Chapter 16
Sam McClary watched as the miner below gently swished water in the pan and then dug through the residue. He picked something up, held it up to the setting sun, grunted, and placed it in a pouch he took from his pocket.
It was something, McClary thought disgustedly, but probably damned little. He’d discovered the remaining miners in these hills worked very long hours for precious little gold. They weren’t really worth his bother, except for a certain side benefit: Rafferty Tyler.
He wanted to see Tyler hang. The superior “hero” who had humiliated and chastised him years ago in front of an entire troop. Rafe Tyler should have hanged years ago and would have, had it not been for that chicken-livered Randall, who interceded.
And in doing so Randall had created a very dangerous man, who was a threat to McClary as well as Randall. McClary had no doubt he would be Tyler’s next target.
McClary had considered killing Tyler on the trip to prison but never got the opportunity. He’d been able to take out his frustration on the prisoner though. The fact that Tyler, despite his chains, had viewed him with disdain, had only hardened his hatred.
Now Tyler had help. That much was obvious.
McClary didn’t know who. He didn’t know why.
But he did know they weren’t amateurs. Which made it very important that Tyler be caught, and caught quickly.
The murder of a few miners might just spur on the law, place Randall even more under his control, and earn McClary a few dollars to boot.
He would wait until the miner left the creek and started the trek to his cabin.
Randall would know who did it, but Randall couldn’t turn in McClary without revealing his own past. And the same timid streak that saved Tyler would keep Randall from saying a word now.
McClary smiled. He’d been small for his age as a boy and bullied by his schoolmates in the Kentucky hills. But he could shoot. Damn, if he couldn’t pick off a squirrel at a thousand feet. This skill had made him a sergeant. But he still hadn’t won the respect he so badly craved.
The miner below him checked his pan again and threw away the contents in disgust. He took up the wool shirt he’d discarded on the ground, pulled it on, and tucked the tail carelessly inside his trousers.
He then reached for the gunbelt he’d placed next to the shirt, buckled it on, and started toward the cabin a few feet into the woods.
McClary, who was already spread flat on the ground, carefully sighted his rifle, the barrel following the route taken by the miner. McClary’s finger slowly squeezed the trigger.
After several minutes he snaked his way down to the side of the miner, pulled the pouch from the man’s trousers, and weighed it in his hand. There were several ounces, anyway.
He thought about checking out the man’s cabin but decided against that. Most miners carried their pouches with them, afraid to leave the small amount of gold they collected in empty cabins. No sense staying longer than necessary.
McClary took one last look at the miner. Hell of a lot easier than rabbit hunting. He grinned mirthlessly. Another miner shot in the back. That should stir the folks up.
Randall debated with himself whether to tell Russ Dewayne about his daughter’s disappearance or go looking for her himself.
He’d had a long ride back from Casey Springs, weighed down as he was by guilt and regret. He kept seeing Sara, accusing him, blaming him. And he felt responsible now for what she apparently had feared most: that he would, in some way, ruin their daughter’s life.
The clerk at the Casey Springs express office said the woman who had approached him had light blue eyes, light brown hair, and a lovely smile. Sara had once possessed a lovely smile, quick and easy and guileless.
He would give anything to see their daughter. Even, he knew with sudden clarity, his life.
Would she be killed if he brought in the law?
If only he could talk to Tyler. Discover what he wanted. But he had no idea where Tyler was hiding.
He felt so damn helpless. Probably, he admitted to himself, as helpless as Tyler himself had once felt.
What kind of man was he today? What did ten years of prison do to a man who had once been decent and honorable?
Randall had avoided thinking about it these past few years, brushing the guilt away, performing charitable deeds that he hoped somehow made up for the one truly evil thing he had done.
Randall made his decision then. He would spend the next three days searching the mountains for Tyler and his daughter. If he found no sign of them, he would then ask the sheriff to form a posse.
And if he did find Tyler? He would bargain his life, his reputation, his freedom, if necessary.
If his daughter was dead? Randall knew he would kill Tyler and hope that Tyler’s men killed him in turn.
Shea was sitting outside when Ben returned from the fishing trip. She had taken the cub outside to be inspected again by the mother. Once more the she-bear had urged it to walk, but the cub’s clumsy attempts sent him sprawling, and so the she-bear had retreated.
