Chapter 15 #2
He gulped down another whiskey. He’d never stopped loving Sara.
After she left him, he’d had brief liaisons with women who expected little more than a few gifts, but he’d always hoped he could win Sara back.
The army payroll was part of that scheme.
It would provide enough money for him to go back East for her, convince her that he had changed.
But she’d seen that blasted article, and though he had continued sending money, he never again received any acknowledgment.
A daughter!
A daughter who had disappeared.
A daughter who had traveled all the way from Boston to see him.
He had tried to find out his daughter’s whereabouts while awaiting information from the Boston detective. Someone at the hotel said a man had met a young woman the morning after his daughter’s arrival. No one knew more. The description of the man fit a thousand men.
What had happened to her? Why hadn’t she reached the Circle R?
Considering the robberies and McClary’s information, he had a damn good idea. His hand closed around the whiskey glass tightly. Rafferty Tyler!
Rafferty Tyler had found his revenge.
Ben stayed overnight. Shea knew it was because he didn’t trust her, but she was grateful just the same. The medicine and bandages he’d brought for her were useful in treating Rafe. Ben also had rudimentary doctoring skills Shea did not.
A legacy from the war, he’d explained as his hands had explored Rafe’s wound. “There were few doctors, and we learned to do for ourselves much of the time.”
He made the remark as he undid the bandage on Rafe’s arm. He looked at her with surprise after examining the stitches. “You did this?”
Shea nodded, pleased at the sudden respect in his eyes. She didn’t want to question why she cared, except a part of her was intrigued by the bond that linked these men together, by the loyalty that made them risk everything for one another.
Was it the war, which had been over eight years before? Or was it Rafe Tyler himself who commanded such extraordinary devotion?
After he’d finished with Rafe, Ben had turned to her.
Rafe had wanted him to look at Shea’s hand first, but she had demurred, saying it didn’t hurt anymore and that Rafe’s injuries were the ones that required immediate attention.
Ben had needed little convincing, and Rafe had been too weak to counter Ben’s determination.
Ben’s lips now tightened as he looked at her hand. He said little as he spread salve on it. “Don’t use it,” he said curtly.
“I have to. The little bear.”
Ben looked over at the corner where the cub was sleeping peacefully. “Rafe doctored it?”
“I sewed the wound. Rafe put the splint on.”
He shook his head, as if at the foolishness of two children. “I suppose I’d better bandage your hand then. It would be better to let the blisters air, but if you insist on using it.…”
She held it out to him and was surprised at the gentleness in his fingers as he carefully bandaged it.
He then turned to Rafe. “I’ll bunk here tonight, since you two can’t seem to stay out of trouble.
” There was the slightest hint of amusement in his voice, and Shea reluctantly found herself liking him as she’d liked his brother.
Rafe sat up on the bunk. “I can take care of things.”
“The hell you can. Abner could knock you over, and he doesn’t even have a frying pan.” Rafe had refused to say anything about the wound on his head, and Shea had had to explain, in a stumbling manner.
Rafe ignored Ben’s comment. “Any news about the robbery?”
“None that I know of.” He looked up at Shea. “Randall’s gone to Casey Springs.”
Shea flinched at the ease with which they discussed her father, their plans to destroy him. She still didn’t know exactly what those plans entailed, but she knew the two men in the cabin were undeterred by her presence.
Rafe’s glance only casually caught hers before turning back to Ben. “McClary?”
“At the ranch.”
“Clint?”
Ben’s eyebrows furrowed together, and he glanced at Shea as if unsure whether he should say anything. “He was busy tonight.”
Rafe moved slightly and winced. “I’ll move outside for the night.”
“Hell you will,” Ben said. “I don’t want you getting pneumonia, and that’s damn likely with that fever.”
Tension rose in the room. Both men turned and looked at Shea, as if she had been created for the sole purpose of bedeviling them. Well, bedevil them she would. She was tired of being treated as if she weren’t even present, or a mere inconvenience.
“I’m hungry,” she complained, and she found that she was. She’d had nothing to eat all day.
