He turned around and headed back to the cabin, his stomach and heart churning.He had to tell Shea that she might never see her father alive, that he was letting her go.It would be his fault if she was too late.He didn’t give a damn about Randall, except to regret his death foiled his plans, but he reluctantly admitted he did care about Shea.
And now she would hate him again.And what light there was in his life would be extinguished, just as surely as it had been ten years earlier.
She was sitting on the cot, playing with Abner nervously, as if she knew something had happened, something that affected her.She looked up at Rafe, a plea in her eyes.
“What is it?”
He swallowed.“Jack Randall …” Rafe couldn’t bear to say the wordfather.
She stood, her body stiff.“What?What is it?”
“He’s been shot.He … might be dying.”
Her shoulders stiffened.“You …” Her voice choked suddenly.
He took her shoulders.“It wasn’t me, or anyone connected with me,” he said softly.
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.”
