Relentless

Chapter 19 #2

It was clear she didn’t, couldn’t, believe him, and he understood why. He had let her know how much he hated Jack Randall, how he had made plans to ruin him.

“No,” he said. “That wasn’t what I wanted.”

“What did you want?” she said bitterly.

He turned away from her, his own body tensing. No one had believed him ten years ago. No one would believe him now. Not even the woman who had expressed a certain belief in him hours ago. He had been a fool to think it went any deeper than the moment.

He clenched his jaw and turned back to face her.

“I had planned, Miss Randall, to force him to do what he always did when he got in financial trouble—steal. Steal and run. Steal and blame it on someone else. And get caught doing it this time. I wanted my name cleared, dammit, even if nothing can be done about … my hand. That’s all I planned, but I don’t expect you to believe that.

” There was a pause, then he added defeatedly, “Why in hell should you?”

There was a silence. Painful and long. Her jaw trembled, and her eyes filled with tears. She stepped toward him. “Rafe?”

“Clint will take you down if you swear you’ll say nothing about him or Ben,” he said through clenched teeth, as if he hadn’t even heard her. “Swear on your mother’s grave.”

The air between them vibrated with tension. “You?”

Rafe shrugged. “If Randall’s dead”—his voice was purposely cold—“there’s no reason to stay here.”

“And if … he’s not?”

“There will be another day, Miss Randall. You can tell him that.”

Her hand moved toward him, then fell before touching. “You’re leaving here?”

“As soon as you ride out.” He watched her swallow. He was lying. He would stay around and see what happened, but he didn’t want her coming back here.

The mouse ran up her shoulder and sat there, begging. “Abner?”

“My cellmate?” he said purposely. He held out his right hand to her shoulder, the brand ever so obvious. The mouse ran across it, and Rafe turned his hand, catching the creature in the palm of his hand and holding it there gently. “He comes with me.”

“I don’t … want you to go.”

“No?” he said coldly. “The man you were just accusing of having your father shot and lying about it? What then, Miss Randall,” he said, his eyes narrowing, making his face even more severe, more daunting, “does that make you?” He wanted to hurt her.

He had to hurt her. He had to make her leave and never look back.

“Don’t,” she pleaded with him.

“Don’t what, Miss Randall?” he mocked, steeling himself against those huge blue-gray eyes that looked so wounded. “Or would you like me to stay around and be thrown back into prison?”

She turned away from him, and he knew she was trying to hide tears. He was being a bastard, but she had to know anything between them was impossible. Whether or not Jack Randall survived, Rafe had little future. Together, they had none.

“Swear it, Miss Randall. Swear that you’ll be quiet about Clint and Ben, and you can go to the man you’ve traveled so far to find.”

“I swear it,” she said, her voice broken. Pain sliced through Rafe. But he had to make her hate him. He had to.

“If you say anything, so help me God, I’ll hunt you down and … hurt whatever, whoever you care about.”

She whirled around. “How can you even think …?”

“I think lots of things. And I know a hell of a lot about betrayal. I’ve learned not to expect one goddam thing.”

“And your friends?” she said bitterly. “Don’t you trust them, even though they’ve risked everything for you?”

He was silent. He had no answer to that question. He was so scared of believing in someone else, yet he had done that out of sheer frustration and desperation, and he was doing it again now with Shea.

But apparently she accepted his silence as a negative answer. “Where will you go?”

“That’s none of your business.”

She stared at him. “It will always be my business, no matter what you think.”

“That’s your problem, Miss Randall,” he said coolly, though he felt hot all over. He knew he was successful, though, in hiding that discomfort when he saw her face pale.

She started to say something, but he stopped her. He couldn’t hear it, or he might do something they both would regret.

“Clint will help you devise a story that will protect him and Ben.”

“What about you?” she whispered.

“I don’t give a damn what you say about me.”

“Do you want to go back to prison?”

“I won’t go back, Miss Randall,” he said in a tone that said he would die first.

“Rafe?”

The sound of his name on her lips was nearly his undoing. He wanted to take her in his arms, hold her close, feel that warmth that only she had ever given him. He was tearing his own heart out by doing this, the heart he’d thought destroyed long ago. Now he wished he had been right.

He looked at her, trying to appear disinterested, something he’d learned well in prison.

He saw her swallow. He was terribly afraid that she might say what she wanted to say anyway, and he knew that might be the one thing that would break him. “You were a bed partner, Miss Randall. Nothing more.”

Tears formed at the edge of her eyes but didn’t spill over. “I don’t believe you.”

“Believe it,” he said, “but know that Clint had nothing to do with that particular part of your abduction. He’s a good man whose loyalty led him astray.”

“Are you protecting me too?” she asked quietly. “It seems you’re protecting everyone but yourself.”

“I don’t need protection,” he said roughly. “And don’t romanticize my actions. It looks like I’m through here. I’ve accomplished what I wanted.”

She shook her head. “No, you didn’t. I don’t know exactly what you planned, what you wanted, but it’s obviously not my father’s death. You could have killed him any time.”

“No one else will believe that,” he said.

Comprehension dawned in her eyes. “I’ll tell them you couldn’t have. You were here. With me.”

Rafe knew he had made a mistake. He had revealed something that gave her hope.

It was a mistake he had to rectify, no matter how cruelly.

“Every second, Miss Randall? And my men? In any event I’ve been responsible for a few other …

robberies, and like I said, I have no intention of going back to prison. ”

“I can’t just forget—”

“Consider this, then. I seduced Jack Randall’s daughter. I used you. It gave me some satisfaction. Now go back to your own life.” Rafe looked directly down into her eyes, forcing her to accept his words.

