href="#u420e3110-a726-5232-97d7-3840156d5eda">Chapter Twenty-Five
October 1885
Gatlinburg, Tennessee
It wasn’t easy staying angry at a dead man.
Jessica O’Malley hesitated in the barn’s entrance, the tang of fresh hay ripening the air. The horses whickered greetings from their stalls, beckoning her inside, probably hoping for a treat. She used to bring them carrots and apples. She used to enjoy spending time out here.
This place had become the source of her nightmares. Her gaze homed in on the spot where the man she’d loved had died defending her. The bloodstain was long gone, but the image of Lee as she’d held him during those final, soul-wrenching moments would be with her for as long as she lived.
His whispered apology, his last uttered words, came to her during those nights she couldn’t sleep. At times she missed him so much it hurt to breathe. Other times she wished she could give him a piece of her mind. How could he have been so reckless, so irresponsible with their future?
If he’d been honest with her, if he’d made different choices, she wouldn’t be living this lonely, going-through-the-motions existence She wouldn’t be a shadow of her former self, clueless how to reclaim the fun-loving girl she once was.
Lost in troubling memories, she was wrenched back to the present by a weak cry for help. Her empty milk pail slipping from her fingers, Jessica hurried to investigate. She and her mother lived alone on the farm. And right this minute, her mother was inside the cabin preparing breakfast. She surged around the barn’s exterior corner and had to grope the weathered wall for support at the unexpected sight of a bruised and battered man near the smokehouse.
He was hatless and looked as if he’d romped in a leaf pile, and his golden-blond hair was messy. “Can you help me?”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
He dropped to his knees, one hand outstretched and the other clutching his side. Jessica belatedly noticed the blood soaking through his tattered shirt. Bile rose into her throat. Lee’s gunshot wound had done the same to his clothing. There’d been so much. It had covered her hands. Her dress. Even the straw covering the barn floor had been drenched with it.
“Please...ma’am...”
The distress in his scraped-raw voice galvanized her into action. Searching the autumn-draped woods fanning out behind her farm’s outbuildings, she hurried to his side and ducked beneath his arm. She barely had time to absorb the impact of his celestial blue eyes on hers. “What happened to you?”
“I...don’t remember.”
Struggling to help him stand, she shot him a disbelieving look. At this moment, she supposed it didn’t matter how he’d come to be on her property. He required immediate medical attention. “Let’s get you inside.”
Several inches taller and made of solid muscle, he leaned heavily on her, his hitched breaths testament to his discomfort. His uneven gait made the distance to her two-story cabin seem impossible.
His injuries likely hadn’t resulted from a wagon accident or a toss from the saddle. “Should I be worried someone will show up here to finish the job?”
The split on his full lower lip reopened when he frowned deeply. Dark blond stubble lined his hard cheeks and chin. “Can’t say. My mind’s gone hazy.”
Can’t or won’t? Either he was rattled, or he was reluctant to admit the truth. Perhaps he thought she’d refuse him aid if he did.
When they reached the main door, he sagged against the notched logs, eyes closed, chest heaving. Beneath his tan, a deep purple bruise blossomed over his cheekbone. What sort of trouble had befallen him?
“Just a few more steps,” she urged, compassion eclipsing suspicion. “Then you can rest.”
His golden lashes fluttered, and his startling gaze locked on to hers. “Thank you.”
Confusion and pain swirled in the depths, yet he’d taken the time to express gratitude. Yanking the door open, she called for her mother. He was too big and heavy for her to maneuver into the bedroom on her own, and his strength was fading fast.
“Is something the matter?” Alice advanced into the room wiping her hands on the apron stretched across her plump figure, bushy brows lifting above her spectacles. “Who’s this?”
“I was about to milk Sadie when I heard him outside. Can you help me get him into Jane’s room?”
Halfway to the couch, he stumbled, his hand curling into the wet, stained fabric of his shirt. A weak groan escaped him. Jessica prayed he wouldn’t collapse right there on their living room floor.
“Just a little farther,” she grunted.
Having spent her entire life in these mountains, her ma had dealt with more than her fair share of mishaps. Solemn yet determined, she hurried over and took his other arm. Together they got him to her sister’s old room and stripped the quilt off the bed before lowering him onto it.
“Let’s see your wound, young man.” Alice edged his bloodied hand aside.
Jessica transferred her attention to his boots and began working them off.
“Looks like a knife’s to blame.” Alice’s tone was grave. “It’s too deep for me to stitch up. We need Doc Owens.”
Grabbing a towel from the washstand, Alice leaned across and pressed it against his opposite flank.
“You go, Mama. I’ll stay with him.”
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”
“I am.” She was far more comfortable with firearms than her ma. Thanks to her cousins’ patient instruction, she’d learned to protect herself. “I can handle this.”
The stranger dwarfed the bed, his body rigid atop the mattress, his head deep in the pillow and his teeth gritted. Images of Lee, wounded and dying on the barn floor, bombarded her. The boots hit the floor with a clatter.
He flinched.
“Jessica.” Her ma was looking at her with a knowing, sympathetic expression that she’d grown to loathe this past year, one that made her feel as if she was five years old again. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
Sinking onto the mattress edge, she gently dislodged her ma’s hand. “I’m not trying to prove anything. I’m armed. You’re not. When was the last time you shot a gun, anyway?”
“Too long.” With a shake of her head, Alice began untying her apron strings. Wisps of her silver-streaked brown hair had escaped her loose bun to dance about her hairline. “Are you certain you don’t mind? I know how you get around this sort of thing.”
“I’m certain.”
“I’ll hurry.”
“Be careful. And don’t worry about me.”
“That’s like telling a robin not to fly,” she said wryly.
Her mother left her with the mystery