Chapter 23 #2
He emptied the glass of whiskey and buried his head in his hands. He suspected now why his daughter had left.
Shea realized she was hopelessly lost. As she climbed higher, the landscape kept changing. Nothing seemed familiar. The temperature was dropping quickly. It would soon be dark.
Shivering in the dress, her legs protected only by thin cotton pantalets, she turned the tired horse downward, hoping to find Rushton Creek or some stream leading to it.
She realized how foolish she had been, how much she had underestimated these mountains, which Rafe had warned her not to do.
She rode awhile, then walked again, leading the horse up steep inclines.
She reached a sheer wall of stone. Water was dripping down and had formed a small pool before running downward across rocks.
She stopped and used her hands to form a bowl and drink.
The horse moved eagerly to the small pool and drank greedily.
Shea sat on a rock and tried to decide what to do next.
She could follow the water down. Or she could stay the night here and start looking for Rafe’s valley again in the morning when there was better light.
She looked around. Some nearby wild raspberry bushes decided her.
After tying the reins of the horse to a bush, she gathered firewood and picked wild raspberries. She started a fire, and in minutes the wood was burning merrily, radiating much-needed warmth. Shea leaned back against a rock and ate the raspberries.
In the weeks she’d spent with Rafe, she’d learned to appreciate the songs of the woods: the chirp of crickets, the hoot of an owl, the stirring of night creatures.
Noises that he had been denied for ten years.
He would listen with an intensity that silently revealed pleasure his stonily set face seldom showed.
She couldn’t bear the thought of him throwing away what was left of his freedom and life. She had to find him.
Then she thought about her father and what she’d discovered, in his desk. Jack Randall would recover. She wasn’t sure that Rafe Tyler would.
By nightfall the men who had been searching for Shea appeared at the Circle R empty-handed. Clint returned, too, from the range and found out about the missing Shea and about Rafe being taken in. There was even talk of miners going to Casey Springs and forming a lynching party.
Kate had already cooked dinner, and as she served the meal, Clint thought of how amazing she was. She moved confidently among the men, sharing quick words about the search while dishing out a tasty stew.
Jack Randall looked as if he’d aged years. Clint knew he probably did too. He realized that Shea had probably gone looking for Rafe, that she was somewhere in the mountains. He had to alert Ben and the others both about Shea Randall’s disappearance and Rafe’s capture.
Shea was the most immediate problem. He wasn’t sure how long she could last out there. As soon as he ate, he planned to search on his own.
He quickly finished the plate of food, nodded at Kate with thanks, and said he was going back out.
“Wait till morning,” Michael Dewayne said.
“I can see in the dark as well as day,” he said truthfully. Randall looked at him gratefully, and Clint stifled the guilt that was now his constant companion. He excused himself. Kate accompanied him to the door.
“What do you think?” she said.
“She’s been out there before. She’s a survivor, Kate, even if she doesn’t look like one. She has an instinct for doing the right thing.” He hoped to hell he was right. She hadn’t been out there but the Shea Randall he knew was practical and levelheaded. At least she had been until now.
“She’s had such a hard time,” Kate said. “Her mother. Getting lost those weeks, and now her father wounded. I don’t know if I could be that strong.”
“You already are, Kate,” he said, his hand going to her elbow. He wished he could lean over and kiss her, but there were too many people around, and he had no right. Still, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from hers. “You’re so damn beautiful,” he finally said.
“Be careful,” she murmured.
His fingers brushed an errant lock of hair from the side of her face. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Why?”
“I’m not worth it,” he said, hearing the shade of bitterness in his own voice.
“I think so,” she said, and there was such trust and faith in her eyes that he wanted to shake her. After he kissed her.
He didn’t do either. Instead, he turned away abruptly and he strode quickly to the barn. In minutes he rode out, never again looking toward the ranch house.
Shea slept lightly on and off during the night, aware that she didn’t dare let the fire go all the way out. She had only two matches left.
And she was cold. Freezing even though she wrapped herself in the saddle blanket and moved as close as she could to the fire. When dawn broke, she was stiff all over.
