There were plenty of places to hole up here, and McClary had been in the territory enough times to know many of them.Abandoned dugouts and cabins dotted the canyons from the heyday of placer mining.And he could increase his stake.A few more dead miners should give him enough dust to head down Mexico way and tie the noose tighter around Tyler’s neck.
But damn Randall.He’d enjoyed the Circle R.He’d enjoyed baiting Randall.
His attention was diverted when he saw what he’d been searching for.He rode up to the flimsy dugout built into the hill that ran alongside the creek.Almost totally hidden by the bushes, it was obviously abandoned.He could stake his horse in the woods to the side.
Sam McClary dismounted and went inside.There was nothing left of the dugout except three log walls, the back being packed earth.Whatever the previous owner had left had been picked clean.
It would do well enough for now for shelter.Then he would go hunting again.For miners.
Rafe Tyler sat on the rocks above the pool.He hadn’t seen the bears this afternoon.He hoped the cub was surviving, healing.
He stared at the waterfall, which had given Shea such delight.He tried to concentrate on his next move, but there could be no next moves until he knew whether Randall lived or not.
What had Shea found?The father she’d wanted badly enough to travel half a continent?A dead man?He hoped for her sake, it was the former.But then what?
He had to continue his pursuit.He couldn’t throw away ten years of planning, all the sacrifice Clint and the others had made.He couldn’t give up the last hope of being vindicated.
Rafe had put the glove back on today.He didn’t want to see the brand.He had purposely left it off the last few days, trying, he told himself, to make a certain point to Shea.But she had not reacted the way she should.The way he thought she should.
He still couldn’t believe it didn’t make a difference to her.
The woodpeckers drummed out a melancholy song, and it reminded him of the tat-tat-tat of those drums so many years ago.Years ago but only yesterday in his mind.He would go crazy if he stayed here.Tomorrow he would go hunting on his own.He would find McClary and then make the other decision: what to do about Jack Randall if he still lived.
He sensed the sergeant was still around, especially if he’d killed Randall.He would want to eliminate anyone who knew of the connections.McClary would know that he was Rafe’s next target.
Rafe took Abner from his pocket and ran his hand along the mouse’s back, feeling its shiver of delight.But Abner was no longer enough.He closed his eyes, trying not to think of Shea Randall, of the light in her eyes and then the sadness.He tried not to think of the warmth she’d sent rushing through him.
He looked up.The sky was darkening.Night was coming.An early moon looked transparent in the sky.The temperature was lowering.Before long, it would be cold.
But he was already cold.And he didn’t think he would ever be warm again.
Jack Randall slid in and out of consciousness.
Pain sliced through his head with such agonizing strength that part of him wanted to slip away.But another part, the part that recognized the miracle of finding a daughter, kept him fighting to return.
He felt her hand, and at times he thought it was Sara’s hand.And then he remembered Sara was dead, and he’d never had the chance to say good-bye.
Once he’d opened his eyes, and his daughter was there, her eyes closed, her body slumped in a chair.She was asleep, and he’d ignored the pain to watch her.She looked very much like Sara.It thrilled him, but then sadness flooded him for having missed the joys and pleasures of watching his child grow.
He would have changed.If he had known about the child, he would have changed.
He tried to remember everything that had been said, but images started to form and then faded away.He had heard her say she had been lost.Thank God nothing had happened, but then other words crept into his consciousness, tapping at him and then sliding away.Rafe.She had mentioned that name.Why?
Jack Randall tried to move, and agony shot through him again, pushing every thought from his head.His shoulder was burning, and he tried to move his arm, only to find it tied tightly against his chest.A moan escaped his lips, and the girl’s eyes opened again, his daughter’s eyes, filled with concern and sympathy.
“I have some laudanum,” she said.“Would you like some?Or a glass of water?”
He swallowed.He wanted oblivion from the pain, but then he would sleep again, and he wouldn’t see her, talk to her.
Jack shook his head and held out his hand, which she clasped.“Just … talk to me.”
She smiled.“About what?”
“Your mother.You.What you’ve been doing these years.What you like to do …” The last words trembled slightly on his tongue as the pain struck again, and he closed his eyes.
He forced them open again after a moment.She was watching him intently.“Please,” he said, “just talk.”
She started in a low, uncertain voice, hesitating now and then as if the words weren’t worth much, but they were worth everything to him.He let them drop on him like diamonds from heaven.“We lived in Boston, in a fine little house there, and we had shop, a hat shop.I designed hats, and I like to draw.”
