back over corded forearms. He groaned and his hat fell away, revealing midnight-black hair and a jaw with a day’s growth of beard. He was a dangerous-looking fellow, one she’d never seen before in her life. He’d probably come looking to rob the place while her mother was gone.
“Now what do I do with him?” Realizing she still gripped the heavy skillet, Ruby rested the impromptu weapon back on the stove with a clang. This fellow was a lot bigger and stronger looking than she. If he came to, she wouldn’t have much chance of fighting or subduing him.
She cast her gaze about the room, wildly grasping for a solution. Noting the cotton square of toweling she’d hung to dry, she jerked open a cabinet to find a stack of embroidered towels.
* * *
Nash’s head throbbed and red blotches swam behind his eyelids. Attempting to round his shoulders and move his neck, he emitted a groan. A wave of shock racked him. He couldn’t move.
He blinked against harsh light, and the memory of finding someone standing in the dark kitchen swept over him. Something or someone had come toward him, and he hadn’t been fast enough to escape the blow to the back of his neck.
Was he paralyzed? Genuinely panicked now, he tried to raise his hands, move his feet. He could feel them. But why couldn’t he move his limbs more than a fraction of an inch?
Squinting, he opened his eyes against the painful glare. He was sitting in a kitchen chair, his arms behind him.
A figure moved into his line of vision. A woman in boots, a riding skirt and an unbecoming loose shirt. Some member of an outlaw gang hiding out here? Who else was nearby? He’d seen no one and nothing out of the ordinary when he’d come to the house.
She stood in front of him, and he raised his aching head to discover a startling halo of wild, curly golden hair. A jolt ran through his befuddled mind, but after the first initial stab of pain, relief settled over him.
He was dreaming.
It was the most realistic dream he’d ever had, though he couldn’t recall going to bed. The last thing he remembered was heading into the house. He’d never made it across the kitchen.
He studied the realistic vision standing before him. What on God’s green earth had his wife done to her hair?
She was a little more slender than he remembered, but it was hard to tell with that baggy shirt. In real life Pearl would never have been caught dead in a getup like that. She’d ironed even the dresses she wore to do laundry and cook and work in the garden, and all her clothing had been made in feminine colors, with collars and ruffles and pleats.
Hard to tell at that moment if his head or his heart was hurting more. He closed his eyes and made a concerted effort to wake up. Doing so, he felt lonelier than ever, but at least awake he had control over his memories.
“Who are you?” she asked.
That wasn’t Pearl’s voice. Pearl’s tone had always been soft and lilting. The dream woman’s gravelly voice sounded as though she’d been screaming for a week. He opened his eyes and frowned.
“I said who are you? What did you come looking for?”
“Coffee, I think.”
“Come morning I’m going for the marshal,” she said. “And you’re going to jail.”
“If Marcus Styles puts anyone in jail, it’ll be you.” Nash frowned again. “But then dream people can’t go to jail, can they?”
“Are you touched in the head, mister?”
“I wasn’t until....” He scanned the room as it slowly came into focus, taking note of the cup and saucer on the table, the cast-iron skillet on the stove. A very heavy skillet, as he recalled. “Is that what you hit me with?”
No wonder he was still seeing stars! He tested his hands once again, finding them securely bound behind his back. His feet, too, were firmly tied to the legs of the chair.
“Sit still or I’ll clobber you again,” she threatened, dropping onto a chair.
Now that she sat directly in front of him and he didn’t have to squint upward, he had a better view. Her shiny hair was wilder than Pearl’s, flaxen ringlets curling in haphazard disarray. Her face and hands weren’t pale as Pearl’s had been. But her features were delicate and feminine, her nose slim, albeit freckled. She had eyes as blue as his wife’s, but with dark lashes that belied her pale hair.
And her mouth... It was wider, her lips more full... She had a mouth that would keep a man tied in knots.
Something about her reminded him of Pearl’s mother, Laura, as well. Perhaps her eyes. Perhaps the stare that seemed to look into a person’s soul, and required accountability.
He wasn’t dreaming.
He knew exactly who this woman was. “The question is what are you doing here?”
“This is my home,” she declared.
“I don’t think so.”
“And what does a robber know about me?”
“I’m not a robber. Untie me.”
“So you can tie me up? Or perhaps kill me and steal everything in the house?”
“There’s nothin’ in this house that amounts to much,” he told her. “If I was going to rob someone I’d find a more prosperous rancher. And I know everything I need to know about you.” Then he added, “Ruby.”
Her eyes widened in surprise and she straightened on her chair. Her gaze darted aside for a moment and then narrowed on his face again. “How do you know my name?”
“You look just like your sister. Well, not just like her. You’re not as pretty.”
His insult didn’t seem to faze her. “You know my sister?”
Anger and remorse carved a new pain in his chest. He swallowed before saying, “Yes.”
“Who are you?” she asked again.
“Nash Sommerton.”
Her expression revealed no recognition. She gave her head a half shake.
“Her husband,” he clarified.
Ruby’s confusion was plain, but oddly, it seemed tempered with relief. She cast him a skeptical glance. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“Why would I lie?”
“Where is she?”
“Untie me.”
“Where is she?”
“Untie me.”
They
