Gabriel's Law

by Pierson, Cheryl

  "I was raised in the orphans' home—"

  "Partially. But there are a lot of years unaccounted for, I'm thinking, that you haven't said anything about. I'm wondering why."

  "Why's it important?'

  "You tell me. It's important enough to hide. Why is it a secret?"

  Sam walked a few steps away from the rock, finally letting his breath out on a low sigh that, to Brandon, seemed to speak of defeat. With the sunlight dappling his dark hair through the leaves of the trees, he seemed very young to Brandon – yet, aged in his own right. The look on Sam's face as he turned toward him revealed everything. Sam was afraid of being rejected – one more "move along" in the long line of them he'd already come up against, no doubt.

  "It's no secret. Not really." Sam took a deep breath, looking Brandon in the eye. "Just a part of my life I ain't too proud of."

  Brandon's own breath shortened in anticipation of what Sam was about to reveal. He hadn't realized how important it was to him – to fill in the missing parts of his brother's life; to understand what had happened. It could shape everything to come – if there had been some kind of threat to him. And, from the way he was acting, Brandon thought, that could be a very real possibility. "Let's hear it, Sam. All of it."

  Sam gave a short laugh. "Next thing I know, why, you'll be askin' me to pack my shit and get the hell out of here."

  Brandon's eyes narrowed. "We've already covered that. And besides, if it comes to that, there won't be any 'asking' to it."

  Sam nodded, silently, his bravado gone in a flash.

  "Why do you say that?"

  "People say—" Sam stopped and glanced away, into the tree-line of the woods behind them. "They think because of what happened to me – I might not should be around the others." He jerked his head toward where the voices sounded faintly, boisterous, laughing childish voices that rang with a freedom that Brandon expected his brother had never experienced. And, neither had he. He wanted to tell Sam he understood – but he didn't, really. Not yet.

  "Bad influence?" Brandon murmured.

  Sam's lips curved up caustically. "You think that, too?"

  Brandon shook his head. "No. I don't know you well enough to make that call yet."

  "I figured that was why you pulled me out to work with you."

  "Sam—" Brandon looked down, hiding his surprise. "No. I pulled you out to work with me because you're the strongest – and because I wanted to talk to you privately."

  "To find out… Never mind." His lips thinned in a stubborn line.

  Brandon stood and walked close to him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "What could be that bad, Sam? What can be so terrible that brothers can't share it?"

  "You want to know?" Sam's eyes flared with the pent-up anger that always seemed to smolder beneath the surface. "I'll tell you." He walked away from Brandon, then turned to face him. "We have an uncle. Did you know? Uncle Isaac – the dear younger brother of our father." He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I lived with him from the time I was ten until I was thirteen." He gave a self-deprecating smile. "See, I did leave the orphans' home – looking for you. The big brother who had a name for himself. The only brother I had."

  There was something odd about that declaration. He waited for Sam to go on, not asking any questions. Not yet.

  "I slipped into the office late one evening and found my file. It was a wealth of information. 'Father, Robert Gabriel'," he said, as if reading the words indelibly stamped in his mind. "He didn't see fit to give me his name – at least, you got that much of him. I took the last name 'Jennings' – I...hoped to never be associated with...that man...again. 'Mother, half-breed Comanche woman' – though I suspect they claim she's a half-breed out of pity for me. Being a quarter Comanch must somehow be less shameful than being half-blood. Somewhere, in the paperwork, though, they mention her name: Two Lakes. Not much of a half-breed name, is it, brother? No, I think I'm just as red as you are, don't you?"

  Without waiting for a response, he went on. "I found that the man who'd dropped me there at the orphans' home was none other than my own dear uncle – 'Isaac Gabriel, younger brother of the boy Samuel's father, who is unable to care for the boy.'

  "And that's how I found him, Brandon. See, I didn't remember anything much when he brought me there – I was only five. My mother had been dead not even a year. I had healed enough to – to walk again."

  "You were still at the army outpost?"

  "The doctor was very kind." Sam's voice lowered a notch. "His new wife was not. She didn't want an Indian boy in her home."

  Brandon crossed his arms. "What happened?"

