Four

More composed now, her unruly hair pulled back and captured between her back and the cushions, Angel sat on the cowhide sofa and waited. She didn’t think Jack Daltry would be out back that long. Clutched in her hands again was the fully loaded Winchester. It lay across her lap, atop the same skirt she’d had on the day she was nearly lynched. Her skirt was clean now. She glanced down, looking past the rifle to the worn brown fabric that covered her legs.

Yes, it was clean. Along with her other things … her blood-soaked blouse and unmentionables. She’d washed them all that first day here. After burying Mr. Daltry and then bathing herself. Then, using a needle and some thread she found, she’d sat at the drop-leaf table in the kitchen and mended those places torn by the Henton drovers. It wasn’t so much that she liked this skirt, she told herself as she smoothed a still-shaking hand over the rough fabric. It was just the only one she owned. So, what choice did she have but to patch it?

When Angel realized the direction of her thoughts—back to that day, and then to something as silly as her laundry—she raised her head, tightened her grip on the rifle, and trained her gaze across the way. In silence, she stared at the wood-framed doorway on the far side of the great room. She knew, from a week of living here and exploring the place, that if she exited there and turned left, she’d be in a narrow hall that led past the furniture-crowded study, then on to the dining room, and finally ended at the kitchen. And the back door.

And it was that back door that held her attention. She sat there, listening. Listening for that distant door to open and then close. Listening for heavy, booted footsteps to sound on the wood flooring. And waiting. Waiting for Jack Daltry to step into the empty frame that now filled her vision and her consciousness.

Angel exhaled, her breath leaving her in a warm gust. She fully intended to kill him before he killed her. She didn’t really want to. She wasn’t a cold-blooded killer. And she felt that her sitting here and waiting on the man, giving him a chance to walk away—instead of getting up and going out back and filling him full of lead while he wasn’t looking—proved that. But beyond that, she’d killed one man already and, though she wasn’t sorry that Jeb Kennedy was dead—he’d deserved it—she didn’t like having his or anyone else’s blood on her hands. Or her soul. If she had one.

But Jack Daltry would force her hand, she knew it. Because she hadn’t lied to him about what he’d find outside, about who he’d find buried next to a woman whose hand-lettered headstone simply proclaimed her to be Lily Daltry. Was she Jack Daltry’s mother? Sister? Wife? Angel had no way of knowing, couldn’t even suppose. Nor did she think he was lying, or even exaggerating, about what he’d do to her if she hadn’t already hightailed it before he came back inside. Angel pictured herself fleeing astride that roan, in full retreat.

A chuckling snort escaped her. Then she shook her head slowly, promising herself she’d never run again. Up until now, she’d always had to, in order to keep body and soul together. And she’d hated it, hated the way it made her feel. But no more. She wouldn’t go back to the old ways. This right here, this Circle D land, was a fresh start, a new life. And it was here she chose to make her stand. She wasn’t leaving.

So, if Jack Daltry didn’t back down, she’d just have to kill him. It was that simple. Because this house, this cattle ranch, was the only home she’d ever known. And Mr. Daltry wanted her to have it, not his son. That point confused her. Why wouldn’t a man leave his property to his own son? Angel shrugged as if someone else had asked her that. Maybe there was bad blood between the two. How was she supposed to know? One thing she did know was she didn’t care. Couldn’t afford to care. Especially about someone she was maybe getting ready to kill.

Just then, she heard the back door jerk open. She tensed at the sound. Then she heard—felt it too in her chest—the same door slam against the wall behind it. All her senses were on alert. The next sound was the door slamming closed.

Jack Daltry was back inside.

Angel listened a moment … swallowed … then slowly slid the Winchester toward her body. Inadvertently she captured her skirt, pulling its length up her legs. No doubt she was exposing her lace-up boots, stockings, and some bare leg, she thought, as she listened to footsteps scuffing across the wood flooring and advancing toward her. Angel blinked, figuring that her exposed limbs probably would be the last thing the man would notice about her. Especially with the Winchester in her hands. She hefted it, sighted down the barrel—and aimed at where approximately his heart would be when he stepped around that corner.

