Behind him, he heard Sarah gasp. Her arms encircled his waist and she hugged him.
For a long moment, Jacob Caldwell stared at him in disbelief. Then he savagely shook his head.
“No. It’s a trick. A lie.” He lifted his rifle and pointed it at Cord. “You’re a liar and cheat, just like your father. And now you’re going to die, just like—”
With an agonized cry, Noah leaped toward his father, deflecting the rifle upward just as it fired. Sarah screamed. Cord lunged forward and reached Jacob just as he was leveling his rifle for another shot.
Cord grabbed the weapon and wrenched it away. Jacob charged at him. Noah recovered and grabbed his father by the arm, jerking him back. Jacob turned on his son, flailing wildly. Then, of a sudden, the old man sagged. His knees buckled and he plummeted to the snow-covered ground.
“Papa!” Sarah cried and ran toward him, joining her brother, who had immediately sunk down beside their father to gather him into his arms. “Papa, what’s wrong?”
Jacob turned his head toward her, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
She leaned forward, straining to hear what he was saying, but couldn’t. Was it possible? Was her father finally asking for forgiveness?
“Forgiveness isn’t so much about Pa as it is about you, Cord.” Sarah suddenly heard Nick’s words to his brother in her mind. “It’s not about feelings, but about freedom. It’s not about changing the other person—we might not ever succeed in doing that—but in letting go . . . and trusting that God will somehow make it all right.”
The words, spoken as Edmund Wainwright lay slowly dying, had been as appropriately uttered for her sake as for her husband’s. Whether or not her father truly was asking for forgiveness in the last few moments of his life wasn’t as important as her forgiveness of him. Wasn’t as important as her letting go and trusting that God would somehow make it all right.
“I love you, Papa,” she whispered, bending close until her lips hovered next to his ear. “Tell Mama hello when you get to heaven. Tell her I tried my best always to be there for you, to never give up hope that you’d finally find a new heart and turn back to God. Tell her that for me, will you, Papa?”
His eyes fluttered shut. He gave a long, deep sigh and went still.
“Papa!”
Cord knelt beside her and probed for a pulse in the man’s neck. There was none. He met her tear-bright, searching gaze.
“He’s gone, Sarah.”
Her head, like some flower wilting on its stem, sagged. She picked up her father’s now lifeless hand and gently kissed it.
“Oh, Papa. Papa . . .”
Two days later, they buried Jacob Caldwell in the little family cemetery high on a tree-shaded bluff overlooking the ranch. Buried him beside Caleb and his mother—whose remains they had exhumed from their separate burial spots—and not far from Edmund and Mary Wainwright’s graves. It was fitting, Cord had told her. Just as the Wainwrights and Caldwells had joined bloodlines when they had married, so the two families should now also share a common resting place. Just as the two families, in so many ways, now also finally shared the ranch.
Sarah’s love for her husband swelled as he’d spoken those words. Long after the others had left, preferring a warm house and tasty victuals to remaining in the chill, overcast winter weather, she and Cord had stood there gazing down at the graves. Finally, she turned to him, giving his hand a squeeze.
“We should be getting back to the house. Before everyone starts worrying about us.”
“Yes, I suppose we should.” He looked down at her, and she could tell he had been far away.
“A penny for your thoughts,” she said, patting his cheek with a mitten-clad hand.
He shrugged. “Oh, I was marveling at the fact it’s all over. The feud . . . the anger . . . the hatred and retribution. Reckon it’ll take some time to get used to it.”
“Reckon it will,” Sarah replied with a little smile. “But I think it’ll also become more and more pleasant—the realization, I mean—as time goes on. I think I’ll very much enjoy all the peace and lack of strife.”
She paused, her thoughts flitting to her older brother who, at Cord’s urging, had reluctantly accompanied them back to the ranch. “Noah. I’ve been meaning to ask you. What do you want to do about Noah?”
Cord reached up and tenderly brushed an errant strand of hair from her face. “I meant what I said. I won’t press charges against him. Besides, he gave us back what was left of the money. If he wants, he’s free to stay on here and help us with the ranch.” He grinned. “Who knows? Maybe I can train him up to be the new foreman. What with Spence now in jail, we can certainly use one.”
