Or innocent victim?
Their next stop was Golden Valley. She’d be going home with the Stones. He’d be returning to his ranch, where he had a house with room for a family that overlooked a pretty valley where the family could see wild animals and watch sunsets.
If they had more time, they might have been able to find a way to deal with his news, but they were running out of time.
Not that she wanted to deal with the information he’d given her. He was Morton Sturm’s son. The man who had viciously murdered her parents and forever changed her life.
“You’re quiet, man.”
“I’m a man of few words,” Nash responded to Hawk, in no mood for conversation.
His father had hung for murder after a fair trial.
Nash didn’t get a trial. All he got from Addie was judgment for being his father’s son. Even though he’d done everything not to be like his father in any way, he was fair in all his dealings. He lived up to his word. He worked hard to get ahead.
He never knew what Ma had said to Gib and didn’t know if the kind man knew their real identity, but Gib had always been fair and accepting. He’d been more like a father to Nash than his own had been.
But it didn’t change the facts. Nash was the son of Morton Sturm. Taking on a new name meant nothing in the long run.
Why had he kept those saddlebags? Yes, they were good quality. But he’d not earned them.
Or had he?
Didn’t he deserve at least that much in exchange for who his father was?
All that aside, he should have tossed them years ago. Not that he thought of his father when he used them. So why did he keep them?
For only one reason. He wondered…hoped…someone would realize his real identity and yet see him for who he was. Not who his father was.
Someone had seen the name. A burning raced up his throat. And relegated him to son of a murderer.
Yes, he admitted it. He’d hoped his confession to Addie would have led to understanding and acceptance.
Instead, he had been tried and judged and all but hung.
Smoke rose from a chimney in the distance. They would soon be in Golden Valley. He’d borrow a horse and ride home to his little cabin on the side of a mountain. He’d raise horses as he planned, and he’d keep his identity a secret.
“What’s going on?” Hawk pointed to the town.
People gathered in the street, lingering on a perfectly good day when they should be home working. The miners should be at their claims, but they stood in knots, talking and waving.
“Something’s up,” Nash said.
“Don’t look like good news.”
Nash agreed. “I’d say there is anger filling the air.”
They raced down the street and pulled in before the station. Nash dropped to the ground to hold the horses. Hawk set the brake and joined him, pausing only to tell the passengers to wait in the coach until he found out what was going on.
Addie peered out the window. She scanned the street, then brought her gaze to Nash. Her brows rose in question.
He shrugged. He knew no more than she at the moment.
She ducked back inside.
Mr. Bertrand complained about yet another delay. Mr. Zacharius coughed, but Nash heard no one else.
Who was he expecting to hear? Hoping to hear? How foolish to wish for Addie’s voice.