*   *   *

With his murderous grief under tight lock and key, Jack turned into the great room, where he’d left Angel Devlin, and came to a sudden stop. There she was. Right where he’d left her. He stood there, framed in the arch of the doorway, his legs spread, his weight distributed evenly on his feet. His hands hung loosely at his sides. A gunfighter’s stance … one Jack was all too familiar with of late.

Jack stared at her, silently cursed her. She’d gotten the Winchester out of the cabinet and had it pointed at him again. The long rifle was a deadly enough weapon, one he respected. And he didn’t doubt for a minute that she’d not hesitate to use it, if he gave her enough of a reason. Enough of a reason? An abrupt, derisive sound escaped him. “You’re still here.”

She nodded. “It would appear so.”

Jack continued to stare at her, his gaze repeatedly drawn to the marks banding her neck. Only one thing, in his experience, could cause marks like that. But still, silent minutes passed, during which he decided he ought to kill her just for being so damned stubborn. But then he realized that, given all he’d ever heard about her willfulness, he shouldn’t be surprised that she was still sitting here. Shouldn’t be surprised she’d armed herself, either. Not that he really cared that she had. Not that he cared about anything at all at this moment.

Except having a drink. A man ought to be able to have a drink in his own home on the day he finds out his father is dead. On the day he realizes his father died thinking his firstborn son didn’t give a damn about him. The thought almost drove Jack to his knees. Instead, keeping his feet under him, he spat out, “That rifle getting heavy yet? I’d think it would be.”

She didn’t respond in any way. Not a word or gesture to indicate she’d heard him. Jack captured her gaze, held it. Saw no fear, no skittishness in her eyes. A muttered curse escaped him, had him shaking his head and speaking his mind. And meaning every word. “Go ahead and pull the trigger. See if I give a shit.”

With that, and not waiting for her response, he turned his back to her, making his way over to the hulking walnut liquor cabinet in a corner of the room. Opening the beveled-glass doors, he sorted through the selection of brandies, whiskies, rums, and ryes, finally settling on one of many unopened bottles of first-quality whisky.

He yanked it off the shelf, inadvertently upending a smaller bottle that crashed to the floor and shattered. Jack looked down at the mess, at the hard spirits staining his denims and his worn, dusty boots. His nose twitched at the alcoholic fumes that wafted upward. But otherwise, he couldn’t have cared less … about either the mess or the loss of the liquor. Because it just didn’t matter. And he couldn’t say if anything ever would again.

With his whisky selection fisted in one hand, he snatched up a squat cut-crystal glass from a lower shelf. Then he turned, crunching the broken glass under his feet, to face Angel Devlin. She’d lowered the Winchester. An aching cynicism had him chuckling and shaking his head, had him flinging his arms out to his sides. “What—no guts? You disappoint me, Angel. Go on … use that Winchester. Take your best shot. God knows, I am, too—but with these.” He indicated the whisky and the shot glass.

Still she didn’t say anything. But her gaze slipped from his face, traveled down the dirt-caked front of him. So she knew he’d thrown himself on his father’s grave. So what? He’d also cried like a baby. Her gaze stalled at his feet. Jack looked down at himself, at his boots, saw that he stood in the middle of the still spreading stain of … what? He sniffed the air, trying to guess what type of liquor he’d spilled. When he had it, he looked up at her and said, “Rum,” as if she’d asked. Then he added, “I’m waiting.”

She cocked her head. “For what? Me to join you in drinking that bottle?”

Ah. He’d won a response. Grim but triumphant, Jack made an abrupt gesture with the shot glass. “Hell, no, I don’t want you to join me. I’m just waiting to see if you mean to shoot me. Wouldn’t want to waste all this fine liquor, if you are.” Then he felt a need to prod her, even at the risk of his own life. “I still don’t know what you’re waiting on. Especially since you’ve been itching to fill me full of lead from the time I rode up.”