  "I was well enough to leave." He shrugged. "And she suggested it. Quite strongly." He gave Brandon a faint smile. "Well, what would you do? I didn't blame him for locating dear Uncle Isaac. I didn't know he was my uncle at the time – only that he was going to get me safely to my new home. Which, he did."

  "What is so terrible about all this, Sam? I don't understand—"

  Sam held up a staying hand. "When I was ten, I left to find you, like I said. But the only way I knew to do that was to find Isaac Gabriel, hoping he might know where you were…and, if he did, that he would tell me."

  Brandon walked away a few steps. He'd never thought of the possibility of tracking his father through any of his siblings; hadn't even realized his father had a brother. Were there more? Did it matter? They hadn't wanted him or Sam.

  Were there more? The question took on new meaning. If there were two of them, he and Sam, might there be others? More brothers, maybe sisters— Robert Gabriel had no thought of keeping his pants buttoned, it seemed. There could be a slew of his children scattered—

  "Did he? Did he tell you?" Brandon's voice was quiet. The thought of who else could be out there rocked him. He'd never thought he'd had a brother. Now that he knew about Sam, it opened up any number of possibilities.

  "Yes." Sam gave a caustic bark of laughter. "Oh, yes, brother. He knew where you were, because he wanted to stay clear of you – and that gun of yours."

  Brandon turned to him quickly. "Why? I didn't even know about him. I have no quarrel with him, anyhow."

  "He was afraid. Thought you might come after him as revenge against our pa leaving you and your ma. Then, doing it again with me. I tried to tell him, you didn't know I even existed. But he was so afraid. He said if I could find him, you could."

  "Why didn't you, Sam?"

  "He wouldn't let me go."

  Brandon's eyes narrowed. "He kept you against your will?"

  "Taught me to use a gun. That little derringer you called a gambler's gun? Well, you were right." Sam shook his head in remembrance. "He was a gambler. I was his protection. He said he couldn't keep his mind on earning us a living if he had to worry about getting shot. It was my job to keep that from happening. No one would think twice about the young boy, a half-breed boy, sitting in the corner. But, he always knew he was protected, if push came to shove."

  "Earlier, I told you that killing was a hard road to turn back from," Brandon said. He had to know. His stomach sank as Sam gave him a slow, calculating nod of understanding.

  "It is. You were right."

  "How many?"

  Sam looked down.

  "I don't blame you, Sam. You were a kid."

  "Four. Killed four men, and I hadn't even hit fourteen yet." His voice shook. "He brought me back to the orphanage when I was thirteen. Dropped me there with the nuns again, and told 'em I'd just 'been found' and he was returning me. They weren't very happy to see me again." He gave a wry smile. "By that time, Sister Mary Agnes was in charge. She and I never had gotten on too well, and me bein' gone three years didn't change that a lick."

  Sam had hesitated, there at the beginning, which struck Brandon as odd. He was sure he'd killed more men than Sam during his lifetime, and he knew exactly how many they numbered, without having to stop and think about it. Eighteen. And he could remember where, when and who. Yet, Sam had stumbled over four…

  "S
am, what happened to our father? Do you know?" The question burned. But with Sam's answer, there was none of the surety he'd hoped for.

  "I don't know. I asked Isaac, but he never would answer me straight. Kept talkin' around it in circles. I asked, was he dead? Just tell me—" He broke off. "Never an answer."

  Brandon sighed heavily. "Sister Mary Agnes must have never realized you had the gun. She'd certainly have kicked you out."

  But Sam gave him a wide, enigmatic grin. "Oh, she knew, all right. Said she wanted me to give it up voluntarily. If I'd give her my gun, she said, it would prove that I'd turned my back on my sinful ways and wanted forgiveness. The Lord would protect me."

  Brandon's lips curved at Sam's stubbornness. "You didn't want forgiveness, I take it?"

  Sam nodded. "Guess I did…still do. But I wanted protection more. She promised God would protect me – but I'd already learned to depend on myself for that. It's the only way to know you'll go on breathin' one more day."

  Brandon walked back to the fence post, leaning against it for a moment. "God doesn't bargain like that, Sam. You've got His forgiveness already, if you've asked for it."

  "Meaning?" Sam asked warily.

  Brandon smiled at him. "You were right to keep the gun."

