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.Shehadn’tbeen 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.