“Yep. I reckon I have,” she agreed instantly. But her expression could only be called somber. “Still, I’m not one to shoot a man when he’s down.”

“‘When he’s down?’” Jack repeated. His eyes narrowed as he set himself in motion. With the slow, unhurried gait of a man used to setting the pace, and having others follow it, he approached her, stopped in front of her—almost on top of her—and looked down at her. “You think I’m down, Angel?”

She sank back, away from him, as if she meant to pull into herself. Jack’s gaze slipped to her hands, saw them tighten around the rifle, whitening her knuckles. Again, he searched her expression, expecting finally to see fear shadowing the black eyes staring back up at him. But there was none. Nor did it flavor her husky voice when she spoke. “Yeah. I do. I think you’re way down.”

As he stared at her, as his mouth and his chin quivered with a fresh stab of grief, Jack knew she was right. Knew he wanted nothing more than to forget who she was, what he thought she’d done, and throw himself down at her knees, bury his face in her lap, and hold on to her. Knew that in his gut-wrenching pain, in his need for the simple warmth and solace of another living soul … any living soul … he wanted to cry out to someone.

But … like hell he would. Jack locked his knees, stiffening his stance and his resolve against such an unforgivable act. Because this was Angel Devlin he was talking about. Seek warmth and solace from her? Under these or any other circumstances? No.

Having thus put an iron-clad lock on his feelings, and seeming more in control of himself, Jack said, in a conversational tone, one that belied the volatility of his emotions, “You know what, Angel? You’re right. I am down.” He hefted the whisky bottle and the crystal glass, gesturing with them. “But with the help of these two friends here, I’ll soon be down a lot lower.”

He paused, cocked his head, and ran his gaze over her. Angel Devlin. Sitting in his house, all prim and properlike. It was actually funny, in a way. He grinned, and with the casual cruelty of one pushed too far, one whose soul was tearing apart, one who truly did not care about anything, told her, “What I said before … about killing you if you were still here when I came back inside? Well, I haven’t forgotten that. Still intend to do it, too. Because I do believe you’re the one who—well, you know what I think you did. But … I’m a fair man, Angel.”

With that, he stepped around her and sat down beside her on the sofa, his shoulder all but touching hers. Propping the whisky bottle between his legs, against his crotch, he crossed an ankle atop his opposite knee and lay back against the cushions. Then he rolled his head until he was looking at her profile. With a slow swivel of her neck, Angel faced him.

She hadn’t moved over. Or away. Jack respected that. “I like you, Angel. You’ve got grit, a lot of spirit. So I’ll give you another chance to save your worthless skin. See, I’m taking my friends here with me to my room upstairs—”

He cut off his own words when an errant thought sidetracked him. Using Angel’s face—she really was a good-looking woman—as a focal point for his concentration, he tried to recall what had flashed in and out of his mind too quickly for him to grasp. Then, finally, he had it again. With his elbow, he poked her arm, making sure he had her attention. “We never did settle to your satisfaction just who I am, did we? Well, I’m Jack Daltry, all right. Son of Wallace Daltry. Pleased to meet you.”

She didn’t react in any way, not even to say a word. But he saw the quick intelligence in her eyes, knew she absorbed every word he said. So he gestured broadly with his glass, making a sweeping pass of the room. “I know the layout of this entire house, Angel. Hell, the entire spread. Every one of these hundreds of acres. I can tell you about each hill … where every drop of water is—and isn’t. And if you’ve been snooping around upstairs yet—and I suspect you have—then you’ll know that in the first bedroom … on the left … at the head of the stairs … are my belongings, the ones I left behind four months ago.”

He then shifted slightly, looked right into her eyes … the widest, shiniest eyes he’d ever seen, he had to admit. “You convinced yet? Or do I need to haul your ass up there and show you?”