Rafe was sleeping, so Shea, the cub in her lap, waited for Ben and put her fingers to her lips when he’d appeared. He gave the cub one of the fish at her insistence and at the cub’s begging, and then built a fire outside to cook the fish.
The sky was breathtaking, the stars so many twinkling diamonds on a deep blue backdrop.
Everything out here was so incredibly lovely, so different from the dirty streets of Boston, from the noise and the lights and fog that so often rolled in at night.
She felt as if she could reach up and grab a star and clutch it closely to her.
She wanted to take it inside and show it to Rafe, to show him there was something besides vengeance.
And then she grew sad, hope fading to a painful, hollow ache that echoed throughout her, when she realized she could never comprehend how he felt, how she would feel if she’d lost so much.
She looked over at Ben. He was watching the cub more closely than he was watching the fish. The baby bear was nibbling on her good hand; her bandaged right hand was resting on its head.
Ben also kept a wary eye on the place at the edge of the woods where the she-bear had paced earlier; it had disappeared, apparently to find its own dinner.
“Why didn’t you leave when you had a chance?” He had asked the question before, and she had given him a nonanswer, one he hadn’t accepted.
Shea was tired of avoiding truths. “He was hurt because of something I asked him to do.”
“The cub, you mean?”
She nodded.
“He would have done it, anyway,” Ben said dryly. “During the war …” He stopped.
“During the war …?” she urged after a few moments. She was tired of being shut out, of sentences started and stopped.
“We had to kill some horses once. They were pulling caissons, cannon, and the Rebs were about to overrun us. There was no time to cut them loose, and we couldn’t let the Rebs take them.
Rafe gave the order to kill them, and I’ll never forget the look on his face as he did it.
” Ben looked away. “As you probably know, he does damn little hunting. He hates it.”
“And yet he’s hunting my father.”
Ben’s glance cut through her. “I suppose he considers that necessary.”
“Why?”
“Same reason you stayed here, I guess. It’s something that he feels has to be done.”
“And you?” She wondered whether she would get the same answer from him as she had from his brother. “Why are you here?”
“Why not?” He rose as if bored with the conversation. “If you want to know more, Miss Randall, ask Rafe.” He checked the fish and gave a sound of satisfaction. “Why don’t you go see if he’s awake.”
Shea stood reluctantly. Ask Rafe. That’s all they said. And Rafe said nothing.
Disgruntled, she walked to the cabin, hesitating just inside the door.
The candle was now a puddle of wax without fire.
A small bit of light from the moon crept through the window, though, and she could see that Rafe once more had rolled halfway off the cot.
She leaned against the wall, watching him as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light.
He looked so uncomfortable, so big for the small cot, so restless for the small cabin.
His hair was mussed, and his face, she knew, was thick with a day’s bristles.
She didn’t want to wake him, but he needed to eat.
Still, she couldn’t bring herself to disturb him.
She very quietly walked to the corner where the cub’s bed was at and put the animal down to sleep; then she sat down in the one chair and simply looked at Rafe Tyler.
Even in sleep, his face was grim, severe.
She wanted so badly to reach out and touch him.
She was raw with the emotions she’d felt today: that desperate recklessness with which she’d hit him, the fear that she might have hurt him, the momentary exhilaration of freedom, and then the anxiety while he went to see about the bear.
And finally his bloody appearance. Her nursing. Their doctoring of the cub. We.
Failure and success. Grief and joy. And now …
She was incredibly tired, completely confused. How could she care about someone who hated so fiercely, so relentlessly? But she did, and she couldn’t deny it any longer.
Shea had sought a new home, a place where she belonged, and now she felt she had found it. Here in a rickety cabin with an outlaw and ex-convict who thought of nothing but revenge. No, that wasn’t right. He’d thought of that bear cub. He’d worried about her hand. He cared about a mouse.
His eyes opened, as if he’d felt the intensity of her thoughts, and fixed on her.
“Your friend has cooked some fish. You need to eat.”
Rafe moved, sitting up against the wall with a sigh. Then, carefully, he stood, swaying for a moment, and she instinctively held her hand out to him. When her fingers caught his elbow, he stiffened.