Jillian Hart - Rocky Mountain Widow

“You must be careful.” The doctor’s tone had been grave. “Follow my advice. Go home. Put your feet up. Have Ham get Mrs. Simms to come over and take care of things for a spell.”

She hadn’t gotten up the courage to tell Ham anything, and he hadn’t asked. He never did, especially when he’d been drinking. The alcohol changed him, and when he was like this she had to be careful not to anger him.

Mama had warned her about men. Whenever one comes courting, he’s the best man on earth, she’d said. Punctual, attentive and decent. He has manners and treats you right. Once he gets a ring on your finger, then it’s a different matter.

You were so right, Mama. Claire glanced sideways at the man who’d wooed her and charmed her and made her believe in the impossible.

As she looked at the bulky man swaying drunkenly at her side, reeking of cheap whiskey and stale tobacco smoke, it was hard to fathom a time when he had been mistaken for wonderful.

Her judgment had been poor and she regretted it greatly.

“What are you lookin’ at, woman?” Just like that, Ham had worked himself up into a fury. “You don’t got any right to judge me, woman! I’ll drink what I want, when I want and with who I want.”

“All right, Ham,” she said quietly, gently, for it was the wisest way to manage him when he was like this. When he was so irrational, he was like dynamite ready to explode and devastate everything.

“And don’t you go givin’ me that look.”

It was better for her if she kept him calm, so it was desperation that made her set aside her anger. She didn’t like the way he treated her. She didn’t like how she had to behave to keep him rational. What else was she to do?

She wasn’t big and strong like a man. There was no way she could stop or overpower him. No, the best she could do was to keep him from getting more upset while he was so drunk. They were almost home. By the time they reached the little shanty at the top of the hill, he’d be ready to pass out.

And I’ll be safe until morning.

She took a shaky breath and purposely tried to appear serene, as if nothing were wrong and he’d never shattered one illusion about love and marriage.

“Oh, so now you think you’re better’n me.” He spit out another stream of tobacco and swiped his chin with the back of his hand. “Do ya? I’m gettin’ tired of you and your attitude, woman.”

“I’m sorry, Ham,” she soothed, sensing he was near to balling up his fist. “I didn’t mean anything. I was just thinking about—” Home, she thought as the blow struck.

Pain shattered her left cheekbone where he’d slugged her. Her head snapped to the side and the muscles in her neck tightened with more pain. Her head whirled, she saw dancing white lights in front of her eyes, and she clutched the seat to keep from falling.

“Maybe that’ll teach ya to smart-mouth me.”

Tears blurred her vision. Her jaw hurt too much to speak, so she only nodded obediently. There was no other way to behave. She knew, because she’d tried everything over time to find peace between them. Or at least, to avoid the pain she was in now. Her skull hammered from the shock and she swiped at her eyes.

Crying only made him angrier. She blinked hard until the blackness subsided and made sure she sat perfectly still. She’d learned a lot from her three years of marriage. Things she never thought anyone should know, but they made a difference now as Ham muttered on angrily about a woman’s place and how he worked hard and how costly she was to him.

He could rage on, use his fists and his words like weapons, but he wouldn’t break her. Despite the chilly night, for winter had come early to these high Montana plains, and despite the fact that her coat was thin and she wore light mittens, she refused to so much as shiver.

She had every reason to fight, for she could feel the faint fluttery kicks of her child. She’d not been sure this new life was a blessing. A helpless baby would be vulnerable to Ham’s drinking and his temper. It was a serious situation, but oh, her heart lit up again, like a lamp left too long unlit, and burned so brightly.

I will love you enough to make up for it, little one, she vowed, willing the promise through her fingertips and into her womb. I swear I will take such good care of you. First thing was to figure out how to convince Ham to hire the neighbor lady to come do the heavier housework. And then—

The wagon lurched, and in the dark night it was hard to know why. The horse gave a frightened whinny and the vehicle began to tip. Ham’s temper exploded. His swearing boomed as startling as thunder, frightening the horse more as he reached for the whip.

“Stay on the damned road, you worthless nag!” The whip shot into the air, hissing toward the mare’s flank. The rasp as the lash cut into flesh was followed by the mare’s sharp neigh of pain.

As if time had stretched out, Claire was aware of the wagon tilting to the right, and no matter how hard she tried to brace herself, she was falling. Ham’s weight pressed against her as he wrestled with the horse, fighting the mare’s panic. There was nothing but darkness—no moonlight or stardust to see by, just the hulking blackness of the high rolling hill and the prairie floor below.

We’re going to roll over. Her pulse filled her ears, making the screaming horse and Ham’s horrible shouting seem distant. Then came the clack and groan of the wagon wheels skidding.

Breaking.

They were going to die. There was no way she could stop it. This was the way her parents had died, and she could taste the panic on her tongue. Feel it crawl with icy fingertips across the back of her neck.

What about the baby? The seat beneath her seemed to heave and then suddenly, it was gone. She was falling, her arms flinging out. She tried to grab for anything, anything in the dark, but there was only air and gravity and the terrifying scream of the horse.

There was so much noise—the explosion as the wagon broke, the avalanche of earth beneath them, the horse’s hooves digging into the bank, and Ham’s voice bellowing foul curses. Loudest of all was the cadence of her pulse, eerily slow as time became meaningless. She was thrown backward through the dark and the night. Weightless.

The ground struck her like an ax in the center of her left shoulder blade. Air whooshed out of her lungs and pain slammed through her as the rest of her back crashed against the rocky earth. Her head reeled back and struck granite.

No, not my baby. She curled up to protect her child. She had to stay awake, she had to. But her vision flashed and her consciousness faded piece by piece, like a curtain being drawn against the sky. Wagon fragments and debris rained down on her.

Somewhere far away the mare squealed in pain, an eerily human-sounding scream of agony and then there was Ham rising up over her, miraculously standing, with the whip in his hand. She saw his mouth open and his arm raise, but her vision slid away.

There was nothing but blessed silence.

This was the last time, the very last time he was going to put up with Hamilton’s villainy.

Rage beat through Joshua Gable’s veins with the power of a fueled train barreling down the bottom side of a long steep slope, and he wouldn’t be surprised if, like a locomotive, steam whistled out of him. Likely the top of his head was near to blowing off he was so angry.

I’d like to wrap my hands around Ham’s throat and squeeze. Pain shot through his molars and he tried to relax his jaw. His teeth had been gnashed enough for one day.

But then the image of what he’d just come away from sent renewed fury through his body and his teeth clacked shut so tight, the audible grind echoed like a whiplash in the silent breadth of the cold winter night.