Painted by the Sun

by Elizabeth Grayson

  "Do any of you have something to say before I pass sentence?"

  Faber's head was bowed. Jake Seaver looked scared down to the soles of his boots. Morran looked back at his son. None of the prisoners spoke.

  Cam took a breath that burned all the way down. It didn't matter how hard men were or what they'd done, at the moment he condemned them they were more like children than monsters, more like terrified boys than heinous outlaws. Because Cam always saw that other self in men like these, he hated this part of being a judge. He hated it more today than he ever had.

  "Very well, then," he began. "It is my determination that in accordance with the laws of the Colorado Territory you will each be hanged by the neck until dead."

  He took another long breath. Knowing the mood of anticipation rife in the city, he continued. "I'll convene court to hear any appeals your lawyers care to make first thing in the morning. Otherwise, the sentences will be carried out tomorrow at two o'clock."

  Ty gave a cry of protest and bolted out of the courtroom. Shea jumped to her feet and ran after him.

  Cam watched them go, hating himself for doing what he'd sworn before the law to do. But now, by the grace of God and the new constitution of Colorado, Cam would never have to condemn a man to die again. He was done with the law. He meant to tender his resignation right after the execution.

  He rapped his gavel one last time.

  * * *

  Cam elbowed his way through the crowds in the halls of the courthouse ignoring the score of men who tried to stop him, slap him on the back, and congratulate him on how well the case had turned out. What he'd never been able to understand was why they treated him as if he'd done something worthy of their praise, as if condemning three men was something he'd want to celebrate.

  The jury had found Seaver, Faber, and Morran guilty of robbery and murder. All Cam had done was his job.

  He drew a long shaky breath when he finally reached the street, then turned resolutely toward his office. If he hadn't spilled or broken it last night, he had a bottle tucked away somewhere. What he wanted more than salvation right now was to get to his office, unearth that whiskey, and drink until he couldn't see.

  He hadn't gone more than a dozen yards when someone snagged his arm and pulled him around. He hunched his shoulders and balled his fist, ready to punch whoever had been imprudent enough to interfere with him.

  Albert Root, one of the city councilmen, waved a newspaper in Cam's face. "What's the meaning of this?" he demanded.

  "Of what?" Cam snatched the paper from Root's grasp and scanned the headline.

  PROBE INTO JUDGE GALLIMORE'S

  PAST PROMINENT COLORADO JUDGE BELIEVED TO HAVE RIDDEN WITH QUANTRILL

  Cam felt the color drain out of his face.

  "What the hell are they talking about?" Root demanded. "You didn't ride with those reb outlaws, did you, Cam?"

  Cam shoved the newspaper back in Root's face. "I can't explain this to you now," he murmured tersely and started up the street.

  "I don't want an explanation," the councilman shouted after him. "I want a denial!"

  Cam kept walking, bile rising up his throat.

  A short, wiry man in a rumpled coat stepped into his path. "Men like you reb bastards killed my grand-daddy defending his farm," he shouted, shoving at Cam's chest with the heels of his hands.

  Cam didn't say a word, just stepped around him and pressed on. A thousand glaring eyes seemed to pierce him as he made his way up Larimer Street. The crowd parted as he passed, shrinking away as if he were a snake.

  "I wouldn't have believed that of him," he heard someone say.

  "Quantrill's men were brigands, sure as hell!"

  "Goddamn Sesch outlaw," someone else hissed, and spat at him.

  Cam finally reached Mr. Johanson's livery stable and saddled his horse. After what he'd just seen here in town, all he could think about was getting out to the farm. All he wanted was to explain to Lily about the war and the raiders and what had happened that day in Centralia, before she heard it from someone else.

  He'd known this was coming from the moment he'd recognized Seaver's photograph at Shea's studio, known it from the moment he'd decided to fly in the face of Seaver's threats.

  He'd run this trial exactly the way he had every other one he'd presided over these last four years. Once the jury had published their verdict, he'd passed the only sentence he could. It was the sentence the law provided for murders, the only sentence that would keep the citizens of Denver from storming the jail and lynching the prisoners outright.