  "Brothers still, then?" The need in Sam's tone was like an open wound to his soul.

  "Sam…" Brandon searched the shadowed depths of his little brother's eyes – eyes that looked at him as if he held the world in his hands. And for Sam, he realized, he did. "That'll never change. This is your home – here with me – as long as you want to be here."

  Sam didn't reply for a moment. He came toward Brandon then, a spring in his step that hadn't been there before. "Let's get these posts, done, brother." He put out his hand to shake, and Brandon took it firmly.

  "I'm glad you're here, Sam." It was all he needed to say.

  Chapter 29

  Later that same day, in the early afternoon, Owen Morris came driving Doc's rig down the road, turning off at the archway. Brandon and Sam had worked their way up the side of the pen, near the house. As Owen drew the team up in front of the house, Brandon waved a hand and walked toward him.

  Owen jumped down from the buggy and called out a greeting.

  Sam rose to refill their water jars. As Owen passed, he laid a hand on Sam's shoulder.

  "Owen," Brandon said, putting out his hand. "Good to see you. What brings you out this way?" Whatever it was, Brandon thought, it wasn't good by the set of Owen's mouth, the lines at his eyes. Owen shook hands, but the gesture was automatic. His mind was clearly elsewhere.

  "Can we talk privately?"

  "Sure. Let's go sit in the shade over there." Brandon nodded toward the boulder. "Take a breather, Sam," he said as Sam headed for the well. "Doc Morris and I need to talk a minute."

  Sam nodded. "I'll go see how they're comin' along before I fill these up." His gaze was already fixed on the far end of the pen where a group of the boys were working as Ben directed. "Looks like Ben might need some help. See you later, Doc."

  Brandon and Owen started toward the rock, walking at a leisurely pace.

  "How're you feeling?" Owen asked.

  Brandon's lips curved up, but he didn't look at Owen. Before he could answer, the doctor went on.

  "You're working too hard, too soon, you know. Most men would still be having Allie bringing their meals to them in bed."

  Brandon's smile widened. "I know," he murmured. "But she's got her hands full. And I'm well enough to get around. Better every day."

  "I should have stayed longer. Kept you from doing…what you're doing," Owen grumbled.

  Brandon laughed. "This isn't what you came west for. You're here to help, Doc. Though you turned out to be a pretty good rancher, in the bargain."

  They sat on the stone, the shade half gone. "Why are you really here, Owen? You didn't need privacy to ask me why I'm not getting breakfast in bed."

  Owen gave him a rueful grin, then sobered, looking out into the tree line. "No. I came for another reason – or two. There's a man, a newcomer, in town. Gives his name as Isaac Rains."

  Brandon kept his features impassive. There were lots of men named Isaac in the world, he thought. But, it was odd that he'd learned he had an uncle by that name at the very time this stranger had come to town. "And?"

  "He's…asking a lot of questions about you and about the boys. Odd questions. An inordinate amount of interest – for a newcomer."

  Brandon sat silent for a moment. It had to be the man Sam had described. Their uncle. But why would he show up here, now? He hadn't had to take Sam back to the orphanage, when the boy was thirteen. He wondered, now, why he hadn't thought to ask Sam why Isaac had returned his 'protection'. Why had Isaac Gabriel returned Sam to the orphans' home? It was suddenly very, very important. But he'd find out, soon enough, once Owen was gone.

  "Is he a gambler?" Brandon turned to look at Owen.

  Owen quirked a brow in surprise. "How'd you know that?"

  Brandon laughed. "You're sounding like a westerner already, Owen," he teased before the smile evaporated. "Sam told me some things this morning about what he's gone through…before he came here. I believe this man, Isaac Rains, is related to him. And…to me."

  "To you? How's that?"

  He told Owen what Sam had confided earlier, omitting nothing. There was no reason to hold any of it back; Owen was a trusted friend.

  "I didn't ask him what Isaac looks like," Brandon said, "so I don't have a description of him. And I don't want to worry Sam – not yet. He's got enough on his mind."

  Owen gave a low whistle. "You're right about that. Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "Be my eyes and ears, Owen. I have to depend on you. I can't leave this place, not with all the work yet to do. And we're isolated out here." He flexed his fingers with only a small amount of pain rippling past his wrist and his forearm.

