"I know, love, I know."
"The Garveys... killed them. Threw me... over cliff. I fell..."
Ashleen's stomach churned at the image his words wove for her—Garret, her beloved Garret, being flung to what might have been his death—Garret screaming, falling, slamming into a ledge that had shattered his arm but saved his life.
Three days, Kennisaw had said, Garret lay there on a slab of rock barely three feet wide. No food. No water. Fighting to live, knowing those he loved had died.
Kennisaw Jones had cried when he had told Ashleen of riding up to the MacQuade cabin after the massacre. Now she cried with him.
"Garret. I'm so sorry. Sorry you lost them. Sorry you were hurt... afraid..."
He shifted, and relief warred with pain as the shadows of nightmare drifted away from his features, leaving behind an even more devastating reality. He tried to sit upright and managed to jam one shoulder against the wagon box, arching his head back against one wood brace. His lips whitened, his face tinged green with what Ashleen recognized as nausea.
She lunged for a bucket, but he stopped her, his hand clammy on her forearm, his voice shaking.
"No. I'm all right. I... I am."
Ashleen stared into those wolf-gray eyes and doubted he'd ever be all right again. He let his lids drift shut, and when he opened them again Ash could discern a hint of embarrassment.
"I'm sorry." He said the words low, dragging his hands away from her, moving until a sliver of white feather tick was between them. She had held his hand for endless hours, had slept curled next to his lean, hard body. Yet this sudden break of contact reminded her of the wrenching sensation she had felt when Ireland had vanished forever.
Ashleen bent to retrieve a tin mug of water she kept near the bed and offered it to him, silent, waiting.
He took it, lifted it to his lips, swallowed. He winced then passed her the mug, taking care not to touch her. "Have I been... I mean, I've been making a fool of myself, haven't I? Babbling about—about what happened at Stormy Ridge."
Ashleen struggled to keep her voice soothing, sensing in Garret both raw emotions and badly stung pride. "You were half dead when we got you into the wagon. You were entitled to babble."
"Hell." Garret bit out the pithy oath, burying his face in his hands. "It was... the nightmare. Always have it when I'm hurt... or angry... or not strong."
Ashleen thought of Moira Kearny's fever-bloated face, of closing her friend's eyes the last time. "Some things stay with you forever," Ash said, her fingers clenching with the need to reach out to Garret, touch him. "Horrible things, hurtful things. But the beautiful and the good can also remain."
Garret gave a weak, bitter laugh. "Not when they're drowned out by guilt, Ash. Not when it isn't over. The Garveys are still out there. Murdering. Like they murdered Pa and Ma and Beth. Murdered Kennisaw."
She had waited so long for Garret's eyes to clear, waited so long for him to actually speak to her, to know what he was saying. Now she wanted to lay her fingertips against his lips, to silence him. She could sense where his thoughts were leading him, and it terrified her. "Maybe you should rest now, not talk. You must be—be tired."
"Tired? Hell, yes, I'm tired. Tired of dragging the guilt around with me day after day. Tired of the nightmares. While I was lying on that ledge I tried to die. Wanted to die. There was no way up the cliff face. Would've been too sheer to climb even if my arm hadn't been useless. I remember lying there hour after hour, listening. Wolves came. I could hear them snarling, fighting over... over the bodies. I could see vultures circling, knew that as soon as I was too weak to fight they'd be coming for me as well. So many times I nearly threw myself down the rest of the way."
He leaned his forehead against his arm, his face hidden by the fall of his longish dark hair. "I was crazy with grief. Was in so much pain. God, I wanted to die so damn bad. Wanted to be with Ma and Beth. Wanted to tell Pa... tell him I was sorry for all the hurt that had been between us. Wanted to tell him I was sorry I could never seem to be the son he had needed, wanted."
"You were everything any father could have wanted, Garret. I know he'd be proud... so proud if he could see you now."
Garret's lips curved in the most bittersweet of smiles, sorrow and regret lining his face as he raised it to meet her eyes. "The only thing that kept me clinging to that damn ledge was the memory of Cain Garvey's face. Eli Garvey's face. And the thought of taking Pa's gun and blasting them until there was nothing left."
Ash bit her lip, shuddering at the image, yet understanding Garret's thirst for it.
He raked his hand back through his hair then curved one arm about his ribs, as if to ease the ache that must still be throbbing within him. He was silent a long time. She waited.
"Three days had passed when I heard the hoof beats. Riders. Hell, I didn't know if they were Comanche, Kiowa, or the Garveys come back to finish the job. I lay there so still, so weak, the sound seeming almost like a dream. Then I heard him. Kennisaw. I'd never heard a sound like that, before—a keening, scalp-prickling, horrible sound, as if someone had cut out his heart.
"There were other voices, too, angry voices, outraged voices. I could hear them, hear some of them retching in the dirt. I must have cried, moaned, I don't know. Next thing I knew, I heard someone shouting that I was on the ledge. That I might be alive."
"Thank God. Thank God you were."
"I didn't want to be alive. Didn't want to see..." His voice broke, and so did Ashleen's heart.
"What happened?" she urged softly, sensing that this was a cleansing for him, a baring of festering wounds to a sunlight that might heal them.
"There were about a dozen soldiers—later I found out they'd been sent by Sam Houston. They lowered Kennisaw down with a rope, pulled me up in his arms. The yard... I'll never forget... forget the stench of death. The blood. It all seemed so impossible, Ash. Like a bad dream. Outlaws. Gold. They'd been fighting the War for Independence in Texas for, God, I don't know how long. Kennisaw had spun tales about it every time he'd come to Stormy Ridge. It had all seemed so wonderful, so packed with heroes and adventure, courage and all the things a twelve-year-old boy hungers for. But none of it had ever seemed real until I saw the soldiers clustered around our yard, staring at the strongboxes lying in the dirt.
