Chapter 21 #2
The evening was cold, but Kate felt a chill of another kind. She had stood outside on the porch, waiting for Clint and Shea Randall to appear. It seemed a very long time before Clint came out of the barn alone, his expression daunting and visibly warning her to be silent.
Kate had never been jealous before. She had never fallen in love before. Until she met Clint Edwards two years ago at a dance.
He was a fine-looking man, with light gray eyes and a cleft in his chin that eased the starkness of a face darkened by the sun. He said little, and though he regarded her with interest, he offered none of the compliments her suitors did.
It took a year and many socials they both attended before she’d summoned the nerve to ask teasingly for a dance, since he obviously wasn’t going to ask her. He had given her a slow smile that made her heart do strange jumping things, and then he’d admitted that he didn’t know how to dance.
They had gone outside, and she had taught him a few steps. He was a quick pupil, and the smile that had appeared so rarely came more easily.
That had been the beginning. Then he’d sought her out.
They’d gone for rides on several of the occasions when she’d visited the Circle R with her father, and she’d grown to like him more and more.
She even enjoyed their moments of silence, because there was never awkwardness, only a warm companionship.
He never said much about himself, or his past, although once he’d mentioned the war.
And every time she saw him, her heart and senses started spinning out of control.
When he kissed her, she felt as if she owned all the stars in the universe.
But he puzzled her. Her eyes told her he cared, so did that lazy smile of his, but he never said anything, never promised anything, never asked anything of her.
He always held a part of himself in check.
She’d never seen him as tense, though, as he was now, as he had been since he brought Shea Randall to the ranch, and uncertainty and jealousy ate away at her. There had been an intensity in the way Clint had regarded Shea, a personal interest that he couldn’t hide.
The silence between them now made Kate feel as if he were moving away from her.
“Shea Randall is very pretty,” she finally said, seeking a reaction.
Clint glanced over at her and shrugged. “Is she?”
Kate stiffened at the artificial indifference in his voice. There was an undercurrent there, and she wanted to cry. She knew then she hadn’t really accepted his words the other night. Something would keep him from leaving. Someone could stop those tumbleweed feet.
She glanced over at his face. It was hard and set.
She swallowed, afraid to say anything that would distance him even further.
Feeling very much alone and miserable, she rode to the boundaries of her father’s ranch, to where she could see the lights shining in the house, and stopped, turning to face him.
“You don’t need to come any farther,” she said in a strained voice.
“I want to,” he said.
“I think,” she said, “you should return to the Circle R. She might need you.”
“Kate,” he started, then stopped. A muscle moved slightly in his cheek, and his hands tightened on the reins. But just as she thought he might say something, he nodded, turned his horse, and rode back in the direction of the Circle R.
Shea slept on and off in the chair in Jack Randall’s room. A dimmed oil lamp sat on a table in a corner. She continuously fueled the large fireplace, waking every several hours as the room chilled, telling her additional logs were needed.
He had come to consciousness several times and, though he recognized her, he remained confused about the events surrounding his injuries. But there was no doubting the sincerity of his pleasure that she was there.
No matter how she tried, she simply couldn’t equate this man with the one Rafe and Clint portrayed with their dislike.
Though he was obviously in pain, Jack Randall’s eyes twinkled when he looked at her.
His hand was warm when he touched her, his clasp warm and welcoming.
She couldn’t stifle her love, which had risen almost automatically.
If he had turned from her, perhaps it would have been different.
But he’d embraced her with unquestioned affection.
She wanted to ask him about Rafe. She had to know the truth of what happened ten years ago. But then she would have to admit she knew Rafe, knew he was in the mountains nearby, and there was no reason for him to be there unless he was a hunted outlaw.
And so she huddled miserably in the chair between spurts of sleep, wishing she knew Jack Randall better, wishing she knew what he would do if he were aware of the truth of the past few weeks.
