Chapter 15
Fifteen
Addie didn’t recall returning to the cabin nor preparing for bed, but she had done both, for she lay beside Mother, staring at the dark ceiling.
His father murdered her parents.
It was the only thought she could summon.
His father murdered her parents.
What did it mean? Why had God allowed their paths to cross? Allowed those painful memories to flood to the forefront?
His father murdered her parents.
Did Nash have any inkling how it had felt for an eleven-year-old to return home to discover the bleeding bodies of her parents? Did he even know a child had been left orphaned?
His father murdered her parents.
What would he say if he knew?
How would he react if he knew she was that child?
The questions roared in her brain throughout the night.
She welcomed the lamplight filtering into the room and pots clanging on the stove, signaling morning.
Boots scuffed, and waking people yawned.
Morning had arrived. Time to get up. To resume their journey.
Today, they would reach Golden Valley. All of it no longer mattered.
In her heart, she’d returned to the days following the deaths of her parents, lost in sorrow and confusion.
Mother dressed, then turned to Addie. “You were restless last night. Is something bothering you?”
His father murdered her parents.
“No. Yes. Maybe.”
“What is it?”
“I—” She shrugged. “It’s nothing. You know how I sometimes feel sad. That’s all it is.”
“Did something trigger your memories?”
His father murdered her parents.
Telling Mother would only give the woman something else to worry about. Besides, wasn’t she supposed to be past this overwhelming grief? And anger, although she didn’t like to admit to that emotion. “Perhaps it’s just the idea of starting over again.”
“Child, you don’t have to follow us. If you find a place where you want to make a home of your own, you are free to do so. In fact, I would be happy for you because then I’d know you’d left behind the past and were ready to enjoy the present and embrace the future.”
“I know, and I am.” Though, she wasn’t sure what she agreed to. How astute of Mother to know Addie longed for permanency. Maybe Mother understood the need even more than Addie did.
She thought she’d put the past away, but this proved her wrong.
Mother patted her hand. “I’m going to pray about the matter.
” She bowed her head. “Our Father in heaven, You have given us everything we need for life and godliness. Everything. Although we sometimes overlook that promise. Dear Father, Addie struggles with the pain of her losses. Only You can heal that wound. Please guide her into Your way. In the precious name of Your son, Jesus Christ. Amen.”
As always, Addie was encouraged and blessed by Mother’s prayer.
“Now, let’s join the others.” Mother stepped toward the door.
Addie gathered their belongings and followed.
A glance around the room revealed Nash’s absence. Her shoulders relaxed. It would be easier if they avoided each other for the rest of the trip.
He must have felt the same way, for he didn’t join them for the meal. And when they went to the coach, he held the horses, keeping them from racing down the trail. Addie helped Mother to climb inside. Then she followed without assistance from anyone.
The four passengers clung to worn leather straps as the coach jerked into motion. None of them spoke. Even Mr. Bertrand’s complaining was almost nonexistent.
Mile after mile, they bounced and swayed. Addie’s head fell to her chest, only for her to be jolted awake at another body-shaking rough spot on the trail.
They reached the first way station. She would have stayed in her corner, except Mother murmured that she needed to use the outhouse, and Addie climbed her weary way down to help her.
She would not look toward Nash. She wasn’t ready to.
His absence at breakfast had informed her that he wasn’t either.
Yet, as they returned to the coach, she couldn’t stop herself from sweeping her gaze over the horses.
Only to see if they were ready to go, of course.
Her attention stalled at Nash, who again held the horses.
He shifted and slowly turned in her direction. Their gazes crashed. His full of—
Her own anger and confusion blinded her. If she had to guess, she’d say the same things burned from his eyes.
He was Morton Sturm’s son.
The fact blocked every other thought, and she tore her gaze away, returned to the coach, plunked in the corner, and closed her eyes. An action that did nothing to block her thoughts. Just as keeping her eyes closed for the next hour also failed to make it impossible to think.
Nash was Morton Sturm’s son. Son of a murderer.
The words went round and round in her head. Son of a murderer.
The coach bounced hard enough to jar her from her seat and forced her to open her eyes.
Not that eyes open or closed made any difference. The same thought raced through her head with hobnailed boots.
Son of a murderer. Son of a murderer. Son of—
She jerked back against the leather seat. He would have been fourteen at that time. He said they’d left his father before that. At fourteen, she’d considered herself quite grown up. After all, she’d dealt with things that forced her to mature. In hindsight, she was a child and thought as a child.
Nash, too, had been forced to grow up at a young age. He’d moved, changed his name, and started work for Gib Jarvis.
Son of a murderer? Or innocent victim?
Which was it? Could it be both?
The words rattled in her head in time to the bouncing and swaying of the coach.
The horn sounded. They were approaching another way station. Again, she would have chosen to stay inside, hiding from Nash and reality. But Mother again said she needed to go out.
Addie paused on her way back to glance at Nash where he stood at the front of the horses, holding them in preparation for the continuation of the journey. Something that hadn’t seemed necessary earlier.
Again, he shifted so his eyes met hers. And darted away before she read anything in them. The set of his jaw and his pulled-down lips said everything she needed to know.
