Rocky Mountain Man

“Exactly!” The woman beamed at him from beneath her yellow sunbonnet’s wide brim. She was everything he’d come to hate—it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t seem to understand how her friendliness provoked him.

He took one wary step back and kept going. Distance. It’s all he wanted. Distance from her. From town, where she came from. In fact, he’d rather be completely alone forever, until the day he died. He hated doing laundry almost as much, and in fact, he rather preferred the somber laundress who used to come. She was sharp, bitter and never had a kind word. He understood that.

But this new woman—he couldn’t get used to her. He didn’t understand her at all. She was naive. Sheltered. She probably came from one of those happy-looking families on one of those pleasant, tree-lined streets—nothing bad ever happened to those people. They didn’t end up doing hard time in prison for another’s crime. They didn’t fail their families. Those people had never lost everything.

The image of his mother’s grave, marked by only a small stone that did not even bear her name, flashed into his vision. Bitterness filled his mouth and choked him. His heart had stopped existing years ago. The fact that it was beating in his chest made no difference. Like a dead man, he had no future, no hopes, nothing at all.

Nothing but resentment for the slender female and those like her. She wore that frilly yellow calico dress—the one that irritated him the most—for it swirled around the toes of her polished black shoes. She left the rucksack of clean clothes neatly on the front step, as she always did, walking with light, bouncing steps as if her feet didn’t quite reach the ground.

Something so delicate and sunny did not belong anywhere near him.

He turned his back, hefted up the ax again and sank it into the pine log with all his strength. The wood rent, two halves flew into the air and tumbled to the ground. He took his time positioning the wedge before he struck again.

He could feel her watching him. Her wide, curious gaze was like an unwanted touch on his bare back. It was indecent, he knew, to work in the presence of a lady without wearing his shirt, but this was his land. He lived far away from civilization for a reason, so he could do what he wanted. There was nothing this woman, or any woman like her, had that he needed.

He didn’t care if he offended her, and if he did, then all the better. Maybe she’d leave faster.

But no, she was taking her time. Carefully positioning the laundry in the back of the buggy—apparently there was a complicated system. She seemed intent, half bent over the small boot of the vehicle, and he could only see the bottom half of her skirt. Good. That was an improvement. Maybe all of her would be gone and he would be alone and safe.

He learned long ago what a woman could do to a man. They were the fairer sex, or so he’d been told, but he knew better. A pretty face could hide a deceitful and ruthless heart more easily than an ugly one. He had to admit that Betsy Hunter was one of the prettiest women he’d ever seen.

Not beautiful, she wasn’t exactly that. He’d seen enough women in his time to know that beauty had its own aloofness. Betsy Hunter was not a cool vision. No, she was something far more appealing. She was like the sun. She shone from the inside out. Her lovely brown hair always seemed to be tumbling down from its pins to blow in the wind and tangle around her face. She was as slender as a young willow and she moved like a wild mustang, all power and grace and fire.

She straightened from her task and he could see more than just the swirling hem of her skirt. That was not an improvement. He was a man, and a man with needs long unfulfilled, and his eyes were hungry, he could not deny that. He watched her soft round bosom shiver as she hurried to her horse’s side. Her lush bow-shaped mouth had to taste like sugar, he decided, when she leaned close to speak to her gelding.

No wonder the animal preened and leaned into her touch. Duncan envied the gelding for the way it enjoyed the light strokes of her gentle fingers.

Desire pulsed in his blood, growing stronger with each beat. He watched her spin on her dainty black shoes. Her ruffled hem swirled, offering a brief look at her slim, leather-encased ankles. Which made him think of her legs. Walking as she was, with the wind against her, her petticoats were no protection. The cotton fabric molded to her form and his gaze traced the curve of her hips and the length of her fine thighs—

“I’ll see you next week, Mr. Hennessey!” she called cheerfully, waggling her fingertips to wave goodbye.

It was such an endearing movement, and it shocked him that he noticed. That longing roared up within him for what he could never have, for what he could never let himself want. What was wrong with him? He forced the heat from his veins. He turned into cold steel.

