Everything inside her liquefied.
She reached for him, all but weeping with the joy of exploring the sleek, sweeping planes of his body. She liked his textures, the bristly vitality of his mustache, the whorly roughness of the hair along his thighs. She liked his taste, the rich dark flavor of his skin and the whiskey sweetness of his mouth.
She reveled in him, savoring him no less intimately than he was savoring her, no less provocatively, and with no less tenderness.
They stared into each other's eyes as they came together, joining flesh to flesh and soul to soul. They lay united, wholly one, cherishing an intimacy neither of them had ever known, letting the depth of that communion shape and nourish them.
In that moment of deep connection Shea might have told Cam how much she loved him, might have heard him respond in kind, but they were far beyond words. She was far beyond anything but her awareness of Cam, far beyond anything but anticipating the pleasure beckoning them.
With a few murmured endearments they began to move slowly and sinuously together. Cam breathed her name as he took her with a sweet, lazy carnality. Shea drew him deeper, engendering the pure, liquid spill of desire between them.
They held each other, whispering and kissing, giving and receiving shivery delight, keeping the world at bay for as long as they could. But in the end, those tender ministrations gave way to a wondrous tumble of sensation that swept them up in a maelstrom of ultimate rapture.
They curled together in the aftermath, shifting, breathing deep, finding bliss in each other's arms. Finding peace and renewal in the slow, sweet slide into dreamless sleep.
Chapter 17
"Someone must have slipped this under your door during the night."
Shea looked up at Cam, who was standing just inside the bedroom doorway, a crumpled envelope in his hand.
"Who could have done that?" she asked him.
Cam shook his head. "You recognize the handwriting?"
Her name ran downhill across the front of the envelope. Something about those scrawled, uneven letters chased a chill down her back.
"Do you want me to open it?" he asked her.
Shea finished buttoning up her bodice, then took the envelope from him, impatient with herself for letting the letter spook her. The tattered sheet inside bore a few wavery lines of script.
Dear Mrs. Waterston,
Would you please do me the honor of stopping by the jail some time before they hang me. I need to talk to you about my boy.
Much obliged,
Sam Morran
"It's from Ty's father," she breathed on a huff of relief. "I thought Wes Seaver had traced you here. I was afraid..."
Though Cam made a dismissing sound, she could feel his hand wasn't quite steady as he stroked her hair. "Would you like me to go with you when you see Morran?"
Shea glanced at him. "Would you mind doing that?"
He cupped her cheek, the graze of his thumb along her cheekbone a dulcet reminder of the tenderness they'd shared the night before. "Let me go get a bath and a shave. I'll be back in half an hour."
She heard him go, softly closing the door behind him, stepping lightly on the stairs, leaving before the town was astir to spare her reputation. The thought of him doing that for her made her smile, and she crossed to the window to watch him up the street.
He walked with his head up and his shoulders squared, walked like a man with purpose and assurance. It warmed her to know that in the quiet passions of the night she'd given that back to him, given back the sense of who he was.
He'd come to her last night an all but broken man. He'd come because he hadn't known where else to go, and because he'd needed to be with her. This fine, strong, intensely insular man had finally opened himself to her, laid his trials and fears and the treasures of his heart before her. That he'd trusted her and made her a part of his life filled Shea's chest with incalculable pride.
As he reached the corner at Larimer Street she saw Cam pause and look back toward the studio—almost as if he was thinking of her.
She stepped hastily back from the window lest he see her watching, but the idea that she might be as much on his mind as he was on hers brought the heat of pleasure to her cheeks.
By the time she'd made coffee, Cam had returned bathed and barbered and wearing a fresh shirt. Together they set off for the jail on Eleventh Street.
Sheriff Cook looked up from his desk when they arrived. "The two of you are out early today."
Shea took the rumpled paper from her pocket. "I found this note under my door this morning. It says Sam Morran wants to see me."
The sheriff nodded. "Morran had one of the deputies drop it off while he was patrolling last night. Why don't you make yourselves comfortable, and I'll have Morran brought out here."