  "You know I will." Owen let his breath out on a slow sigh. "It all makes sense now," he murmured to himself.

  "Sam, you mean?"

  Owen didn't answer for a moment, as he chose his words. Brandon didn't push him; he tamped down his frustration as he waited for Owen to form what he wanted to say.

  "There at the line shack." He glanced at Brandon. "You didn't see what really happened. You couldn't, from where you stood."

  Brandon gave a caustic laugh. "I was otherwise occupied, Doctor. Wasn't really trying to make out what was happening behind Carver – I was watching what was goin' on in front of him – the gun, the bullets – "

  A wry grin touched Owen's lips, but didn't linger. He fell silent, but finally, turned to look Brandon full in the face. "I'm not sure you killed Tom Carver."

  "You still worried about that? Thought Doc Wilkins said—"

  "Doc was protecting someone all right, but it wasn't me, Brandon. Sam fired those shots. Sam most likely killed Carver – not you. And not me."

  Brandon's chest constricted. He wanted to deny what Owen claimed, but there was no misunderstanding the conviction of the truth that he saw in the doctor's face. Doubtless, Sam had fired those rounds, though Owen had been holding the smoking gun by the time Brandon had a clear view of things.

  "When Carver flung him away," Owen said carefully, "Sam landed near the gun. He came up with it in his hand. I didn't hear the first shot – he must've fired it at the same time you got your shot off."

  Brandon nodded, thinking back. He'd only heard the second shot, as well. "He neglected to mention—"

  "No, Brandon," Owen stopped him. "I believe he would have told you, in time."

  "Meanwhile, he let us believe you'd fired those rounds."

  "It's a lot, for a youngster like him to come to grips with. After he fired, he dropped that gun like it burned him."

  "You picked it up." Brandon's gaze swung back to hold Owen's. "Why?"

  Owen's lips curved. "Habit, I guess."

  "That gun won't hold—"

  "—more than two rounds, I know. An
d they'd both been fired. But I didn't know that. I only heard his second shot, since you fired at the same time. I had no way of knowing if he'd shot once…or twice." He grinned. "If there'd been another round in there, it would've been in Carver's hide, too – but all I got when I pulled the trigger was the very unsatisfying click of an empty chamber."

  Brandon's thoughts ran at breakneck speed. This explained everything. "He's my brother, Owen, but I can't overlook the fact that he was going to let you shoulder the blame for that killing."

  Owen waved a negligent, long-fingered hand. "Didn't you ever make a mistake when you were sixteen?"

  "Not that kind."

  "What kind would that be, Brandon?"

  "Deliberate deception."

  "Ah, Brandon, it wasn't deliberate; not really. Didn't you notice how he couldn't look me in the eye today? He would've told you, eventually. And after what Doc said, about protecting my reputation—" he put his hands in the air, "I'm sure Sam thought there was no harm done to anyone. The 'blame' was all yours. Not mine. Not his. He and I knew the truth."

  "And Doc."

  Owen shook his head. "No, Doc was with Arnie on the other side of the room. There was a curtain that separated the rooms, part of the way. Doc must not have seen it all. He truly believes I killed Carver."

  "I believe you…were capable."

  Owen grinned at Brandon's phrasing. "A story for another time." He stood up slowly. "You can trust me, Brandon. I am on your side in all of this."

  "You wouldn't be here, otherwise."

  Owen laughed. "Don't I know it!" He shook his head. "Let this all settle some, my friend. You've gained a whole new world in a week's span. Home, wife, son, brother – and a passel of boys. Which brings me to my next reason for being here."

  Brandon sighed. "I know. I've been tryin' to bring it up slow with Allie. I think she's comin' around. She told 'em she could only take ten, but they sent eighteen." He stood, too, looking toward where most of the boys worked in groups. "Who would I turn away? How would I sleep at night, if I did?"

  "Some of them were talking a couple of days ago when I brought out the supplies. I know two of the little guys want to be doctors. I've mentioned it to Marcus, and he's amenable to the idea. We need someone to deliver messages and such." He hesitated a moment, then said, "There's a sleeping room at the back of the house that they can have. It's just off the clinic offices, and roomy."