  But he had expected time before the truth about his past came out. He'd figured the editors would send a reporter to talk to him, give him a chance to explain himself before they printed Seaver's allegations.

  He'd meant to use that time to take his courage in his hands and face his sister. He'd wanted to explain things he should have told her years before, wanted the chance to ask for forgiveness.

  Now he had to reach her before the newspaper did.

  The countryside he rode through seemed cowed and bleak beneath its tattered sheet of graying snow. The sky hung thick and low. The wind pierced through him like talons.

  Everything he'd wanted, everything he'd tried to build in Colorado, every bit of the future he longed for depended now on Lily and how she accepted what he was going to tell her. He was terrified by the prospect of seeing hurt and betrayal rise in her eyes, frightened of what she might do. He'd accept whatever recriminations she heaped on him, knowing full well how richly he deserved her censure. But he hoped with all his heart that once he'd told her all of it, she'd find a way to forgive him for the things he'd done and the secrets he'd kept from her.

  Cam reined in at the foot of the drive, turning his horse in circles while he tried to gather his courage. Once he rode up the lane his course would be set, his destiny decided. His mouth tasted like years-old rust and his chest was tight. Somehow he managed to nudge his gelding forward.

  Cam's mouth went dryer still when he saw that Emmet's buggy was parked by the gate—though judging by the horse's lathered hide Emmet hadn't been there long.

  Cam had been so intent on facing Lily that he hadn't even considered what he'd tell Emmet about all this. Or what he might say to his son. Confronting Lily wasn't the end; she was only the beginning of a round of explaining and begging forgiveness.

  Still, he had to start by making this right with her. For these next few hours only Lily mattered—Lily's anger, Lily's grief. Lily's feelings of betrayal and loss.

  He dismounted and opened the gate. He was halfway up the walk when Emmet stalked out onto the narrow porch. He braced his feet and curled his fingers into fists.

  "Go away," he spat. "She doesn't want to see you."

  Each one of those careful, quiet words bit into Cam like the tail of a lash. "Did she see the story in the newspaper?"

  Emmet raised his chin, his color high and accusation clear in his voice. "I brought her the newspaper. I thought she needed to hear the truth about her brother from someone she could trust."

  Emmet's words made it hurt to breathe, hurt to speak. It made him ache to see Emmet acting as Lily's protector when Cam had dedicated his life to watching over her. It was agony to know Emmet was protecting Lily from him.

  "Please, Emmet," Cam offered softly. "I need to talk to Lil, need to explain. I need to tell her why I took up with the guerrillas so late in the war. I need to make her understand why I wasn't there to protect Mother and her when Anderson and his raiders came through Centralia."

  "So you admit it, then?" Emmet asked, his voice deep with loathing. "You admit you rode with that vermin? You consorted with that madman Anderson and the James brothers and the Daltons and the Seavers. Even though I fought for the South, I consider those men a scourge, a blight on a grand and glorious Cause."

  In spite of Emmet's outrage, Cam stood his ground. "I want to talk to my sister."

  "Do you think she's likely to forgive you for joining up with the men
responsible for her being burned? Do you think she'll simply excuse you for lying to her all this time?"

  "I have to ask her," Cameron offered again. "Emmet, please. Give me a chance to talk to her."

  Emmet stood like a spire of granite between Cam and the door, between Cam and his sister.

  Then, just as Cam was about to turn away, Lily stepped into the doorway. Though he couldn't see her all that clearly through the screen, he could tell her face was set, and she looked like she'd been crying.

  "Lil—" Cam called out to her in entreaty. "Lily, please."

  Emmet turned and glanced at her. "Go back inside," he bid her, softly, insistently. "Let me take care of this."

  She hesitated as if she might change her mind, then swiped at her tears and stepped back into the kitchen.

  "Lily, please..." Cam begged, but his sister was gone.

  Emmet glared at him. "I'd as soon kill you where you stand," he offered softly, "as give you the chance to hurt her again. Go away, Cam. Get out of here."