Sarah frowned in sudden remembrance. “Oh yes. Spence. In all the confusion after Papa died, and then the preparations for the funeral, I forgot to pass on what he’d told me about the plot to rustle the cattle. And, believe it or not, it was never my father behind it all. At first it was Spence, and then later Allis once she got wind of what he was doing. It was her idea to involve my family in order to get back at me. Seems she just couldn’t let you go.”
His gaze darkened. “That doesn’t come as much of a surprise. Gabe and I were starting to have our suspicions about her. According to what he told me just before the funeral services for your father today, first thing when Gabe got to town after helping deliver the cattle back to the ranch and depositing Spence and his men in jail, he went calling on Allis. She’s now under house arrest. Just as soon as the circuit judge can get here, Miss Allis Findley will be standing trial with Spence and his cronies.”
Relief—and a certain satisfaction—flooded Sarah. Though she knew she shouldn’t wish the wretched woman ill, it was only fair that Allis Findley face the consequences of her self-serving and ultimately tragic schemes. She was as responsible for what had happened as the men—including her father and brothers—who had so willingly gone along with her plans. Complete forgiveness might be a time in coming for the unhappy woman, but Sarah knew she would do it for the Lord’s sake if not quite as soon for Allis’s.
“She caused a lot of heartache and pain. For the both of us.”
Cord nodded solemnly. “Yes, she did. But I think, she did the most damage to herself. And she’ll have the most to answer for, when and where it counts the most.” His mouth quirked. “That realization, I hate to admit, is about the only thing that has kept me from riding into town and wringing her arrogant little neck. Just to get back at her for all she did.”
“Well, that puts my worries to rest,” Sarah said, stifling a giggle. “The thought of you wringing anyone’s neck, I mean. Still, I’m glad you already suspected Allis. Otherwise, I didn’t know how you’d take me accusing her of such a horrible crime.”
“And why would that be a concern, sweetheart? I never pegged you for the jealous type.” He cocked his head. “Is there something you’ve been hiding from me?”
“Hardly.” Sarah gave a disgusted snort, then hesitated as a certain omission did occur to her. “Well, not about Allis anyway . . .”
He crooked her gently beneath her chin, lifting her gaze to his. “Then what? If the end to the feud’s going to hold, we really shouldn’t be keeping any secrets from each other.”
She giggled. “Well, I suppose you’re right. If the end to the feud’s going to hold, I mean.” Sarah glanced away briefly, then looked back, slowly wetting her lips. “We don’t have a lot of time left, you and I. Time just for the two of us.”
Unease narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about, Sarah? Is there something wrong? Are you sick?”
“Well, no . . . and yes. Sort of.” She laughed. “I’m pregnant, Cord. We’re going to have a baby.”
His gaze widened. For a moment, he just stared down at her. Then with a shout, he gathered her up into his arms and whirled around and around.
“A baby? I’m going to be a father?”
“Cord, stop!” Sarah cried. “You’re making me dizzy. And I’m most definitely not
past having morning sickness, even if it’s no longer morning.”
“Oh.” Immediately, he came to a halt. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking about your delicate condition.” Ever so carefully, he lowered her back to her feet. A lopsided grin on his face, he met her gaze. “Family. Suddenly my family is growing by leaps and bounds.”
She heard the wonderment in his voice and marveled at it. “That makes you happy, does it?”
“Yes, it does,” her handsome cowboy husband replied, his smile openhearted and joyous. “It does indeed.”
Contents
Back to Main Table of Contents
Epigraph
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Author’s Note
God grant me the Serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
The Courage to change the things I can;
And the Wisdom to know the difference.
Reinhold Niebuhr
Prologue
COLORADO ROCKIES, JUNE 1870
There were times—just a few—when Shiloh Wainwright truly, fervently hated her sister. And this was one of those times, the twelve-year-old thought as she watched her older sibling take the half-breed Indian youth’s hand and lead him into the barn.
Why in tarnation—her fists clenched the wooden post as she peered around the corral fence—did I think any good could come of Jordan making friends with Jesse? Once she works her wiles on him, he won’t even know I exist, much less want to be my friend!
It had seemed such a good idea. Though Henry Wilson, their ranch foreman, had only hired the seventeen-year-old Jesse Blackwater two months ago, it hadn’t taken long for Shiloh to convince the handsome youth to allow her to tag along while he did his chores. And, after a time of guarded interactions on Jesse’s part, they had gradually formed a bond that had blossomed into an actual friendship. It was just as apparent, however, that their friendship was the only one he had made.
