Chapter 38
Jessica watched in horror as Clint paled. It filled her with despair, having to tell him they wouldn't make it. She could hardly believe her own words. She almost hadn't told him the truth about how she felt when, as she was formulating her words, his green eyes had warmed with such affection. But, recognizing she would become more resentful each time Clint's admirers clamored over him, then dragged him off somewhere unknown, she knew she wasn't capable of ignoring his notoriety.
Or was she? At the moment she thought not. Marriage was for life, in her book, and commitment forever. So these struggles would be with her for a very long time. And Clint. Well, Clint was used to lovin' em and leavin' em.
This was all so premature. He hadn't told her he loved her. Even if he had, how long before he got bored and moved on? She contemplated a life of distrust and jealousy, and shook her head. As much as she wanted Clint, she was sure her heart couldn't stand a steady routine of splintering.
Her mind hurt against the fog of doubt. Her shoulders slumped. Out of words, and overcome, she turned to walk back to the Packard.
Shadow's bridle jangled when Clint snatched up the reins and was at her side in a few long strides. "Walk with me," he said, catching her by the elbow and steering her toward the street.
Her feet followed his route, though she couldn't look at him, knowing her resolve would evaporate if she peered into those compelling eyes again. "Clint—"
"Don't say anything yet, Jessie. Let me say some things that have been on my mind."
Keeping her eyes focused on the road, she nodded.
They came to where the streets intersected, and Clint guided her down the main boulevard. Their steps were casual, yet Jessica's heartbeat seemed to accelerate with every crunch of their boots. Jessica walked across slashes of sunlight and shadows on the gravel-strewn pavement. What did he want to say? How would she respond? The absolute power of him walking beside her weakened her knees, and her decision that she should leave Montana. She smelled his scent—leather, fresh air, soap—and wanted to tell him she'd stay. She glanced at Clint sidelong, yearning to kiss him full on the mouth. But, she shouldn't . . . wouldn't . . . and that was that.
For a few paces the only sound was the clop-a-clop-a-clop of the horse's shod hooves against the pavement.
"Jessie, since your memories are back—"
"Some," she interrupted.
"Pardon me?"
"Some memories are back. I'm hoping . . . I'm hoping there are many more I'm not remembering yet."
He released a huge breath. "Thank God for that anyway."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm guessing you're remembering some of our . . . well, our bumpy times."
Her mind jumped to a visual of Rose Marie's arm slung over Clint's torso and a leg across his thighs—both sound asleep in Rose Marie's bed. Tears stung her eyes. That particular image was emblazoned into her memory. How could she ever forget it—even though Rose Marie had claimed his innocence?
They were level with the hotel now. A new image flashed in Jessica's mind. Clint with the beautiful woman's arms wrapped around his middle. See, her negative side said. This will always be the case with him.
The jail was the next building they would pass. Brad was in there. Clint had found him and brought him in for hurting her. He had saved her from Brad. Then, and at the square-dance. The dance. Clint had left with the beautiful blonde, from the dance.
Every memory that swam around in her head ended with Clint and a different woman. Perspiration prickled her forehead, her neck, her palms. She couldn't do this. He would be forever surrounded by women. She couldn't keep up with that.
"Jessie," he stopped abruptly, grasped her arm, and swung her around to face him. "Your expression tells me you're remembering one of those times right now." His expression was so dear. Worry for the pain he had caused her contorted his handsome features. He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. "I want you to know how sorry—"
A loud crack split the silence and Clint's head jerked back violently. A spray of crimson burst into the air. Jessica shrieked. Clint's body lurched backward and smacked against his horse's chest. Before Jessica could even assimilate what had happened, he landed with a sickening thud at the gelding's feet.
Jessica dropped to his side. "Clint!"
Shadow balked and danced about, trying hard not to step on him, but the reins were trapped under Clint's body. Jessica could see the fear in the gelding's eyes and leaped to her feet to pull the reins out from under Clint. With a familiarity of horses she didn't remember, she yanked the leather down and back hard, forcing the horse away.
She folded to her knees again. "Clint! Can you hear me?"
"Let's hope not," a sinister voice resonated, only a few yards from her.
She whipped her head up. There towered a man, black and featureless against the midday sun. He hooked a thumb at his belt, rocked back on his heels, and laughed low and deep. "Well, hullo, pretty lady."
Jessica's heart leapt painfully in her chest. Brad. A .45 pistol sat in the crook of his right fist. He strode forward and lined up the smoking barrel on Clint's chest. Jessica knew, in that moment, Brad meant to finish off the man who'd brought him to justice.
Without thinking she flung her body over Clint's.
"So you think you can save him?" Brad said, amused. A wicked laugh burst from his throat. Shadow flinched back.
"Your genius cowboy here left me with a halfwit deputy. Ha! Made it easy for me." Brad quieted, and cocked the gun. The sound reverberated in Jessica's head like an echo off a canyon wall.
"Drop your weapon!" a bold, masculine voice hollered from behind Brad.
Gun still cocked, Brad swung around to face the immediate danger. In the next moment another blast rent the air.