"That's good of you, Dan," Cam said with a nod, "to give us a little privacy."
The sheriff inclined his head. "It's the least I can do. You want the boy, too?"
"That's up to Mr. Morran," she answered.
A few minutes later Shea found herself facing Sam Morran across the sheriff's desk. Though Morran was manacled and an armed deputy was posted just outside, Sam didn't look like a desperado. He looked old and weary down to his bones.
Ty stood at his father's elbow, doggedly loyal to the man who was about to give him away.
"What I wanted, Mrs. Waterston," Morran began, "is to talk to you about Ty. Since neither his ma or me have kin I can send him to, I was hoping you'd agree to look after my boy once I'm gone."
Shea looked across at Ty, at his dirt-smudged face and rumpled clothes, and her throat went tight.
"I wouldn't expect you to adopt him outright," Morran went on. "Ty's headstrong, and he don't always mind the way he should, but he was raised up right. My wife saw to that, and for as long as I can remember, he's earned his keep."
The man hesitated, and Shea couldn't help thinking how hard this must be for Ty—to hear himself described in such a depreciating way, to have his future parceled out while he was standing there. To be helpless to change any of what was going to happen.
"You and I ain't always seen eye to eye on things, Mrs. Waterston," Sam Morran apologized. "But it'd ease my mind considerably to know my boy's going to live with someone who'll be good to him."
Shea pursed her lips, taking a moment to consider what she should do. She'd been drawn to this child from the moment she'd met him at the mining camp. She liked being able to offer him work and help and affection. She'd wanted to offer him more than that, and now she had the chance. But what she needed to know was if he wanted her.
"Ty," she said, looking deep into those solemn brown eyes, "I need to be sure you understand what your pa is asking me. He wants you to come and live with me permanently, and I need to know if that's what you want, too."
Ty's face screwed up as if he was trying not to cry. "I don't want to be no trouble."
No trouble. Just breathing made Tyler Morran trouble. He was eager and quick-witted, impulsive and full of mischief. He was the kind of child that would keep her busy extricating him from one scrape after another for the rest of her days. Yet he had such a good heart, and he tried so hard. She'd never known anyone who tried as hard as Ty.
"You won't be causing trouble by answering me honestly," she persisted. "But I do want you to know that if you come to live with me, I'll expect things of you. Minding what I say is one of them, and the other is going to school."
Ty straightened a little, as if he'd realized he really was going to be given a choice.
"You also need to know we might not be staying on here in Denver." She heard Cam shift on his feet behind her, but forged ahead. This wasn't about her or Cam; it was about this boy. "And I'd expect you to go with me wherever we went. I'd also want you to promise to live with me until you're of legal age."
"How old is that?" Ty wanted to know.
"Eighteen," Cameron answered.
Shea leaned forward in her chair, wanting to reach out to Ty and k
nowing she had to have his promise before she could.
"I'd like to have you as my boy, Ty," she went on, "but I can't tell your father I'll look after you until you agree to live with me and abide by my rules."
His eyes suddenly went desolate, the color of old bronze. Giving this promise would make his father's execution real to Ty in a way neither the trial nor the sentencing had.
"I don't want to promise anything," the boy answered mulishly. "Pa ain't dead yet."
Shea supposed Ty felt disloyal talking about a future his father would not see. Still, getting this settled was important. Someday Ty would understand that his father had only asked this because he loved his son.
"No, boy, I'm not dead yet," Sam Morran allowed, "but I'll go to my rest a whole lot easier in my mind if I know that you're provided for. I know I ain't been the best of fathers these last few years. I know I drank too much, and didn't look after you nearly enough. I know that after your mama died, I fell in with bad companions. I ain't proud of what I've done, but it's over now. I just want you to know I always loved you, Ty, right from that first day."
Ty swallowed hard and looked at his father. His eyes shimmered with tears, with anguish and love. "Is this what you want me to do, Pa?" he asked softly "Go live with Shea?"
