Chapter 14
Shea sat next to Rafe as he slept.
She couldn’t take her eyes from him. Not from the new wound on his arm, nor the old scar on his shoulder, the one he must have incurred when he’d saved Clint and Ben during the war. Two wounds. Both because of his compassion and courage.
Her gaze went down to his hand, to the T branded there. She could only guess at the cost of that brand to his pride. She didn’t even want to think of the ten years he’d spent in prison.
What if he had been innocent?
Shea Randall now thought that he probably was. She’d suspected it earlier but hadn’t wanted to admit it, for that would be condemning the man she believed to be her father. It had been his testimony that convicted Captain Tyler.
But no one who had done what Rafe had just done would have betrayed his uniform. He’d risked his life to save an animal, had shown patience and gentleness even after being mauled. A greedy man, a dishonest man, would have stopped at much less.
The only explanation that vindicated her father was that Captain Tyler had been a soldier for the other side, but she couldn’t accept that either. He was too straightforward, too bluntly honest, to have been a spy, too admired by men ready to sacrifice everything for him.
Captain Tyler was the best officer I ever saw throughout the war. Do you really think a man who would risk his life, who would disobey orders to save two enlisted men, would do what they said he did?
Clint Edwards’s words. Words from a man who backed his belief with a loyalty that could cost years of his own life.
Abner had climbed up on the bed and on Rafe’s leg. Shea leaned over and swept him up before he could venture across her patient’s naked chest and perhaps wake him.
She ran her fingers down the mouse’s back. “You missed him, too, huh?” she whispered brokenly.
Lying on the cot, sleeping fitfully, Rafe Tyler looked so …
so vulnerable. Golden eyelashes sheltered those daunting eyes.
Light from the late afternoon sun softened the harsh lines of his face.
She thought of his kindness and gentleness to the cub.
Despite all he’d suffered, he’d not lost compassion, nor the ability to care about something weaker than himself.
Why in hell do you have to be Randall’s daughter? He would never forgive her for that.
She should leave, but she didn’t. Any number of things could happen to him. An infection from the wound. A delayed reaction from that blow to his head. The mother bear might get impatient and try to come in. She couldn’t leave him helpless like this.
Her mouth was suddenly dry, and she realized there was no drinking water.
She had used the water in the bucket to wash his wounds.
Reluctantly, she set the mouse down on the bed and went to the door, opening it.
The bear had stopped prowling and was sitting not far from the cabin door, its eyes intent on her.
It stood up, as if to warn, and Shea slammed the door shut, realizing that she was just as much a prisoner now as she had been this morning.
She couldn’t escape if she wanted to.
Rafe’s skin was clammy by early evening. He needed a doctor.
He needed more than she could offer.
Several times he had seemed to gain consciousness, but his eyes, bright with fever, didn’t see her.
He stared sightlessly at the ceiling, a strange calm holding him still when others would have been thrashing from the fever.
She realized in a flash of insight that he was so accustomed to controlling his emotions that even now a subconscious part of him was keeping him quiet.
She was thirsty and knew he must be too. She had been cooling him off with the bloody water, and it was getting sticky. She couldn’t wait any longer. She had to get water.
Shea had tried the door several times, only to close it quickly against the bear each time. She had to try something else. Perhaps if the bear saw its offspring, it would back off, knowing the humans were only offering help.
Shea was shaking as she leaned down to pick up the cub. It whimpered at the disturbance but then swiped her hand with its tongue. If only the mother had the same gratitude …
Shea opened the door slowly and took a few steps outside, keeping the cub in front of her, showing the mother it was alive and, if not well, at least in caring hands.
She set the cub down and retreated to the doorway, watching as the mother approached and carefully examined it, sniffing and poking.
The mother urged the cub up, and when the cub tried to take a step and fell, the mother looked confused and tried again to nudge its offspring to its feet.
Shea stood watching, sympathy welling in her for the she-bear, for its obvious frustration, but nevertheless eager to get to the stream.
As if the bear sensed her need, it gave a low growl and retreated.
Slowly, carefully, Shea walked to the cub, picked it up, and carried it inside, then went to the door again. The bear had moved back to the trees.