Obviously one to pick her battles carefully, Angel said, “I’m convinced.”

Jack nodded. “Good. Now where was I?”

Angel nodded toward the liquor and the glass fisted in his hand. “You and your friends were going upstairs to your room. And then, something about killing me.”

A chuckle escaped him, had him taking yet another look at her. “That’s it. Thanks for reminding me.” Now he noticed the feminine fineness of her features. And all that dark hair, thick and soft-looking. That high forehead, and black-winged eyebrows. The straight, slender nose, the full reddish lips. And that stubborn jaw. “All in all, Angel Devlin,” he surprised himself by saying out loud, “you’re one good-looking woman. I’ll give you that much.”

Jack’s words hung in the air between them, seemed to thicken, to wrap around them like a caress. But then, her voice cool and distant—and dismissive—Angel said, “You’ll give me nothing.”

Poof. The wispy moment of intimacy evaporated, leaving Jack wondering what the hell was wrong with him, that he’d say such a thing to her, of all people. “Okay, I was going upstairs,” he said abruptly, taking up his tale again. “Where I’m going to drink this entire bottle of fine grain alcohol. And then … I’ll probably get some more. And drink it, too. But eventually, I’m going to sleep it all off. Now when I do, and I come to, and come back downstairs—however long that takes—you make sure you’re gone. You hear me?”

She nodded. “I hear you.”

He nodded, too. Realized he was again staring too long into her eyes. Realized that somewhere in the depths of those dark pools, she too knew it was more than just a look. He wondered if she also knew that he was starting to feel something he shouldn’t, something that had a lot of heat to it, something that manifested itself in the vicinity of the whisky bottle leaning heavily against the button-fly opening of his denims.

But still, he didn’t look away. No, he wanted her to see it. In fact, he felt a driving need to know what her reaction would be. He was soon rewarded. The longer he held her gaze, the more her mouth turned down. The more she blinked … and swallowed.

Jack chuckled, breaking the spell. Made her edgy, did he? Good. It was enough for now. He pulled himself upright and quipped, “You’d kill me if I even tried, wouldn’t you?”

Her reply came with a slow nod. “Yes, I would. Ask anybody.”

*   *   *

It’d been three days now. Angel didn’t know what to think as she stood there on the second floor of the Circle D ranch house and faced Jack Daltry’s closed bedroom door. Just as he’d said, it was the first one, on the left, at the head of the stairs. Twice now she’d put a hand out, meaning to test the brass knob. Was it locked or not? Both times she’d pulled her hand back without trying it. She grimaced fleetingly as she realized she’d been undone by something as simple as a doorknob. But the man hadn’t come out of his room for two days now. Except to get more liquor and act more belligerent.

On his last pass late last evening, he’d been all slack-jawed and weaving. And had smelled to high heaven. He’d also sported a heavy growth of beard. At the rate he was drinking and grieving, Angel figured, she’d be burying him next to his father in a day or so. And that’s what she told herself she was doing outside his bedroom door … checking to see if he was dead and needed burying.

But she knew different. She was concerned. Concerned he would drink himself to death. And that’s what had her flummoxed—her concern. Why should she care if he drank himself to death? Or finally just stumbled and fell and broke his fool neck? If he did, her problem would be solved. There’d be no one left to dispute her claim to the Circle D. At least, no one else had shown up yet to lay another claim to it.

So, that should have settled it for her. Yes, if she had any sense, she’d leave him lying in his own filth until he died and thereby saved her the trouble of having to kill him. That was what she ought to do.

But ought to didn’t seem to cut it today. Because what she was going to do—she still couldn’t believe it herself—was go in there and get the man back on his feet. Why? Angel tried to tell herself she was doing no more than she had for the horse he’d left tied to the railing out front. Hadn’t she had enough compassion to lead the helpless animal to the barn, brush it down, and turn it out to the corral with her roan and the other horses already there? If she’d do that much for a dumb critter, why shouldn’t she do it for a dumb man who wouldn’t even help himself?