One pretty woman had cost him everything. He would never be fooled again, not by Miss Hunter or by anyone like her. It was fitting that she climbed into her fancy little buggy and hurried her horse down the road. Good riddance. He didn’t like how her gentle smile twinkled in her sky-blue eyes. He really disliked the lark-song music of her voice.

In fact, he hoped to never see her again. Next Friday at one in the afternoon he would make sure he was long gone. Out hunting or just out for a twenty-mile walk. Gunmen could attack, a wolf could stalk her, or she could break an axle on that expensive buggy of hers, and he wouldn’t care. He’d keep away from her.

No woman was his lookout. No, not ever again.

He gave thanks when the fir and pines guarding his land closed her from his sight. All he heard was the faint squeak-squee-eak of a buggy wheel and then nothing but silence.

Just the way he liked it.

Well, that hadn’t gone too badly, considering. Betsy waited until she was certain Mr. Hennessey was well out of sight before she retrieved her lunch pail from beneath the seat.

As she unwrapped her tomato, lettuce and salt pork sandwich, she felt sorry for her least-favorite customer—although, on objective terms, he was her best client. He paid extra delivery fees, for he was far out of her usual delivery area. It was nearly an entire afternoon’s round trip. Twenty miles one way. Mr. Curmudgeon—oops! Mr. Hennessey—paid more to have his laundry brought to him than for the actual washing and ironing itself. With the county having come upon hard times from storms and drought, she couldn’t afford to alienate a single customer.

Which is what troubled her as she bit into her sandwich. The crisp salty pork and sweet fresh tomato and her ma’s rye bread made her stomach growl all the harder, it was so good. She chewed, planting the water jug between her thighs to hold it steady while she worked the stopper with her free hand. It gave with a pop and she took a long cool swing.

Much better. Dealing with Mr. Difficult was always a trial, but she’d managed to do fairly well this time. He’d been surprised to see her—she’d known he would be. He’d growled and given a very intimidating scowl, but he hadn’t fired her. He wasn’t going to. He couldn’t fool her. She had taken his measure long ago. Her Mr. Curmudgeon was a wounded beast whose snarl was much worse than his bite.

He was simply an unhappy and distrustful loner. She wondered what had made him like that. Had he always been so bitter? What heartbreak could have possibly made him that way? What would compel a man to retreat from civilization and live alone in the wilderness, over twenty miles from the nearest town?

Whatever happened to him, it had to have been terribly tragic. Betsy tried to imagine the possibilities as she transferred the half-eaten sandwich into her driving hand and dug in her little lunch pail with the other. The image of Duncan Hennessey, shirtless, his glorious male form kissed by the brazen sun, troubled her. He was one fine-looking man. Too fine for the life of a recluse. It was a woman that had broken his spirit. Maybe she’d jilted him. Or maybe she’d died.

Yes, she knew that pain. Although she’d been a widow for over five years now, the sadness of losing Charlie remained. If she hadn’t had a loving family and wonderful friends to keep her firmly in this world, she could see how that painful grief could drive a person to a solitary life.

Losing a loved one hurt more than anything. It was one reason she’d never been able to remarry. The thought of being so vulnerable again frightened her. Her life, her heart, her very soul had been devastated. Maybe that was why Mr. Hennessey was so unpleasant. He never wanted to let anyone into his heart again.

Her heart twisted in sympathy. As beastly as he was on the outside only pointed to a deep, private pain. The poor man. That’s why she never allowed his surly behavior to trouble her. As she unwrapped her slice of strawberry pie, she vowed to be even friendlier the next time she crossed his path.

With her mouth watering, she took a rich, creamy bite. Sweet berries burst on her tongue and she moaned in delight. She savored the lovely flavors, for she believed hat the enjoyment of a good dessert should ever be rushed.

For no reason, Morris froze in the middle of the path and the buggy jerked at the sudden stop. She looked up in surprise as the fork tumbled out of her fingers, taking her next bite of pie with it. She watched the steel utensil and ruby-red strawberries tumble between the dash and the whiffletree. Before dismay could settle in, she realized her horse was twitching, as if a thousand flies were crawling over his warm coat, but there wasn’t a single fly anywhere.