It was worth a chance, Shea thought. She picked up the pail and cautiously left the cabin, praying with every footfall. The bear stayed where it was, and Shea quickened her pace. At the stream she rinsed the bucket, then filled it to the top with cold water and returned to the cabin.
Rafe Tyler had moved and was now half off the small cot, his leg dragging the floor.
Abner had crawled up and was snuggled in the crook of his arm.
It was a wonder, Shea thought, that the mouse had not been smothered in her absence.
She swallowed hard as she saw the new blood on the bandage on his arm.
The cub was also making distressed sounds in his corner.
Dear heaven, where was Clint?
Shea didn’t know why Rafe was unconscious. The head wound? Loss of blood? Exhaustion? All three? She poured water into a cup and tore off still another piece of petticoat. She soaked it and then washed his face, distressed at the heat of it.
“Rafe,” she whispered. “Please tell me what to do.”
His eyes flickered open, and he tried to sit. She saw a muscle move in his cheek, saw the frustration in his eyes as he struggled to rise.
Her hand went out to steady him, and his gaze moved to her face and then to her hand. The expression on his face was confusion, and then … something like rage replaced it. He jerked away from her hand as he apparently comprehended his own weakness, his dependence on her.
“I don’t need you.… I don’t need … a Randall. I would rather hang, goddammit. Why don’t you go?” When she didn’t, he snarled, “Get out!” And then, as if the anger had been too strong to sustain, it drained from his eyes, and they closed again.
But his fist balled up tightly, and she knew he was still awake.
She felt his words like a knife in her heart. She’d never been hated before, and now she was being hated for something she couldn’t help, because of a man she didn’t even know. She retreated to the door, but she couldn’t force herself to open it.
She was as puzzled as to how to help him as the mama bear had been about her cub. A part of him had given up when he’d realized he was no longer in control, that he was at the mercy of a Randall. And he needed to fight. He was so weak, and infection was a distinct danger.
She suddenly had an idea, the only one that might work. “What about your friends? Do you want them to hang with you?”
His eyes flew open, fury clouding pain, clouding that defeat. “You wouldn’t.”
“How do you know what I’ll do?” she taunted him. “I’m a Randall, remember?”
He tried to get up but fell back, beaten by the loss of blood, she thought. Or that exhaustion he had defied long enough to save the cub. She knew him well enough now to understand how much he hated showing weakness and pain.
“Damn you,” he whispered.
“Even that bear outside had enough sense to know it needed help,” she said softly.
His eyes met hers. “You didn’t go out …?”
“I showed her the cub, that it was all right, and she seemed to understand we were just trying to help. It was the only way I could get some fresh water,” she explained.
“That was a damn fool …”
“Not any more than rescuing that cub.”
He moved slightly, and she saw the sudden strain in his face, the clenching of muscles in his cheek. “Don’t move,” she said.
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“I told you earlier. Mama bear wouldn’t let me.” She knew the other explanation—that she was worried about him—would only worsen things.
“But you got water.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know the way out.”
“That didn’t bother you before.”
“There’s the cub.”
He hesitated. “How is it?”
“Hurting. Like you.”
His breath seemed to catch, and she saw beads of sweat form on his forehead. She dampened the cloth she’d been using and wiped it away. He flinched. “Don’t.”
“You need help.”
“Not from you.”
“You didn’t do it, did you?” She didn’t know why the question exploded from her at that moment. She both needed and feared confirmation of her growing conviction that he’d been wrongly accused and punished.
Instead of answering, he said wearily, “Go away.”
“I can’t.”
“The hell you can’t. I don’t want you here.”
“It’s too late now,” she said, a lump in her throat making her voice hoarse.
He ignored her denial. “Just … just promise you won’t mention Clint and Ben.”
“You don’t believe my promises.” Her hand went up to wipe his forehead again, and his wounded hand came up to push it away. His subsequent hiss of breath was loud and filled with agony.
She wanted to tell him not to move, but he wouldn’t want even that show of concern.
“If you want me out of here,” she said, “then you’re going to have to take me. That means you have to get better. And you won’t get better without rest.” It was the only thing she could think of to make him stop fighting her, fighting his obvious need for her.
His face relaxed slightly. “Clint … should be back.”
“Sleep,” she said. “Get some rest.”
“I don’t want …”