A tear spilled then, and a fist went up to wipe it away furiously. He wanted to lean over and lick that tear and other ones away, but he forced himself to stay still, to keep an unforgiving scowl on his face.

“You better put on those trousers,” he said, turning toward the door. He stopped, looked at the drawing pad on the table, and went over to it, flipping through it, tearing some sheets off and crumpling them in his hand.

Without any more words he went to the door and started to open it.

“Rafe,” she said. He stopped dead still and then slowly turned around and looked at her.

She moved a few steps toward him, her face stricken. She stumbled, then straightened, her shoulders stiffening. She gave him one long look as if memorizing his face.

“I love you,” she said.

Rafe felt all his defenses crumbling around him.

But he managed to keep his face still, his eyes noncommittal.

It was the hardest thing he had ever done.

Enduring the parade-ground ceremony was child’s play next to this.

He forced himself to turn and walk out the door, closing it behind him, shutting it on what was brief happiness for him, potential tragedy for her.

He walked away, more alone, more hollow, more heartsick, than he’d even been, even when the cell door closed on him for the first time.

She’d had to say it. She had been bursting with it. It stole her pride, her dignity, but she’d had to say it.

Shea was battered by a maelstrom of emotions, still uncertain as to the truth about Rafe. She had never been able to read those guarded eyes. She had been confused by all his contradictory actions. She had been guided only by instinct.

She was silent, huddled inside herself as she rode behind Clint in silence.

He had always been kind, but today there was extra concern for her.

She didn’t know whether it was because of her father, because of the awkwardness at the cabin, or because of whatever Rafe Tyler had told him.

She doubted he had told Clint anything. He was a man who’d perfected the art of hiding emotions …

if he felt anything at all. She’d often wondered if he had any emotions to hide.

After Rafe had left the cabin, she slowly changed from her dress into the trousers and shirt and packed the valise.

She didn’t bother to check to see what had been censored from her drawing pad.

Rafe wasn’t around when she came out. He was obviously willing to leave things as they had in the cabin.

There was to be no good-bye. No reprieve.

Clint had been standing there, next to his saddled horse, waiting for her. He looked at the valise and shook his head unhappily. “We can’t take that.”

“Why?”

“You’re escaping from your abductors. You would hardly take that with you.”

“My drawing pad?”

“Rafe said you could take it, but …” He stood there uncomfortably. “I’m … sorry about all this, Miss Randall. You got caught in the middle of something, and you didn’t deserve that. If there’s anything I can do …”

She didn’t doubt his sincerity. The lump in her throat grew larger. No one could help.

He tried again. “Rafe … he’s hurting too.”

“Is he?” she asked.

“I’ve never seen him like this,” Clint said. “Not even when I saw him in prison. He didn’t want to hurt you.” There was reluctance in his words, as if he felt he was betraying his friend and yet desperately wanted to help her in some way.

She turned away, on the verge of tears. She knew that once they started, they wouldn’t stop.

She took the drawing pad and stared at it for a few moments, then flipped it open.

She took several pages from it, folded them carefully, and tucked them inside her belt.

She then put the pad in the valise, dropped it on the ground, and swallowed hard, trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

“He … Rafe said my father is hurt badly.”

He nodded. “He’s lost a lot of blood. The doctor said he has a concussion, and there could be infection.”

“How do you know so much?”

Clint hesitated. She was going to know sooner or later. He might as well find out now how she was going to react. “I work for Jack Randall. I live at the Circle R.”

“So that’s why I was … kept prisoner.”

He nodded.

Shea tipped her head. “Will you tell me something about him? About Jack Randall?” She had to think of something else, someone other than the man she was leaving behind. Forever.

There was a silence. “You’ll have to learn for yourself,” Clint said finally as he swung up on the horse, holding his hand down to her and guiding her up behind him.

She had turned as they left the clearing, watching the cabin until the foliage hid it, willing Rafe to appear. He didn’t. They traveled about thirty minutes, and then Clint stopped and twisted around, taking a bandanna from his neck.

Shea was still too locked in misery to care. Clint was watching her carefully. “I’m going to say I found you in the woods, that you apparently escaped from your abductors.”

He didn’t ask for her agreement, but she nodded her head.

“I’m going to have to blindfold you.”

“Rafe said he was leaving,” Shea heard herself say tonelessly.

“It’s for your own sake, Miss Randall. It’s better if you say you had no idea where you were.” He hesitated. “Rafe said you weren’t a very good liar.”

“What else did he say?” she asked bitterly.

“He asked me to take care of you,” he replied with a small, crooked grin.

“Why do you trust me not to say anything? About you, I mean. Especially,” she said pointedly, “since I’m not a good liar.”

“You don’t have to lie. You were abducted. You did get away. You don’t know the way.”

“But I know about you,” she insisted, wanting a reaction of some kind. Wanting him to take her back. To Rafe Tyler. To the man who didn’t want her.

“Will you say anything?”

She looked at his face. It was strong, the eyes honest. She remembered him bringing breakfast to her, his concern over her burn. His present awkwardness told her he obviously hated what he was doing, but he also believed in loyalty and friendship and his idea of justice.

“No,” she said finally.

“You’re quite a lady, Miss Randall,” he said as he blindfolded her.

Shea didn’t feel like a lady. She felt hollow, like a shell whose core had been ripped out piece by painful piece. She wished numbness would set in, but it didn’t. The hurt was raw, jagged, soul deep, and she didn’t think it would ever lessen.

Not even the thought of finally seeing her father helped. Because now she didn’t know if he was alive or dead. And if he was alive, what had he done to ruin the man she loved, would always love?

And would never have.