  Cameron had no doubt of Emmet's sincerity. He took one step backward, and then another. If Lily had seen the article in the Rocky Mountain News, she knew the worst. Perhaps if he gave her time to absorb what she'd read, gave her time for her hurt to subside, he could make her listen.

  "I'll be back," Cam said, shifting toward the gate.

  "You're not wanted here."

  "But I will be back. I'll keep coming back until Lily agrees to see me."

  "She'll never agree to that," Emmet assured him.

  Cam was terrified that was true. "You will take care of her while I'm not here, won't you, Emmet?"

  "You can depend on it."

  "Emmet." Cam's voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Will you tell her I'm sorry?"

  For a moment Cam thought Emmet meant to refuse, then he nodded his head.

  Cam dragged himself out the gate and looked back at the house. Emmet stood at the edge of the porch, his feet braced wide and his arms crossed against his chest. He was the very picture of disapproval and obstinacy, and Cam was suddenly glad that if Lily and Rand didn't have him to protect them, they had Emmet.

  He swung up onto his horse and rode away.

  * * *

  Shea cracked open the studio door and stared out at Cam, leaning against the brickwork at the top of the steps. "Shea?" he whispered. "May I come in?"

  She glanced past him to where lacy swirls of snow spun through the dark and tried to judge the hour. Well past midnight, she thought. Well past the time when respectable women entertained gentleman callers.

  She reached out and grabbed his wrist anyway. "For the love of God, Cam," she murmured as she pulled him into the entry, "where have you been?"

  He braced back against the wall to steady himself, and she realized he'd been drinking. And by the bite of whiskey on his breath, drinking heavily.

  "Is—is Ty here?" he asked her.

  She shook her head. "He's spending the night at the jail with his father. The sheriff said it was all right, since they haven't much time..."

  Cam sighed and, even in the filmy half-light, she could see how he sagged under the weight of the sentence he'd had to pass today. It was a weight distinct and separate from his usual mantle of guilt and responsibility. Shea couldn't help worrying that condemning Ty's father coupled with Seaver's revelations about Cam's past might be what finally broke him.

  Because he was here—and in this condition—Shea suspected he'd gone to see Lily and that things had gone badly between them. She supposed she should ask about his sister, but it was late and she knew he'd tell her when he was ready.

  "What can I do to help?" was all she said.

  He shifted and curled his arms around her. "I need to hold you and breathe you in and taste your throat. I want to sleep with you in my arms and wake in the morning with you beside me."

  His words surprised her, sending a shiver of pleasure down her back. Cam never spoke about his needs, never asked for help from anyone. That he'd come to her tonight gave proof of his yearning for warmth and solace, soft words and reassurances. His yearning for her.

  She reached up and cupped his cheek. "Then take off your coat and come to bed."

  He draped his duster on the coatrack with scrupulous care, then did the same with his gunbelt and hat. He wavered just a little as she led him into her tiny bedroom.

  Rufus, who'd been snuggled deep in the covers at the foot of the bed, hissed as Cam plopped down on it.

  "Even the cat wants me to go away," he murmured, loosening his necktie and working the buttons down the front of his vest.

  "I'm glad you came," she murmured and reached out to trace the contours of his cheek and jaw.

  "Why?" he asked.

  Because I love you. Because I like knowing you need to be with me. But Shea knew she couldn't say those things to him now, couldn't expect him to respond to her when he had nothing left to give to anyone.

  She shifted her shoulders and stepped a little away. "You know I hate being here by myself at night."

  He accepted her at her word and continued removing his clothes. He was not nearly so incapacitated as she'd thought, but he seemed weary down to his bones.

  Knowing he was going to pass judgment on Sam Morran had been wearing on him for weeks. Having to condemn Jake Seaver in the face of his brother's threats had taken a terrible toll. But it must have been facing Lily with the truth about his past—and hers—that left him so depleted, so terribly spent and hollow-eyed.

  He'd tried to refill that void with whiskey, and ended up on Shea's doorstep instead.

  When he was down to his knitted underdrawers, Shea lifted the covers on the bed and guided him beneath them. The springs creaked in protest as he eased down onto the mattress; they grumbled even more as she climbed in beside him.