Jessica jerked against Clint in surprise, but didn't release him. Only raised her head enough to look down the street toward the sound. Her heart vaulted to her throat at the horrific scene before her: a truck in the middle of the street, cab door thrown open, engine running; Johnnie advancing with a smoldering shotgun; and Brad's limp body a few yards away, sprawled in a growing circle of blood.
She forced her attention back to Clint—her Clint—lying on the ground, shot in the head with his own lifeblood seeping out. Jessica instinctively pulled her blouse out of her pants and brought the hem to her mouth. She tore at the bottom with her teeth as a new vivid memory struck her with such magnitude it made her gasp. At the stream. A sick—a dying—Clint in her lap as she mopped his brow and prayed for God to save him.
Another sob broke out from her throat. "Clint, please speak to me. You can't die!" She raised her head. "Somebody help!" she screamed to bystanders. Blood. So much blood drained out of him.
She pressed the white fabric against a large gash above his right ear. Pressed hard. And prayed. Prayed hard. The reality of the situation, the fact that she could lose him, impaled her soul. How could she have considered running from this man—to lose out on even one moment of loving him. Her mind changed so completely in that moment, she wondered about her prior sanity. She had been so worried about how she would manage life with the wonder called Clint Wilkins that she had never considered life without him.
And she never wanted to find out.
She laid his head carefully in her lap. He was unconscious, his breathing erratic. Jessica forced herself by sheer will to calm down, to think clearly. She was not ready to lose this man—the love of her life. As she kept the pressure on Clint's head, she stared at his shirt. It looked black instead of green, wet and darkened by his own blood.
Forced to be still and silent, with nothing to do but wait for help, Jessica listened for the first time to her Lord. Before now, she realized, she'd allowed her thoughts to scatter about the few memories that had returned—the ones where Clint had disappointed her, or hurt her.
I've never let you have control of this, God. Then she had to face it. I've never let you have total control of anything in my lif
e. I'm such a fool, Lord.
As if she had been transported to a different dimension, her mind's eye began viewing memories in a perfectly displayed sequence—one that only God could orchestrate. As vivid as if they were movies flickering against a screen in the solitude of her mind. Memories of Clint saving her: from Brad at the dance and at the stream, from nearly tumbling off the wagon, from the grizzly bear. Memories of Clint holding her: on his horse, in his bed at Mary's, after his haircut, after Brad assaulted her on the rock, today at the train station. Each time they locked gazes, each kind word, each incredible touch, each smoldering kiss . . .
Before now Jessica had only remembered Clint's commanding personality, her own lustful attraction to him, and the painful episodes. But now God was reminding her of the moments where she had lost her heart to him.
Thank you, Lord. Now, please, please save him. Let him live. With me.
"Move aside," someone commanded. Jessica looked up and saw a man with a black bag pushing through the crowd. For the first time since the shooting Jessica noticed the dozens of people encircling them.
"I said move aside!" the man barked again. Finally the crowd shrank back as the man came forward. "Jessica!"
"D-Dr. Barnes," Jessica squeaked out.
"What happened here?" The doc knelt beside Jessica, his eyes wide, face pale. "It's Clint," he whispered. Jessica watched as Doc lifted her makeshift bandage and gave the wound a full perusal. He grabbed a blood pressure cuff from his bag and took a reading.
"He's stable enough for now. Who shot him?" the doctor asked, reaching into his bag for an antiseptic-laden bandage. The gash was oozing pretty steadily.
"Jessica . . .?" he tried again.
"Huh? Oh. It was Brad." Jessica knew her answer must have left many questions in the doctor's mind, but she couldn't seem to manage any more.
The Doc looked over his shoulder to where Brad lay. "That range, and the bullet just grazed Clint. A blessing, for sure."
Did she hear him right? "So, he's just knocked out?"
"Appears so. But, blunt force trauma can cause internal hemorrhage and damage still. We need to get him back to my clinic." The doctor glanced back at Brad. "I'll go check him in a minute."
"No need for that," another voice boomed over the crowd.
Jessica and Doc looked up to see Johnnie walking toward them. "He's dead."
Johnnie's expression was taut. His eyes flashed with a multitude of emotions. She knew he had probably read her note and come after her. He sank to a squatting position next to her and looked over at Doc. "Is he gonna make it?"
Doc just gave him a look. When he finished the bandaging, three other men helped Johnnie hoist Clint onto a stretcher and load him in Doc's car. Jessica rode with him to the clinic.
"Will he live?" Jessica asked.
Doc didn't take his eyes off the road, but managed to pat Jessica's hand. "We'll know more in the next few hours. Try not to fret."
Jessica wrung her hands, knowing that Doc's advice would be impossible for her to heed, especially when her last words to Clint were full of pain. What if he dies before I can tell him I love him—that I've loved him from the start?
She didn't realize tears had streamed down her face until the taste of salt hit her lips. "He has to live, Doc."
Doc didn't reply. He turned the station wagon into the clinic's parking lot and stopped at the front door. The others were right on their tail and had leapt out of the back of Uncle Roy's truck before it had even come to a complete stop. Both vehicles were left at odd angles, doors open, as the men raced to get Clint into the clinic.