She didn’t hear Clint return and wondered whether he had gone up into the mountains to talk to Rafe. She hoped so. She wanted him to know about the posse. She wanted him to live.
Jack Randall moved restlessly in the bed, and Shea tried to shake off the weariness drugging her. She moved over to him and touched his face. It was dry with fever.
She wet the cloth in the cool water on a table next to the bed and bathed his face.
He muttered some words she couldn’t understand, and she leaned down to try to hear. “I won’t … let you.… No.” His movements became frantic. She leaned down, pressing on his good shoulder, trying to wake him.
His eyes finally opened, and he stared at her as if he’d seen a ghost, and then recognition came. “You … look so much like your mother.” He sighed, and quieted.
Shea rinsed his face with the cloth. “Do you remember anything more? You were saying a few words.”
“I don’t remember,” he said, but his voice lacked assurance.
“Try,” she insisted. “The sheriff is forming a posse. They don’t know who they’re looking for.” She paused a moment, then continued with determination. “Your friend … Mr. McClary … is also missing.”
He moved, and pain rippled across his face. Guilt stabbed at Shea. She reached for the laudanum, poured some in a glass, and held it to his lips.
“Don’t leave,” her father said. “Please don’t leave.”
She knew he didn’t mean now. He meant ever. He wanted her. Rafe didn’t. It should be simple. But it wasn’t.
She ached for Rafe Tyler. Her heart ached for him, and her mind and her body. She kept seeing him in her mind’s eye. She tried to force him out, tried to replace his face with that of this man she’d searched for, this man who had given her life.
“I’ll be right here,” she said, deliberately misunderstanding him.
He closed his eyes, the laudanum obviously taking effect. His body relaxed, and Shea tried to do the same. But she was stiff and hurting and confused.
Restless and unhappy, she rose and moved through the door down the hall. An oil lamp was lit in the main room, and she quickly lit another in the kitchen. Her eyes kept going to the door of her father’s office, the room where he was shot. His office.
“No,” she told herself. “I can’t.” But still her feet moved in that direction. She picked the oil lamp off the table in the main room and slowly opened the door to the office.
Dark brown stained the rich, colorful rug, and she suddenly wanted to run from it.
But she couldn’t. She had to know the truth.
She didn’t know what to look for. Perhaps, she thought, she merely needed to confirm the fact that Jack Randall was everything he seemed: a rancher respected by his neighbors and friends.
But what did that make Rafe Tyler?
Shea avoided the stain on the rug and went to the desk.
There was a half-smoked cigar on a plate and a ledger.
Feeling like a traitor, she nonetheless looked inside.
Her gaze went down the first page of many inked ones.
This book started two years previously: 1871.
And then she saw the notation. Sam McClary.
$1,000. A year later, another one, this time for $1,500.
A drawer was partially opened, the lock broken, and it looked as though someone had started to sort through it, then stopped.
Papers on top were mussed, but those underneath seemed undisturbed.
She looked through them, and her hand found something heavy.
She stared at it incredulously. A tintype of her mother.
Sara looked beautiful, a lovely smile on her face.
Shea had never seen that particular smile.
A letter lay next to it. It had obviously been handled repeatedly.
Her conscience warred between her respect for Jack Randall’s privacy and the need to know why her mother had hidden his existence from her for so long.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, holding the folded page. She finally unfolded it and recognized her mother’s handwriting. She looked at the date. August 1863. Just weeks after Rafe Tyler’s court-martial.
She read the letter and then read it again more carefully. Feeling sick inside, she carefully folded it and started to place it back in the drawer. She hesitated, then took it with her to the bedroom she was using and slipped it under the mattress.
She went to the open window and looked out toward the mountains where Rafe was hiding. A half-moon hovered above the peaks, surrounded by stars.
How he must hate her father. How he must hate her. She had never truly understood before.
A cool wind blew on her, but she was oblivious to it. She was oblivious to everything except that letter and the utter hopelessness she felt.