  Without so much as a word, she took him into her arms. It seemed right for him to be there, his head resting against her shoulder, his breath washing warm against her throat. He curled his hand at her waist, drawing her closer. She felt his mustache graze her collarbone.

  Shea smiled to herself, weaving her fingers through the heavy raw silk of his hair. She liked having him here with her. She liked the way his scent surrounded her, liked the faint tang of vetiver, the crispness of the cold and snow, the malty sweetness of whiskey. She liked his breadth, his maleness, and the sense of safety he gave her by just being Cam. Even now, when he was so vulnerable, he was able to make her feel safe. He always made her feel safe. She closed her eyes and reveled in that safety.

  They drifted for a time, half awake and half dreaming, communing in a way that transcended words. The time seemed imbued with priceless tenderness as each of them was wrapped in caring and warmth and acceptance.

  As the night advanced they stretched and turned and twisted, always touching, always moving together, always nestling close. As Cam curled onto his side, he pulled her back against his chest, notching his knees to the bend of her legs, wrapping himself around her. Shea arched and snuggled deeper, drawn by his rich internal heat.

  But now as they lay spooned together, a torpid voluptuousness began to flow between them. Gradually the whisper of sexual awareness came louder, more insistent. Slowly the need for rest was replaced by other more compelling needs.

  Shea's skin tingled at the places where their bodies touched. An ever-sweetening intensity seeped through her. The hair along her forearms stirred; gooseflesh rippled over her buttocks and down her thighs. A warm, soft throbbing beat at the core of her.

  She had not meant to bring desire to their bed. She had wanted to offer Cam a night of peace and consolation. She had wanted him to leave her renewed and armored for the trials he must face tomorrow. But the desire was here in spite of her.

  Cam must have felt it, too, for the tempo of his breathing changed. His muscles flexed. He skimmed his palm upward from where it had lain at her waist and cupped her breast, splaying his fingers over her. The gesture was primitive, instinctive, blatantly and erotically male
.

  His erection rose against her. Deep inside, her body throbbed in answer. The wanting grew in both of them.

  He nuzzled her gently, grazing the skin of her neck with his lips. He paused to breathe moisture into the hollow of her collarbone, paused to stain the pulse point midway up her throat with his heat, paused to savor the hollow beneath her ear.

  He drew her earlobe into his mouth. She shivered with pleasure.

  Though he murmured as if he meant to soothe her, he began to sketch slow lazy strokes around her nipple with the pad of his thumb. Strokes that made her want, made her yearn.

  Sensation soaked into her, collecting low in her belly, hot between her legs. Sensual restlessness grew in her. She turned and sought his mouth.

  They kissed in soft, exploratory couplings of lips and tongues. In slow, soul-melting scrutiny of every crease and every hollow of each other's mouths. In longer, deeper tastes where they could relish the pleasure they found in each other. They kissed until they were both trembling with the need for greater contact, closer communion.

  Shifting beneath the covers, Shea caught the hem of her nightdress and pulled it over her head. Cam struggled out of his knitted underdrawers.

  They came together skin to skin. The contact was delicious, provocative, warm, and intimate.

  "I like this," he whispered, tracing her soft silhouette with the brush of his hand. "I like being with you like this."

  "I like it, too," she murmured in answer.

  She saw his features soften, saw the glow in his eyes intensify. Here in bed tonight, there was only him and only her. Only warmth, only pleasure and the kind of peace that came with closing out the world. It was the kind of calm and renewal Cam needed so desperately.

  She rolled onto her back and drew him over her. He came nestling against her, draping one leg over hers, pulling her close. He lowered his head to her breast and drew the ripe knot of her nipple into his mouth.

  "Oh, Cam," she breathed, arching against him.

  As he drew on her in a rhythm as familiar as her own heartbeat, his hands skimmed over every inch of her exposed flesh. He charted the curve of her waist and the slope of her hip. He skimmed one palm the length of her legs. He traced a slow, lazy line along the vale of her chest and belly. He cupped his palm to the swell of her mound.