Would she ever see him again?
Did she want to?
Nash left as soonas Preacher Stone uttered the last amen. He’d been able to see the back of Addie’s head, but he didn’t mean to wait. It was hard enough without another rejection.
The other two murdered men had been duly laid to rest at the mining area’s little cemetery, with only a graveside service and Preacher Stone praying over the graves.
Nash didn’t know the men. He couldn’t explain why he’d been witness to their burials. It had seemed the least he could do to make amends for what a murderer had done. As if, in some small way, he could make amends for what his father had done. Not that he was responsible, but not everyone believed that way.
Unforgivable.
The word she’d uttered so quietly thundered inside his head.
He rented a horse from the livery barn, grimacing as he passed under the place the body had hung before someone removed it and placed it in an unmarked grave. So far as Nash understood, only the two gravediggers and the undertaker had been there.
At the store, he filled two sacks with supplies and hung them over the back of the horse…over the condemning saddlebags. Grabbed the leather but uncoiled his fingers and allowed the bags to settle back in place. He’d carried them all these years. No reason he should stop now.
The reins were slack in his hand as he rode toward his ranch. He perked up as the house and corrals came into view. His herd of horses were in the nearby pasture. A man rose from the veranda and watched him approach.
“Howdy,” he called. “Thought I’d wait to see if anyone showed up to claim this bunch.”
“Got delayed,” Nash explained how Star had come up lame, forcing him to seek passage on the stagecoach. “And then a landslide made us hole up for a few days.” He didn’t add that murders in Golden Valley had further delayed him.
He wanted to put that out of his memories.
“Let’s have a look at what you brought.” The two of them sauntered to the pasture to study the animals. “They look to be in good condition.”
“I was told not to push them.”
“You brought them by yourself?” That would have been quite a task.
“Nah, but didn’t see any reason for the others to hang about cooling their heels.” The man straightened. “Now that you’re here, I’ll be on my way.” Ignoring Nash’s offer to spend the night, he got his horse from the barn and,with a touch of his finger to his hat brim, rode down the trail Nash had returned on.
“So that’s that.” No one else would hear him, but Nash would get used to that. He tended his mount, spent a few more minutes studying his newly acquired horses, and then headed for the house. The slanting sunrays warmed the inside. A fly flew across the room and banged into the window. Nash stared at the insect as it continued to batter the glass. Stupid thing. Didn’t have the brains to realize how futile it was.
Nash snorted. He wasn’t much smarter than a dumb fly wanting something he couldn’t have. He unpacked his supplies, filling his cupboards. Then he circled the house, went into the living room, and out again without going to the bedroom. Why had he built a home meant for a family? In the back of his mind, he’d known being the son of a murderer made it an impossible dream.
Hunger called. He opened a can of beans and ate them cold right from the can. A man could survive without someone to cook his meals and share his dreams.
He tossed the empty can into the woodbox and strode outside.
He needed to keep busy. What was that verse Gib often quoted, mostly in good fun? “Nothing is better than that a man should rejoice in his own works.” A verse found in Ecclesiastes.
Nash had plenty to do.
Night fell. His work would wait until morning. First, he’d best sleep. He stretched out on his bed, adjusting himself to the familiar mattress. His own bed, in his own house, with his plans for the future, should be enough.
Except sleep eluded him.
He squeezed his eyes tight and tried not to think of Addie’s shock when, as a child, she’d discovered herparents. His closed eyelids didn’t stop his imagination from filling in details. Brown eyes wide. Like he’d seen with the child staying with the preacher.
Ice flowed through his veins. His father was responsible for changing Addie’s life.
His father, not him. Not him. He knew it. Would have thought Addie did too.
Sourness burned his throat. Yes, he was the son of Morton Sturm. But his choices had led him in a different direction. Choices guided by his mother and Gib Jarvis who talked so openly about the value of following God’s guidance. One verse the man had often quoted came from Psalms. “In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.” He’d always add, “What better guide could a man want for?”
Nash groaned.God, I chose to follow You, my heavenly Father, not my earthly father. I trust You to guide me into?—