What was wrong with Morris? There was no danger in sight, although it was very shadowy. The ancient trees blocked most of the light from the sky and they seemed to moan, but that was just the rising wind rubbing limbs together.

“It’s all right, sweet boy.” She reached to set the brake so she could hop out and retrieve her fork.

Morris’s ears swiveled, as if he heard some danger approaching, and he gave a frightened whinny. That simply couldn’t be a good sign. Betsy pushed her meal aside, her dessert forgotten and reached for the Winchester.

It wasn’t on the seat where it was supposed to be. Her tin lunch pail sat there instead, emitting the scent of wonderful strawberries. Where did the gun go? The tiny hairs along Betsy’s nape stood straight on end and tingled. She wanted her rifle.

As Morris whinnied again, she dropped to her knees on the floorboards. There it was. She grasped the sun-warmed barrel in time to see a shadow move between the trees—a tall figure with wide shoulders and brawny arms. She caught a glimpse of dark hair above harsh black eyes. That wasn’t Mr. Hennessey, was it?

The branches parted and it wasn’t Mr. Hennessey breaking through the thick undergrowth. It was a bear.

The blood rushed from her head as the great black bear reared up on his hind legs, using his powerful limbs and claws to break away the impeding ever-greens. Thick boughs snapped like gunfire, but it was a small sound compared to the bear’s furious roar. His enormous jaws twisted open, exposing huge rows of teeth. Sharp, jagged teeth made for tearing his prey into small, manageable bites.

Time seemed to slow. She couldn’t lift the gun fast enough. The bear was reaching out with his enormous humanlike hands, except for the lethal claws at the tips. As he roared again, saliva dripped from his mouth. The beast was looking for lunch, and she doubted he wanted her sandwich or her pie, although they were both very good. He was eyeing her horse!

In a strangely eerie slow motion, the bear began to lunge and she positioned the Winchester against her shoulder and aimed. As the bear emerged onto the road, her finger found the trigger and, pulse thudding in her ears so hard she was shaking with the force of it, she squeezed. Light and smoke exploded from the steel barrel. The gun kicked hard against her shoulder and leaped out of her hands. The bear roared again and slapped at his left arm.

Like an indignant human, the creature gazed down at his fur, saw the blood, and attacked. Betsy fumbled for the gun, but her right arm was numb and didn’t move as fast as she wanted it to. Morris chose that moment to leap into a full gallop. The buggy jerked, she lost her balance and tumbled right off the floor, rolling head over skirts in midair. For the brief instant she was upside down, with her petticoats spilling over her face and the ground rushing up to meet her, she caught sight of her fork shimmering in the bright sunshine.

It was an odd thing to notice, she thought in the last few seconds she had left to live. The bear’s enormous hairy feet were pounding toward her and her thoughts flashed forward in time. If she somehow lived to tell this tale to her dear friends, whom she was to meet this afternoon for tea, she could imagine how they would laugh hysterically about the bear’s feet. It would sure make a funny story, how she was almost eaten by a bear while eating her lunch—

The ground stuck her hard in the back and seemed to jar some sense into her. Her body impacted next. Pain thudded through her. Air left her lungs in a whoosh. Suddenly a shadow rose over her and she squeezed her eyes shut. She no longer had hold of her gun. She was defenseless and this was it—this was death. She didn’t want to see the bear’s terrifying teeth and lethal jaw opening wide to take a bite of her. Fear turned her blood to ice and there was nothing she could do. There was no way to stop him—

A gunshot cannoned above the pounding sound in her ears. The bear roared a final time before the earth quaked around her. Betsy opened one eye and realized the bear, with blood oozing from a bullet wound between his eyes, was lying right beside her. Another creature was towering over both of them, casting them in his significant shadow.

For a moment Betsy wondered if it was another bear, for that was the impression he gave—of raw lethal power and wild fury. But bears didn’t wear leather boots and denims or carry a polished rifle.

Duncan Hennessey stared down at her with a grimace so terrifying he made the charging bear seem friendly. She tried to drag air into her spasming lungs and failed. As she coughed and gasped, she looked at the dead bear with longing.