Time to start again. If only she hadn’t been blindfolded on both journeys to and from Rafe’s cabin. But still, he obviously felt she might know enough, or he wouldn’t have told her he was leaving. She had to get there before he did.
Jack Randall knew what he had to do. He’d spent a sleepless night, haunted by the ghosts of his past. By Rafe Tyler’s face. Sara’s. Shea’s. McClary’s.
He knew he could never repair the damage he’d wreaked years ago. God knew he’d tried these past ten years, but his past had caught up with him now, and it wasn’t going to let him go.
Rafe Tyler would know where Shea was trying to go. Tyler knew those mountains. He had been haunting them the past months while haunting Randall.
And Jack knew he had to get to Shea before McClary did. McClary hadn’t left the area after all—the most recent attempt on the miner proved that; it was just a matter of time before McClary knew Jack hadn’t died. And he would hear about Shea and try to use her to get to him.
Jack measured each of his options. There were damn few. He could tell Russ Dewayne everything, but now Rafe Tyler was in someone else’s jurisdiction and accused of several murders. It was doubtful he would be released on Jack’s say-so.
And once released, why would Rafe bother to help Jack? It would be suitable revenge to watch Jack confess everything, then leave his daughter to die. Tyler had obviously seduced Shea in the mountains, holding her captive. What kind of man would do that?
What kind of man was Rafe Tyler now?
Jack had one bargaining tool. One he couldn’t give away until his daughter was safe. Her safety now was the only thing that meant anything. She might hate him when she discovered what he really was, but Jack would give anything to see her safe. Anything.
This morning he watched as the men rode out again. He had not yet seen Clint Edwards, but Kate and Michael, who had left late during the night, returned, and Kate made breakfast.
By noon there was still no news, and Randall knew what he had to do. He asked a hand to saddle his horse, and he strapped on his gunbelt. Thank God, his right hand was still useful. He ignored the persistent pain in his head, the occasional moment of dizziness, ignored the warnings Kate gave him.
He left the ranch, riding toward the mountains until he reached the road for Casey Springs, and then turned the horse in that direction.
Rafe paced the floor of the small room above the sheriff’s office that was his prison.
The one window had been boarded up, letting in only a few cracks of light, and a ring was bolted to the floor.
His hands remained handcuffed; a pair of leg irons had been fastened around his ankles and connected to the ring by a chain five feet long.
Not long enough to reach the window to try to pry the boards off.
He had tried his damnedest to work the ring from the floor, but it was anchored securely.
He had a pacing range of ten feet. Five feet from the bolted ring, then five feet back to the other side. He’d soon learned to measure his steps, or he’d go pitching down to the floor.
The only furnishings were a hard cot and a slop bucket.
His wounds had been tended by the doctor, and then he’d been placed up here to await the circuit judge. He had not been comforted by talk that the last inhabitant of this room had been summarily hanged by the impatient populace.
That damn brand had convicted him in the eyes of the town. Otherwise there had been room for doubt. The men had found signs in the dirt of another man and indications he had fired at Rafe. And doubt had been in Dewayne’s eyes until the moment he’d seen the damning mark.
Rafe lifted his right hand and glared at the T.
His gloves had been taken as well as his boots when the leg irons were applied.
The scar seemed even more stark than before.
Ugly and rough and indelible. The mark of Cain.
Frustration caused him to sit on the cot and yank again at the chain confining him.
Pain coursed through his wounded arm, through his ankles as rough iron bit into skin.
And then he heard a noise, steps on the outside stairs that provided the only access to this room. He leaned against the wall and rested a bent leg on the side of the cot in a languorous, unconcerned pose. The chain between his ankles was just long enough to permit that.
The key in the lock rattled, and the door opened. The deputy sheriff who had taken custody of him moved inside followed by another man. Rafe tensed, and he swallowed the rush of hatred that blocked his throat momentarily.
“Major Randall,” he said lazily, cloaking the fierce anger he felt at seeing his betrayer for the first time since he’d been branded. “I’m honored.”