Chapter 9 #3
Shea felt disquieted. It seemed as if he were trying to reassure her in a certain way and, in doing so, was revealing something of himself he usually kept private.
She didn’t like the sudden warmth that stole into her, the liking she felt toward him.
How could she? An outlaw. A convict who had made no secret of his bitter quest for revenge.
She turned away, trying to hide her eyes from him.
He always seemed to see too much. After a moment of silence she’d sorted her feelings back to where they should be.
She swallowed, trying to think of something to say to break the tense silence between them, and turned back to him. “The cub is … enchanting.”
He nodded. “But don’t ever try to approach it. Mother bears are notorious about protecting their young ones. Just one of the dangers in these woods.”
A warning again.
“I’ve never seen a bear catch a fish before.”
“There’s some deer that water here too,” he said. “Even some fawns, but they usually visit around dawn.”
For an instant she forgot she was his captive and he her captor, and exclaimed, “Can we come and watch?”
She saw a muscle flex in his cheek. He hesitated, then nodded, his eyes showing the first warmth she had seen, but it disappeared so quickly, she wondered whether she imagined it.
He stood and turned away, this time not offering his hand but obviously expecting her to follow. Shea stood, brushing away dirt and leaves from her clothes, and retrieved her sketchpad from where she had left it next to the rock.
He was several feet ahead now. Disappointed and angry, she trailed behind him. He had seemed so human for a moment, so approachable, so … attractive, and then he’d turned back into a relentless outlaw, expecting her to be at his heels like a trained dog.
He kept doing that to her. Disarming her with a small slice of magic and then rebuffing her as if she were lower than a …
a slug. All his contradictions confused her, that appreciation of animals and his hate for Jack Randall; his tolerance for her, and then his rejection.
She didn’t understand any of it, and she hated him for the constant turmoil it created in her.
She should hate him. She did hate him, she told herself as she struggled to keep up with his long strides, resenting with every step the fact that another emotion also simmered deep inside her.
Clint Edwards carefully adjusted his string tie and ran a hand through his dark hair.
He wasn’t sure going to the dance this evening was a wise idea, but then he had never been cautious. Living from day to day had become a way of life.
But since he had met Kate Dewayne, he had occasional thoughts that some peace might be nice for a change.
Courting the sheriff’s daughter was not a way to accomplish that particular goal. Any courting now was definitely not wise. He had been playing with fire since he joined the Union Army twelve years ago, but now he was jumping in the middle of it, just begging to be consumed.
But like a moth, he couldn’t keep away.
Pretty Kate.
He couldn’t keep away from her, even though he had promises to keep first, promises that placed him and Kate’s father at opposite ends of the law.
Clint had never cared much for the law. Perhaps because only one thing had mattered during the four years of war: loyalty to men who fought alongside him. It seemed crazy to him that he could do things during the war that would now condemn him.
Still, Clint’s conscience gnawed at him. He wondered whether the reason was Kate, whether she had shaken his insides, rearranging his heart, soul, and conscience.
So many things were pricking at him now: the woman up at Rafe’s camp; the lies to Kate’s father, a man Clint liked and admired, even the purposeful betrayal of a man who employed him.
Clint pulled on his coat in his private room in the bunkhouse. The foreman, Nate Kerry, would be coming, too, tonight, along with Mr. Randall.
The dances were monthly affairs, held at the school that Mr. Randall had built in Rushton.
All the ranchers, town people, and some miners attended, as much to exchange information as to dance and socialize.
This dance would be of particular importance.
There would be talk about the robberies.
There would be discussions on what to do about them.
Clint hoped Randall’s guest wouldn’t tail along. McClary was one of the most disagreeable and demanding men he’d ever met. Clint didn’t know why Randall tolerated him or made his men cater to him. McClary had been at the ranch on previous occasions, each time making enemies of all the hands.
Clint reminded himself to tell Rafe about McClary when he rode up to the cabin tomorrow. He’d already told Randall he planned to be gone all day, out hunting for a pack of wolves. Ben, Skinny, and the others would also be at Rafe’s cabin tomorrow, making plans for the next stage holdup.
Clint wondered briefly how the woman was doing. He knew Rafe well enough to realize that he wouldn’t harm her, but that look of fear in her eyes, of pleading, had stayed with Clint. He understood the necessity of holding her, but he didn’t like it any more than Rafe obviously had.
He thought of Kate being in the same position, and he felt a sudden tightening in his heart. Damn his brother.
The town dance was considerably more somber than usual. There were many more small groups of men talking quietly than there were couples dancing.
Clint had trouble concentrating on Kate as he danced with her, his feet unusually clumsy as he tried to listen in on various conversations.
In fact, he’d had trouble concentrating on anything since he’d arrived and heard that first scrap of information: “A miner was murdered last night. Must be the same outlaws that’s been attacking the stagecoach.”