But Angel’s shoulders sagged with the truth, with the answer to the question she’d wrestled with repeatedly over the past two days … why was she so danged intent on saving the man from himself? Because, she railed at her rebelling conscience, it’s the right thing to do. Because, no matter how much she’d wished for it or longed for it in her own growing-up years, she’d never had anyone do the right thing by her. Until this man’s father came along.

So, quite simply, she owed Wallace Daltry one good deed, one act of human kindness. Something that, before him, had never been extended to her. Something that she’d never thought herself capable of doing for someone else. Or even caring about doing for someone else. Until Mr. Daltry. So, it seemed pretty straightforward. She would try to save the life of the son of the man who’d saved her life.

Angel shook her head, still resisting this high-and-mighty notion that had taken hold of her. But the hard truth was … if Wallace Daltry could grieve a bit for her mother, even when she herself couldn’t, then she should see his son through his grieving for his father. She grimaced, pulling her lips tight against her teeth. Just the idea of soothing another’s hurt went against her independent nature. But try as she might not to like it, she knew this was the only way she had left to repay Mr. Daltry.

Returning to the moment, Angel realized that not only was she staring at the doorknob, she was gripping it. This time, feeling more sure of her intentions, she didn’t let go. Instead, she exhaled a deep breath, tested the knob … felt it give. Felt her heart lurch. May as well get it over with.

Fine, I’ll do it. But it didn’t come easy. She needed a hedge, she knew, against this nasty streak of caring that had apparently lurked, unbidden, unheeded, inside her until now. She thought a moment, and then came up with it. She promised herself that once Jack Daltry was back on his feet … well, then she’d kill him.

Why? Because she surely didn’t see him just letting her have the Circle D, his home. Would he just hand it over and ride away, after thanking her for her help and telling her he was sorry for the bother of the past few days? Hardly. But, by God, neither would she leave for him. So this galling mission of mercy she was on, she now recognized, was no more than a delay of the inevitable, a tiny bandage stuffed into a cannonball-sized hole in the man’s heart. And in hers.

Enough thinking. Get in there and do it. Pushing her body forward as she came to a decision, Angel twisted the brass knob as far as it would go. The door opened, her momentum swept her inside. She took a breath, preparatory to announcing her presence, but the darkened room’s smell took her by surprise, and she reeled back a step and gagged. Reflexively, her hands sought her mouth, covered her nose, bent her forward.

Spilled liquor, man-sweat, unwashed body—and other noxious odors she didn’t care to identify—had Angel gagging and running for the closed window, one hand still covering her mouth. Trying her best to hold her breath, fighting the tearing of her eyes, she ripped aside the heavy drapes and fought and fumbled with the latch until she could shove the lower casing up and stick her head outside. Bracing herself against the sill, her mouth agape, her lungs burning, she took in gasping, grateful breaths of fresh spring air.

And ignored the slurred grumbling and mumbling coming from the man lying atop the dirty, disheveled bed behind her. But finally, when she felt stronger, Angel turned around and stared at the pitiful sight the big man made, sprawled there on his bed, on his back, one arm and one leg hanging off the covers. He surely did not look anything like the determined stranger who’d ridden in here a few days back. He wasn’t full of piss and vinegar anymore. Well, not vinegar, anyway, she decided, wrinkling her nose against the acrid miasma of odors that still pervaded the room.

Some mighty powerful demons ate at Jack Daltry. Angel understood that. Could even respect it. After all, hadn’t she lived with some of the same all her own life?

She cut that thought off at its inception. She wasn’t here to dwell on her own problems. Nor did she want to. She wasn’t one to give in to pity for herself. But she could pity the snoring jackass on the bed who needed some help. Angel bit at her bottom lip, felt her skin crease between her eyes as she frowned. This was going to take some doing, she realized.

And some scrubbing and some bathing. She pulled away from the window. Her … bathe him? She headed for the door. No. And then stopped.