The manacles rattled as Sam Morran covered his son's hand with his own. "She's been taking good care of you, hasn't she, boy?"
Ty nodded his head.
"Then promise her, Ty."
Shea could see color come into Ty's face, along with anger and hopelessness. He glared across at her, his eyes welling. He hated that she was making him do this, hated that giving his word meant acknowledging that his father was going to hang.
When he spoke his voice came out in a croak. "I promise."
Shea let out her breath. Sam Morran stared down at where his hands were linked with his son's. Ty stood like a rock beside his father.
Cam broke the heavy silence. "Would you like to make your wishes legal, Mr. Morran," he asked softly, "just in case?"
"Is there someone who'd object to Mrs. Waterston taking my boy?" Sam asked almost fearfully.
"A will would clarify things," Cameron assured him. "I'll help you write it if you like."
"All right," Morran conceded, swallowing hard. "Let's write that will—for Ty's sake."
* * *
The din of the crowd rose in intensity as the paneled police wagon rumbled across the broad, frozen field at the top of the river bluffs. Well over a hundred people had been waiting in the wind and the cold, and they were impatient for things to get underway.
As the wagon jolted to a stop at the foot of the gallows steps, Shea tightened her hands on Ty's narrow shoulders.
Once the driver had unlocked the doors, Cam stepped down from the rear of the wagon, looking as gray and grim as any man could. Sheriff Cook climbed out after him, followed by two young deputies.
The clamor of the crowd rose to a howl as the lawmen began handing the three bound prisoners to the ground. Jake Seaver immediately shook off the lawmen's hold and sneered at the people who had come to watch him die. Matt Faber glanced once at the gallows then lowered his head.
Sam Morran stood in the doorway of the van, seeming more composed than Shea had ever seen him. Perhaps he'd made peace with hanging, she thought. Or maybe he'd just grown so tired of grief and responsibility and failure that he was ready to give it all up and join his wife.
Shea felt Ty tense as the deputies helped Sam down. For an instant Shea thought the boy was going to pull out of her grasp and cross the field for one last word with his father. Instead he stayed where he was, though she could feel his breathing go labored and uneven as he tried not to cry.
It made Shea want to gather him up and take him far away from here. But none of them—not her nor Cam nor Sam himself—had been able to convince Ty he didn't have to come to the hanging. Still, Shea had deliberately picked a place for them to stand that was a good way back and on the opposite side of the field from the scaffold's steps. She knew from her own initiation in Breckenridge just what grim business hangings were, and she'd vowed that when the moment came, she'd stop Ty's ears and wrap him so close against her that he wouldn't hear the trap fall or see his father swing from the gallows beam.
As the little party of lawmen, prisoners, and newspapermen clustered at the foot of the scaffold's steps, Shea scanned the field. The crowd was better dressed and perhaps not quite so unruly as the one that had been in Breckenridge. Still, she'd heard them ranging through the streets all morning, visiting shops and patronizing the local eateries and saloons. Business at the studio had been brisk. Folks seemed prone to having themselves immortalized on days when other men were going to die.
She'd closed at noon, collected Ty at the jail, and made the walk out Sixteenth Street. She could barely believe her eyes when she saw that Owen had come to the hanging, too. When she'd decided to take that photograph last fall, he'd refused to go near the gallows, refused to help set up the camera. Now he was here, keeping his distance, but peering at them around a cluster of drunken cowboys. He'd come to look after Ty and her, she realized, and was warmed both by the gesture and his courage.
Then, just as the hangman, the deputies, and the prisoners seemed ready to mount the gallows steps, a tall, black-coated minister rode up to join them. Something about his whiplash build and the way he sat his horse caught Shea's attention. But it was the thick, yellow hair tucked down into the collar of his jacket that gave him away.
"That man's Wes Seaver," she shouted, trying to make herself heard above the yelling of the crowd. "It's Wes Seaver!"