She would have much rather dealt with that beast than the one towering over her, loaded gun in one hand and eyes black with rage.

Chapter Two

Duncan noticed the fork and the strawberries gleaming bright red in the middle of the grassy road and took in the scent of fried, crispy salt pork. Women. Most of them didn’t have a drop of common sense. Not that he cared.

He’d done the right thing in coming to her rescue, but it only made him more annoyed. He was doing fine alone. It was other people that brought misery. Today, he’d been content enough to work on his winter supply of wood. But a woman comes along and, by getting herself nearly killed, forces him to become involved.

He hadn’t run full-speed through the forest because he’d been concerned about her. Nope. He simply couldn’t let a pretty woman get hurt, because she was bound to be missed and someone would come looking for her and blame him for whatever happened.

Really. He was just acting out of his own best interests and not some noble code to protect the weaker. He didn’t care about her at all, even if her big blue eyes were wide with fear and her softly ample bosom rose and fell as she gasped for air. He steeled his feelings against her, because it was the only thing he could do. Women came with a cost. He’d paid with his life, his future and his family.

It had been too much.

She was safe now. What he ought to do was leave her heaving for breath in the road and let her find her horse on her own. Maybe that would teach her a lesson, he reasoned. What he really wanted was to get away from her before any misunderstandings occurred. You could just never tell what a woman was plotting. Even with something as innocent as this.

He pushed the panic rising within him away and headed for the downed bear. Fine, a bear had attacked her, but even this could get twisted around. All anyone might see was a horse and empty buggy fleeing the forest, the pretty young woman missing, and it would start all over again.

The images raced through his mind like a river at flood stage, speeding and fingering into little eddies so that more memories came to life. The noise of the crowds, the jeers of hatred, the cold metal encircling his wrists and the final clank as the marshal closed them.

He could feel the agony in his mother’s broken heart and, in bleak devastation, felt as lost as the darkness in the cell’s blackest corners. The rank odors of the windowless holding cell filled his nose, where he could not sleep because he couldn’t see the sky. He’d lain awake waiting for the night to pass.

Waiting to see if they would hang him come morning.

No, that wasn’t going to happen again. Never again. Rage made him as hard and as cruel as the mountains behind him. He refused to touch the woman. Her skirts were askew and her bare knee was showing. He made sure he kept his distance as he knelt so they were eye level. Her porcelain features crinkled as she fought to breathe. She looked at him with the question clear on her face. Help me?

Only so much, lady. He checked to make sure the bear was good and truly dead. No pulse beat in his throat and his chest was as still as the earth. Good. Now he could think about what to do with the woman. “Just relax. Try to breathe in slow. You’re gonna be just fine.”

Her gaze latched on to his, and he felt the impact as if she’d reached out with her soft dainty hands and grabbed hold of his throat. More panic zipped through his system as if he’d been struck by lightning. He felt her fear, and he understood. She’d had a pretty good scare. That could unsettle a person.

He’d done time as a soldier in the Great War between the states and had come across enough wounded there, in prison and in these mountains that he knew by looking she wasn’t hurt. Just scared. Fear could be a living thing, he knew, seizing up a person.

“C’mon now, you just got the wind knocked out of you.” He simply needed to get her thinking about something besides the dead bear beside her. “What did you think you were doing, eating in these woods? It’s feeding time for the bears. You know they hibernate, right?”

The fear glazing her eyes was fading. Air rasped into her lungs.

Being angry with her was working, so he kept on going. “Bears eat a lot before they hibernate. That means they are hungry. Any person with a speck of sense knows to stay away from hungry bears. But not you. You open up a salt pork sandwich and strawberries. Strawberries.”

He hated to think what would have happened if he hadn’t gone against his principles and come running when he’d heard her gunshot.

She was breathing nearly regular now and the color was back in her face. He fought the urge to help her up and to treat the cut bleeding on her hand. It was the same protective instinct that had gotten him in trouble long ago, so he straightened and began to back away until he’d put a few more yards between them.

Now what should he do? Her horse and vehicle were gone, and there was no telling where he’d find them. She was female, and they were alone together. He didn’t like her, he didn’t trust her and he didn’t want her anywhere near him.