Yes. She fisted her hands, wanted to stomp her foot. Yes. She gritted her teeth to keep from screaming out her frustration. She couldn’t help the man if she couldn’t stand to be near him. So there it was. She had to clean him up. It was that simple. And that hard. Well, then—she squared her shoulders—so be it. She just needed to get some things, didn’t she? Yes, she did. And it was reason enough to hurry out of the room. Things like soap and water, she assured herself. A lot of soap and water. And some towels. And clean clothes for him.

And a razor. Angel’s knees weakened at the thought, had her groping with her outstretched hand for the support of the solid wall to her left. Her other hand found its way to her thumping heart. A razor. She’d seen one in another bedroom, probably Mr. Daltry’s. She also recalled a shaving mug and a brush beside a porcelain basin and a pitcher on a dry sink there. She’d get that one.

Again she rushed off, heading to the other end of the hall, to the large bedroom facing her. She’d get a razor. A sharp one … to cut Jack Daltry’s beard—if not his throat for putting her in this position, damn him.

*   *   *

When Jack woke up—or more likely, came back to consciousness—he was suprised. True enough, plenty of times in the past he’d awakened sprawled on a bed. Sometimes, like now, even his own. But always before—and there were a lot of befores—he’d been raunchy dirty, sweat-soaked, and in a mean mood. But not this time. His sense of smell, his awareness of himself, the physical sensations, all told him he was clean. Him, his bed, his body, and—He felt under the sheet … where were his clothes?

He smoothed his hand up to his bare chest and rested it there as he tried to pull up the memory of cleaning himself and his bed. And found he had no such recollection. Well, what about his mood? He focused inward, checked that. Nope. Not even the meanness to see him through the hangover. Just the aching headache, the roiling gut … and the brightest damned sunshine he’d ever seen in his life.

He grimaced against the pain of the light hitting his pupils and brought a shaking hand up to rub over his eyelids and then down his jaw and his neck. Over his Adam’s apple, his hand froze as he realized what he felt. Clean-shaven skin. What the—? Now, wait just a damned minute … he’d been too drunk to risk shaving. That much he knew. What was going on here? He edged his eyes open, glimpsed again the bare ceiling, the glare of sunlight, and immediately squeezed his eyes shut again.

“Sorry about the nicks and cuts on your throat. I never—”

Jack’s entire body jerked at the sound of the female voice. He wrenched to his left—paid the hefty physical price of a pounding heart and burning muscles—and saw Angel Devlin pulling up a chair to sit beside his bed. “I was just saying I’d never shaved a man before,” she finished.

Jack stared at her and considered her words. She’d shaved him? And undressed him and bathed him, too? Why? But beyond that, how’d she do all that, and even change the linens, with him in the bed? He blinked, tugging on the top sheet, trying to distribute it more evenly over his lower regions. Even that bit of movement hurt. Still, he managed to croak out, “You’d never shaved a man before? And you just thought you’d start with me?”

“Yep,” she drawled. “Thought I would.”

“Why?” he asked as he rolled onto his back. He winced, and his gut clenched. It hurt just to talk.

“Why? Well … because you needed it,” came the practical response from the woman in the chair beside his bed.

Jack remained silent for a moment, concentrating on breathing, until he felt equal to the task of turning his head to see her. “I did?” he got out, taking in her appearance as she nodded her answer.

Her hair was pulled back behind her ears and tied at her nape, making the marks around her neck, though fainter, more stark in appearance. Her longish bangs brushed against her eyelashes, making her blink. And her attire … it was all his. His blue chambray shirt, which was much too big for her slender form, was open at the throat and unbuttoned enough to expose a white bit of her undergarment. It’d taken about three turns of the sleeves, he noted, to expose her hands and wrists.

His gaze slipped down to her belted denims. Well, his denims … which were also too big. The belt fit her. It must be hers, he concluded. This was mighty interesting. He’d seen women in men’s clothes before. The prairie and mountains were full of women making do with what was at hand. He’d been surprised early on by the sight, but hadn’t given it too much thought after that. Until now. Angel Devlin looked good in his clothes. And he liked it.