He had taken her coldness, her shock to mean judgment.
Did it? Certainly, to a degree, but the words continued to race through her head. Son of a murderer.
Or innocent victim?
Their next stop was Golden Valley. She’d be going home with the Stones. He’d be returning to his ranch, where he had a house with room for a family that overlooked a pretty valley where the family could see wild animals and watch sunsets.
If they had more time, they might have been able to find a way to deal with his news, but they were running out of time.
Not that she wanted to deal with the information he’d given her. He was Morton Sturm’s son. The man who had viciously murdered her parents and forever changed her life.
“You’re quiet, man.”
“I’m a man of few words,” Nash responded to Hawk, in no mood for conversation.
His father had hung for murder after a fair trial.
Nash didn’t get a trial. All he got from Addie was judgment for being his father’s son. Even though he’d done everything not to be like his father in any way, he was fair in all his dealings. He lived up to his word. He worked hard to get ahead.
He never knew what Ma had said to Gib and didn’t know if the kind man knew their real identity, but Gib had always been fair and accepting. He’d been more like a father to Nash than his own had been.
But it didn’t change the facts. Nash was the son of Morton Sturm. Taking on a new name meant nothing in the long run.
Why had he kept those saddlebags? Yes, they were good quality. But he’d not earned them.
Or had he?
Didn’t he deserve at least that much in exchange for who his father was?
All that aside, he should have tossed them years ago. Not that he thought of his father when he used them. So why did he keep them?
For only one reason. He wondered…hoped…someone would realize his real identity and yet see him for who he was. Not who his father was.
Someone had seen the name. A burning raced up his throat. And relegated him to son of a murderer.
Yes, he admitted it. He’d hoped his confession to Addie would have led to understanding and acceptance.
Instead, he had been tried and judged and all but hung.
Smoke rose from a chimney in the distance. They would soon be in Golden Valley. He’d borrow a horse and ride home to his little cabin on the side of a mountain. He’d raise horses as he planned, and he’d keep his identity a secret.
“What’s going on?” Hawk pointed to the town.
People gathered in the street, lingering on a perfectly good day when they should be home working. The miners should be at their claims, but they stood in knots, talking and waving.
“Something’s up,” Nash said.
“Don’t look like good news.”
Nash agreed. “I’d say there is anger filling the air.”
They raced down the street and pulled in before the station. Nash dropped to the ground to hold the horses. Hawk set the brake and joined him, pausing only to tell the passengers to wait in the coach until he found out what was going on.
Addie peered out the window. She scanned the street, then brought her gaze to Nash. Her brows rose in question.
He shrugged. He knew no more than she at the moment.
She ducked back inside.
Mr. Bertrand complained about yet another delay. Mr. Zacharius coughed, but Nash heard no one else.
Who was he expecting to hear? Hoping to hear? How foolish to wish for Addie’s voice.
The crowd surged toward them, dragging a man and shouting. He struggled to make out any words. Except the ones that rose louder and louder until they couldn’t be ignored.
“Hang him. Hang him.”
Nash moved to stand in front of the pushing throng, his arms crossed, his legs wide. They stopped. “What’s going on?” His voice rang out, silencing the crowd.
A dozen men answered.
Nash held up his hand. “I can’t make out what you’re saying.” He pointed to the man who seemed to have the most to say. “You. Tell me.”
“This man”—he indicated the one held by half a dozen others—“decided to shoot everyone in sight.”
A roar of anger rose.
The spokesman continued. “He killed three and injured others. Look at her.” He indicated a woman with blood staining her dress at her waist, a little girl clinging to her, eyes too big for her face.
“They was claim jumping.” The accused’s shouts were silenced by someone’s boot.
Nash studied the angry crowd. Guilty or not, the man deserved to be allowed to speak. Not everyone was guilty because people said so. “Whatever this man has done, he will be dealt with lawfully.”
A dozen voices spoke at once. He knew their message without hearing the words clearly. “Who gives you the right to interfere?”
Crossing his arms and facing the angry mob without revealing the way his heart hammered, he answered. “Seems I’m the only one to show any common sense and self-control.”
“You’re not the only one.” A man in a black coat joined him. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Preacher Stone.”
Addie’s father. The end of the journey for her. And the end of his time with her.
“I’m of the same mind.” Another man stood shoulder to shoulder with Nash, and then four more joined them.
The crowd’s roar turned to angry muttering. Then, slowly, one by one, several men walked away.
He needed to act before the dozen remaining turned violent. “Is there someplace he can be locked up until a trial can be held?”
Preacher Stone answered. “There’s no jail. Just as there’s no lawman, but he could be secured at the livery barn.”
The men with Nash edged forward, turning the others in that direction.
Addie and Mrs. Stone stood by the stagecoach. The preacher called to them. “Take care of this woman and child.”
As Nash went to the barn, Addie and Mrs. Stone rushed to the injured woman. Another innocent victim of a murdering man.
Was it possible Addie would see the truth about the victims?
Would she allow the son of a murderer a chance to prove his innocence? His goodness?