The side of Rafe’s mouth lifted, and Ben looked startled at the reminder that captives took a certain amount of care.
“And the cub,” she added, now that she had their attention. “And … Rafe.” She felt awkward using the name in front of his friend, but it was too late to retreat to anything else.
Rafe’s mouth quirked even more. “I notice I come last.”
Shea ignored him and looked at Ben, who looked bemused. “Something besides canned peaches and old venison stew?”
Ben looked at Rafe. “Any ideas?”
Rafe shrugged. “I hung up the rest of the deer, and it’s a sure thing that damn bear has already gotten to it. You can go fishing.”
“And leave you alone with her?”
Rafe glanced quickly at Shea. His eyes were as indecipherable as ever. “She could have left before,” he finally said.
Shea felt anger rising again. She had, after all, sewed him up and nursed him, and she was receiving precious little credit for either.
Ben nodded reluctantly. “She did hit you.…”
For a moment Shea thought amusement danced in Rafe’s eyes, but it disappeared so quickly, she wondered whether it was merely the glow of a candle.
“I promise I won’t turn my back on her,” Rafe said.
“You wouldn’t have to,” Ben said. “A little nudge on her part would do as much damage now as that damned frying pan.”
Rafe ignored the warning. “There’s a pole in the stable.”
“If I can get past that bear of yours.”
A noise came from Rafe that could be interpreted as a chuckle. Shea doubted, however, that Rafe had the ability to do such a thing, even if his rock-hard nature allowed it. Even the slightest movement appeared to cause new waves of pain and weakness. He was wincing now as he very slowly lay down.
Ben took one last measuring look at him, and then at Shea. “I suppose Rafe has told you about the dangers of the woods at night.”
“Repeatedly,” she said wearily. Her gaze turned toward Rafe. “He even went so far as to give me an example.”
“The captain can carry his point to the extreme,” he commented dryly, unaware of the wince on Rafe’s face at the use of the military title.
Shea noticed it, though. He was the best officer I ever saw. How much had it cost Rafe Tyler to lose that uniform? Particularly to lose it in disgrace?
Dear heaven, why did she hurt so much for him?
She turned away from him. She didn’t want him to see her face; already he was all too astute at reading it. She had to do something, to take her mind from the hard, lean man who suddenly seemed so vulnerable. He would hate that, hate her for even thinking it.
The cub moved and whimpered. She leaned down and picked it up, cuddling it in her arms. “It’s all right,” she whispered. At least the bear tolerated her care. “We’ll take good care of you.”
Rafe shifted on the cot and watched her. Shea. He didn’t want to think of her as a Randall now. Only Shea.
As she looked down at the baby bear, her mouth was softened by a smile, her blue-gray eyes alive with concern. She had not changed clothes and didn’t seem to care about the stains of blood from both him and the bear.
Shea had said “we” when she’d crooned to the bear. We sounded good. Right. Even natural.
Maybe she wasn’t Randall’s daughter, he thought. But it really didn’t make any difference. There could never be a we.
He closed his eyes, wishing for the oblivion of sleep, yet fearing the nightmares it sometimes brought.
He didn’t want her to hear them, to see the drenching sweat he sometimes woke to.
Sometimes he dreamed of the branding. Sometimes the punishment box at the prison.
But whichever, the dreams were always as real as the actual event.
The crooning from across the room turned into a lullaby, softly sung, filtering into his consciousness, lighting the darkness there. He allowed himself to relax, to listen.
When was the last time he’d heard a woman sing like that?
When he was seven? Before his mother was raped and killed by the Comanche.
The song was faintly familiar. Sweet and sad and lingering. Poignant in the love it invoked. Comforting in the soft, reassuring words. A promise of happiness. How long since he’d been truly happy?
He didn’t want to think about it. He just wanted to absorb these sounds, the quiet, if temporary, pleasure they gave him. He wanted to go to sleep with them.
He knew he wouldn’t have a nightmare tonight. For the first time in years he knew.