Afraid his scrutiny of her had given away his thoughts, Jack sought her gaze, saw she’d calmly been watching him notice every detail about her. And yep, he’d given himself away, if her slightly raised eyebrows were any indication. In sudden irritation, Jack wondered why she wasn’t the least bit embarrassed or squeamish about him gazing at her. After all, most young girls her age—he judged her to be about eighteen or nineteen—would be.

Then he realized it was hardly surprising. Angel Devlin wasn’t most young girls. She hadn’t led the protected life they usually did.

And that only made him wonder what thoughts did lurk behind those wide and amazingly black eyes of hers, whenever he raked his gaze over her. To his surprise, especially given his present state, he found he really meant that. He really wanted to know. And couldn’t have said why. Or didn’t want to own up to why. And so, in an effort to avoid his own awareness of her, he asked, “How long have I been out?”

She shrugged. “Off and on since late last evening. It’s mid-afternoon now, so I expect you’ll live. But before that, you’d been drinking for two days.”

Two—no … three days, all told? He’d lost three days? Damn. What had put him on this bender? He tried to come up with the answer, but couldn’t. It hurt too much to think. But still, he’d known instantly who she was. So, at some point, they’d been introduced. Introduced? Was that all they’d been? Jack flicked a glance her way. He was in bed naked. And she didn’t seem the least bit concerned that he was. Shouldn’t his conclusion be the obvious one?

Damn. Me and Angel Devlin. Whew. Jack wished he could remember that. But with every muscle—every hair even—aching and burning, and his abused stomach threatening to empty itself with his next movement, all he could do was lie there. And settle for deep, gentle breathing. After a moment, when he was more able, he licked his lips and swallowed, then asked, “What the hell is going on?”

Her answer was slow in coming. Her very silence did nothing to relieve Jack’s mind. He rolled his head just enough to see her, just enough to send her a questioning look. “You don’t remember?” she finally answered … with a question.

Exasperated, Jack answered, “If I did, I wouldn’t be troubling myself right now with conversation.”

“Fair enough. You’ve been drinking to forget.”

“Well, I must have done a good job because I have forgotten. What exactly have I forgotten?”

Angel Devlin firmed her lips together and stared at him. Jack’s senses went on the alert. Whatever she had to say, he wasn’t going to like it, he could tell. Finally, she spoke, saying, “I hate to be the one to tell you again but … your father … well, he’s dead.”

Jack stared at her, tried to absorb her words, and their meaning. Your father’s dead. What did that mean? He’d expected her to tell him that they’d had themselves quite a time together right here in this bed. But not this. He’d never expected this. Then, like a gut punch, it hit him, came rushing back at him. All of it … everything since he’d ridden up three days ago. He squeezed his eyes shut, fought back the pain.

“I see you remember now. I’m real sorry,” she said.

Jack didn’t—couldn’t—respond. His father was dead. His mind couldn’t stand the words and flitted to another reality. She was still here. He opened his eyes. She hadn’t moved. She sat there, her hands clutched together in her lap, her expression composed. “Why are you still here?” he said.

She cocked her head, raised her chin. “You mean on the ranch? Or in this room?”

“I mean on the Circle D.” Then he thought about it. “Well, both, I guess. Neither one makes much sense. Not to me.”

Her first response was a careless shrug, which annoyed the hell out of Jack. Did she always have to appear so calm and unruffled? But her attitude didn’t prove half as upsetting as did her simple answer. “I’m on the Circle D because I live here. I told you that. And I’m in this room because I felt a need to save your sorry ass from your drunken self.”

Jack bolted up onto an elbow, forcing himself to ignore the throbbing that pounded at his temples. “If my sorry ass needs saving, I’ll do it,” he all but snarled, adding, “And like hell you live here. You do not.”