He couldn’t leave her alone.

She was a little thing. He’d never studied her this close before. A tiny blanket of freckles lay on her nose and cheeks. Her eyelashes were thick and dark, and there was something so vulnerable in the way she sat up and wiped the grass seeds out of her hair with a shaking hand.

Something moved deep down within the iron weight that had replaced his heart. It wasn’t a feeling—he didn’t have feelings. He’d found no need for them, but he couldn’t rightly say what hurt where his heart used to be.

It was probably indigestion. That’s what he got for running hard through the forest right after his noon meal.

The problem was still before him. The woman. What should he do with her? “Can you stand?”

“I think so.” She smoothed her skirts as if gathering up her strength, but she didn’t get on her feet.

Fine, he’d carry her, saddle up a horse and make sure she was able to sit in the saddle—

Branches broke with a snap-snap in the woods behind him. The woman’s eyes flashed wide and utter fear twisted on her lovely face. Duncan pivoted, hauled his rifle up by the stock, but the big black bear was moving fast.

Too fast.

He got off a shot—missed the heart—and cocked, but that was all before the bear pushed away the smoking rifle barrel with the mighty swipe of one sharp claw.

Oh, hell. Duncan watched his favorite rifle crack apart and fall in two pieces to the rocky ground. Good thing he was prepared. He drew so fast, he got off a shot, but two bullets in the chest didn’t stop this bear. He charged, and both foot-wide paws scraped deep into Duncan’s shoulders.

Claws sliced him like a dozen razor blades. He was a dead man. Duncan tried to fight, but the bear was twice as strong and clawed through both shoulder muscles and downward, breaking ribs. Duncan fell to his knees as the bear knocked him to the ground and bent to sink his teeth into Duncan’s neck.

It’s over. Just like that. Duncan met the bear head-on, fighting even as the animal’s jaws parted for the death bite. He saw the woman out of the corner of his eye. She had climbed to her feet and was shouting and throwing rocks at the big animal, but the hunks of granite didn’t harm the bear. Or stop him. Still, Duncan appreciated the effort as his left hand groped along the top of his boot.

The first prick of incisor drilled into Duncan’s throat, but his fingers closed around the knife handle. He was dying, fine, but he’d take the bear with him. He’d make sure the pretty laundry lady with her sunshine and freckles would live.

With a roar, Duncan slid his bowie knife into the bastard’s ribs. He ignored the spray of blood as he twisted and turned the blade deep. He felt death come in a swift black wave that drained the light from his eyes and the strength from his body. He was falling. Vaguely he felt the brutal impact of hitting the rocky ground, knew blood was gushing out from his neck and chest, but the bear was dead. That was all that mattered.

He was drifting like a dying leaf on the wind. Her voice was the last thing he heard. She was speaking his name, calling to him, but he was already floating away.

When he looked down, he saw her huddled in the road, flanked by two dead bears, cradling a bloody man with his head on her lap. Her hair had tumbled free and her dainty yellow dress was stained crimson.

It was the sound of her tears that drilled deep into his steeled soul.

She was crying for him.

Betsy held on to him. She didn’t know what else to do. Blood was everywhere and her nightmare was happening all over again. Times she’d rather forget rolled forward and she couldn’t squeeze off the rush of memories. Years ago she’d held another dying man in her lap just like this and watched the blood drain out of him. The doctor had worked frantically but couldn’t save her husband.

How on earth could she hope to save Mr. Hennessey? Despair overwhelmed her. Trembling, she wiped blood from his face. His was a strong face, with high and sharp cheekbones and a profile like the Rocky Mountains that soared so strong and unfailing into the cloudy sky. But Duncan Hennessey was not made of granite, no, he was as vulnerable as any human. No growling demeanor and intentional rudeness could make him more immune to death.

Blood. There was so much of it streaming from the open tears in his flesh. Panic threatened to overtake her, but she couldn’t let it win. She couldn’t sit here, holding his head and fighting off a case of the vapors when she had to try to save him. She had to think. She had to remember what the doctor had done for Charlie.