, scrubbing the blood from her skin with the sandalwood soap in the bath chamber. Within a few minutes she stepped from the bath area shivering. With brisk movements, she used the buffalo skin towel to dry herself. Her hands caressed the soft welt on her lower back. He had seen her lashes. Her stomach churned at the memory.
The lash of the whip as Thomas had wielded it had been like a red-hot iron brand against her flesh. Sheridan’s stomach had roiled, and sweat had broken out with shivers all over her body. She had collapsed to the floor from the first lash, too numb to even scream. The second stroke had loosened her tongue as true agony had engulfed her body. That was when Elijah came. The memory of the whip parting her flesh, and washing her with blood as cold pain gripped her, paled to the memory of the merciless calm with which Elijah had beaten Thomas.
Elijah had terrified her. Thomas had lain abed for days recovering. She had only known Elijah as the teasing gentle lover, but that day she had felt a sliver of fear for Elijah’s wrath. He’d held his hunting knife against Thomas’s throat, and she had pleaded for him to spare Thomas’s life. That was the last time she had seen Elijah, almost a year ago, until the funeral.
She exited the bath and climbed the stairway to the bedchamber. She hurried to the chest and withdrew a blanket, wrapping it around her body. Her eyes scanned the room, loving the rough rustic design of it. It held only a single large bed, a wooden chair, and several rugs.
With a heavy sigh, she turned her thoughts to the current situation. How am I to convince him? Elijah was so unapproachable. Her plans to seduce him and compromise his honor so he would marry her seemed so silly now, but was there really any other option?
There was nothing for her in London, and she doubted she could return if she wished to. The path she had set for herself was a bloody hard one, but she would travel it. He would resist her and if she was not careful he would destroy her. He had always been a hard man, but for a glorious while he had been hers, and she wanted that back.
She shrugged into a blue flannel shirt, inhaling his scent. It hung loose on her, the hem falling well below her hips to her mid thighs. Her stomach rumbled as she tentatively descended the stairs and stepped into the wide-open area that was the parlor. The cabin was smooth and polished to a fine luster. The furniture was simple, robust and masculine. A large fireplace graced one corner, with a huge bearskin rug. The fireplace roared but he was nowhere to be seen. She glanced at the door and knew that he stood outside in the bracing cold. She winced. Even now the chill in the cabin was unbearable despite the fire.
She took hesitant steps towards the door, and then squared her shoulders, lifting her chin. He needed to hear her out because there was no one else she could turn to for aid. She walked towards the cabin door, heart thumping, hoping that the memories of all they had shared would thaw him.