As if he'd heard, Seaver pulled his pistol and killed the hangman and one of the deputies where they stood.
The newspapermen dove for cover. Cam and the sheriff fell back behind the police wagon and returned Seaver's fire.
At the sound of the shooting, the crowd erupted into a pushing, screaming mass of humanity. As people flooded past them, Ty twisted away from Shea and set off across the field, shouting for his father. Shea grabbed up her skirts and raced after him.
In the midst of the chaos, a second outlaw burst over the lip of the river bluff and ran to cut the prisoners' bonds. Four more gunmen galloped out of the trees at the north end of the field, firing into the crowd and leading a string of horses for the prisoners to use in their escape.
Over near the gallows, Cam and the lawmen fought it out with Seaver. A few of the citizens who'd come to watch the hanging drew their weapons and started shooting.
In the midst of the gunfight, the prisoners struggled to catch and mount their saddled ponies. Matt Faber went down still clutching his roan's bridle. Someone shot one of the other men out of the saddle. Another of the outlaws cut loose the spare mounts and spurred his own horse toward the center of town.
Against the fleeing tide of humanity, Ty fought his way diagonally across the field. Shea ran after him, pushing one woman aside in her haste and all but stumbling over a child who was curled up and crying. Ty was agile and far too fast for her.
Then, through a cloud of billowing gunsmoke, Shea saw Sam Morran pull himself up onto one of the extra mounts. He hesitated before he spurred away as if he were looking for Ty, and in that instant a bullet caught him.
Sam's features widened in surprise. Blood blossomed across the front of his shirt. He went boneless and crumpled out of the saddle. Shea knew he was dead before he hit the ground.
A dozen strides ahead of her, Ty cried out and leaped desperately forward.
Without so much as a flicker of recognition in his eyes, Seaver sighted on the child bolting across his path.
Shea screamed Ty's name, but she wasn't close enough to reach him.
In the split second before Seaver fired, Owen Brandt came pelting from somewhere off to Shea's left and bowled Ty out of Seaver's way.
Wes and Jake Seaver spurred past them, and galloped away.
Sobbing, Shea raced to where Owen and Ty lay on the hard, snow-speckle
d earth. Blood was already beginning to pool beneath them. Neither of them was moving, neither of them seemed to be breathing.
Shivering and moaning their names, Shea grabbed at Owen's shoulder and pulled the old man over onto his back. Bright blood pulsed from the wound in his chest.
"Oh, Owen!" she whispered, dragging off her shawl and pressing the folds into the wound to stanch the flow.
Cam suddenly loomed over her on horseback, pausing in pursuit of the Seavers. "You all right?"
Shea looked from Owen to where Wes and Jake Seaver were galloping away. "You go get them," she sobbed. "You make those bastards pay for this!"
Only when Cam had thundered away did Shea dare to reach a hand toward Ty. He'd been tucked up tight in the arc of Owen's body and was covered with the old man's blood.
"Ty," she whispered. "Ty, are you hurt?"
He rolled up onto his knees, then rose shakily to his feet. "I need to get to Pa," he whispered and was gone before she could stop him.
She turned back to Owen, to where his lifeblood was soaking through her shawl, welling around her fingertips. Though she could see recognition in Owen's eyes, Shea knew she was losing him.
The last of the gunfire was fading away. As it did, Rand materialized beside her.
"Geez!" he whispered, his mouth hanging slack. "Geez!"
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, pressing even more frantically against Owen's chest. Then, without giving Rand a chance to answer, she gestured with her chin. "Go find a doctor! Bring him here as fast—"
"No," Owen whispered.
Shea looked down at him and their gazes held. Owen was dying and no one could save him. Sam Morran was dead, and Ty—
She turned to Rand. "Ty's with his father over by the scaffold steps. Can you stay with Sam and him until I get there?"
Rand went to do as he'd been bidden, leaving Shea at Owen's side. "You foolish old man," she admonished him, her vision blurring. "What the devil did you think you were doing?"
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