“Clint? Is something wrong?” Kate’s voice was low, concerned.
He tried to smile, but he feared it was only a poor attempt. What in hell was going on?
“I’m sorry,” he said, as he tried to focus his attention on his partner.
She looked very pretty, her taffy-colored hair pulled back and tendrils softly curling around her face.
That face came alive with animation when she spoke, and she had a happy laugh that always seemed to light a room.
Her green eyes had been sparkling earlier, but now they were concerned as they studied him.
Kate was twenty-one, an age at which a girl was considered an unlikely prospect for marriage.
It was not that she’d not had opportunities; Clint knew every unmarried man in the valley courted her, but she’d seemed content enough to keep house for her father and two older brothers.
She was unlike any other girl he’d met; she could discuss ranching with the most veteran of old hands, and she rode a horse as well as her father and brothers.
After the dance, he guided her to where her father, Sheriff Russ Dewayne, and brothers, Ed and Michael, stood.
“I’m thinking about putting a posse together,” Russ Dewayne said, “but Jack doesn’t think that’s such a good idea.”
Clint turned toward his employer, lifting an eyebrow in question. He would have thought Randall would have been the first to demand a posse since it was his payrolls that had been robbed, but he had been curiously quiet about it.
Randall shrugged now. “I just think it would be useless. There are a thousand hiding places in these hills.”
“What would you suggest?” Dewayne asked.
“More guards on the next coach,” Randall replied. “The others have been easy targets with only a driver and Old Pete riding shotgun.”
Dewayne hesitated, looked cautiously around him, and then said in a lower voice, “What about an ambush? We know where they struck last time. We can get there early. Your new payroll is coming on the next stage, isn’t it?”
Randall hesitated. “I’m thinking about sending several of my men to bring it back.”
“What worries me,” said Ed Dewayne, “is this attack on the miners. I think we all hoped that those stagecoach robberies were committed by outlaws just passing through.”
Randall’s eyes moved to the couples dancing, and Clint sensed his employer wanted to change the subject.
Why? Did he know who was responsible for the stage robberies?
Even more important, did he know anything about the attack against the miner?
It hadn’t been Rafe, Clint knew that. A bullet in the back wasn’t Rafe’s style.
But Rafe sure as hell was going to be blamed for it. Along with everyone who rode with him.
He felt Kate’s touch on his arm.
Clint looked down at her and saw the concern in her eyes, and he swallowed a sudden rush of pleasure. It was a new experience for him, watching a woman’s eyes deepen with caring, and he didn’t quite know how to handle it. Particularly now, when he was bound to hurt her.
He smiled feebly, knowing that he would probably be seen as troubled by the recent robberies and murder. Acting a deceitful role did not come easily to him. He didn’t like lying to men he liked and respected. Or to the first woman who had made him feel like settling down.
Clint turned his attention to the man who had just spoken. “Maybe the robberies and murder aren’t connected.”
Russ shook his head. “They have to be. We’ve never had trouble like this before, not since the war, when we sent those Rebel raiders running. I don’t believe in coincidence.”
Clint was silent for a moment. Neither did he believe in coincidences.
The murder could, of course, have been unintended.
A dispute between two miners. A drifter coming upon opportunity.
But somehow he didn’t think so. Still, he knew that none of his friends would have shot a man in the back. That left Jack Randall.
Yet he’d been watching Randall, and his boss seemed as shocked as anyone at the news.
Clint glanced down at Kate, then up at her father again. “What do you intend to do?”
“Jack’s right about these mountains being full of hiding places. I’m going to ride into Casey Springs tomorrow and see whether there’ve been any other, similar robberies in the area. I’ll ride back with the stagecoach.”
Randall, who hadn’t smiled during the evening, visibly relaxed. “Then I’ll send my payroll that way. I’ll give you authorization to pick it up.”
Clint hid his concern. The last thing he wanted was Kate’s father riding shotgun on the coach.
He wondered whether he could persuade Rafe to pass this one up and knew immediately he couldn’t.
Everything hinged on depriving Randall of cash.
He must be down to rock bottom now, and he’d already sold off the spring herd.
He would have to sell more of his breeding stock to raise cash to pay his hands or resort to something else.
Or perhaps he already had? Perhaps Randall had found a new source of revenue in the vulnerable miners?
He looked toward Randall, studied his face, and all he saw was the same indecision and frustration he saw on the other faces.
The small group started to break up, one of the men captured by his wife, and Kate looked at Clint expectantly. Damn, but she was pretty.
He offered his arm, trying to concentrate on her.
He was not a good dancer, never having had much practice, and he had to work at the waltz.
He felt terribly clumsy, saved from disaster only by her own grace and agility in avoiding his missteps.
It didn’t help that he was disconcerted by the way she looked at him, as if he were someone special, and the thought of the trip up into the mountains the next morning.