Her eyes narrowed. Her lips firmed. But she didn’t say anything. Jack concluded that she didn’t have a comeback. A slow grin of triumph curved his lips, but then she said, “We’ll see about that, Mr. Daltry.”

Jack’s grin fled. A challenge, if ever he’d heard one. Then, she added, “Once you’re back on your feet, we’ll straighten this out.” With that, she made as if to rise from the chair.

Jack snaked out a cautionary hand, grabbing her arm and holding her in place. “Wait. I’m back on my feet enough for you to answer my questions right now.”

Frozen in position, she looked pointedly at his hand on her arm. Then she slanted her head until her gaze met his. Her long hair slithered over her shoulder. Something in her dark eyes glinted, warning him. Jack released her arm. Still holding her gaze, he waited on her, thought he knew her struggle. She’d said her piece. She should walk out. Her other option was to let her curiosity get the better of her and sit back down.

The moments dragged by. Then, she made her decision … and resettled herself on the chair.

Jack exhaled, realized he was relieved. A flash of surprise, almost subconscious in nature, told him he’d been holding his breath, hoping she’d stay. Now that’s crazy, he chastized himself. He squinted to prove it, massaging a hand over his face and telling himself he’d closed his eyes against the sunlight … and not her stare. A little voice inside his head asked him if he was afraid of her. Jack’s hand stilled. Afraid of her? He lowered his hand to his side and stared at the ceiling, telling it, Hell no. So ask her your question, the voice persisted.

Jack turned his head, found her again. She hadn’t moved. No big surprise there, he told himself, as he—ever mindful of keeping the sheet in place—swung his legs over the side of the bed and struggled to a sitting position. He braced himself with his hands on the mattress and stared at his bare legs and feet until the room quit spinning and his stomach settled.

Then, he raised his head, met her gaze, felt his hair fall forward over his brow. “My father’s dead, Miss Devlin,” he began. “And you seem to know something about the why of that—something you’re not telling me. I’d like to know what that something is.”

She raised her chin a notch. “He was a sick old man, that’s true enough.”

Jack jumped on that. “Sick? With what?”

Angel eyed him, as if she didn’t know what to make of his question. “I don’t know. He coughed a lot, got weak all the time. But I don’t know what it was. He never said.” Then her expression deepened into a frown and she asked, “You didn’t know he was sick?”

Jack wasn’t about to go into family troubles with her, but he did say, “No. I haven’t been home since January. Is that what he died of … that coughing sickness?”

She shook her head, looked hesitant. But then she said, “No. It would’ve taken him soon enough … but he—Well, I’m sorry to say it, but he was killed.”

Jack’s heart all but stopped. It seemed to hang heavy and leaden in his chest, like a weighted pendulum. His hands fisted around the sheets he gripped. “What…” He swallowed, stared at her, felt weak. He took several deep breaths, and tried again. “My father was killed? You mean like thrown from a horse? Or a wagon mishap, right?”

She bit at her lower lip—as if she were considering her next words. “No. I mean … murder. But I thought you realized that earlier—a few days back—when you accused me of being responsible. I’m not. I didn’t do it.”

Mute with renewed grief, hearing her as if from a great distance, Jack could only shake his head no, meaning that he had not been thinking of … murder. Not really. Perhaps he’d suspected it, but just hadn’t wanted to think it, or know it. Or accept it. But here Angel Devlin sat … saying it out loud. He watched her gaze rake over him, until finally she looked into his eyes and said, “I wondered when we’d get around to this.”

When, indeed. Jack closed his eyes, took a breath or two. His father had been killed. And she said she didn’t do it. A rage swelled his lungs, gave him renewed strength, renewed desire for revenge. Clutching at the sheet, keeping it wadded around his front as he jerked it free and wrapped it around his hips, he stood up, weaved slightly, blinking and trying to get his bearings. Despite his dizziness, he managed to tell her, “Your wondering’s over, Miss Devlin. Because we’re there—we just got around to it.”