Shiloh puzzled over that for several days, before coming right out and asking Jesse about his lack of other friends. “Not everyone likes Indians, even those with half-white blood,” he soberly informed her. After digesting that surprising revelation—well, maybe not all that surprising, Shiloh admitted, recalling some remarks made in passing by certain schoolmates—she set to work remedying that problem.
Shiloh now watched the barn door slide shut behind Jesse and her sister, all the while recalling the plan she had hatched to help Jesse make friends. The other hands just don’t know him like I do, she had thought. They all sure want to get to know my sister better, though. Not only is Jordan older, but she’s beautiful and without any ugly freckles like me.
At fourteen, Jordan Wainwright caught the breath of every man who laid eyes upon her. Well, every man save her father and two stepbrothers, anyway, Shiloh amended. If she could get her sister to favor Jesse . . . well, every other man on the ranch would surely fall over himself to befriend the half-breed in the hopes of finding similar favor with Jordan.
After a few rough patches, the first stage of Shiloh’s plan had seemed to be working. At first, Jordan had shown interest in Jesse as a favor, after Shiloh had hounded her mercilessly, regaling her with tales of Jesse’s expertise in breaking the most unbreakable broncs and roping cattle no one else could even come near, and about all the tracking secrets he’d taught her. Well, after all that and the surrender of the precious music box their father had purchased for Shiloh on the day of her birth.
But she wasn’t going to linger over something as material as even a beloved music box. What mattered, above all, were people. Loving them, helping them. Shiloh had always loved helping others.
And people around here needed a passel of help to see beyond Jesse’s Ute Indian heritage to the good and wonderful person he was inside. A friend who ignored her coltish, clumsy body and homely face, her wild red hair and embarrassing overabundance of freckles. A friend who didn’t discount her as the baby of the family but looked past it all to see straight into her heart. To see her on so many levels, to really know her and, in the bargain, like what he found.
One couldn’t ask for more than that. All the same, Shiloh thought, her apprehension rising as the minutes ticked by and the barn door remained closed, she regretted—fiercely regretted—ever pushing Jordan to take notice of him.
Not that, at this point, there was much she could do about it. Jordan no longer talked to Jesse just as a favor to her. These days, her sister actually sought him out, stealing him away from Shiloh at every opportunity. And something no longer seemed quite right about her motives.
For several minutes more, Shiloh waited for the pair to reappear. Then, with a disgruntled sigh, she turned and headed back to the white frame ranch house. She had laundry to take down and she’d better do it soon, she thought, casting a glance at the gray clouds building over the valley. Emma, their housekeeper, wouldn’t be happy if the freshly laundered bedding she’d hung out this morning got wet all over again.
Fifteen minutes later, a basketload of folded sheets resting on her hip, Shiloh headed through the back door and into the house. She deposited the basket on the kitchen table and glanced around, wondering where everyone had gone. The murmur of voices rose from the front of the house, so she set off in that direction. At the open entry door stood Emma and Martha, Shiloh and Jordan’s mother.
“Do you think we should get Mr. Nicholas?” Emma was asking their mother. “With Mr. Edmund gone to town, I mean.”
Martha gave a sharp nod. “Yes. There’s no one else with enough authority to stop that brute. He certainly won’t listen to either of us.”
As Shiloh opened her mouth to ask what they were talking about, a sharp crack shattered the silence. She edged closer and glanced around the two women standing in the doorway.
“What’s going on? Who’s using that old bullwhip of Pa—”
Her breath caught in her throat. At the corral not more than fifty yards away, the same corral she’d hidden behind just a short time ago, someone was tied, hands over his head, to a tall fence post. He faced away from her, his shirt ripped open, and several oozing lash marks crisscrossed his bare back.
Even as she and the two other women watched in horror, Henry Wilson threw back the hand holding the whip. Then, in a swift, hard motion, he snapped it forward. As the thin piece of leather met flesh, the recipient of the whip went rigid, then reared back in agony. Not a sound, however, passed his lips.
The tilt of the head in that single, swift moment gave away the victim’s identity. It was Jesse.
“No!” she whispered on a swift, sudden exhalation of breath. “No!”
In the split second between realization and action, her mother grabbed for her. Shiloh was too fast. She dodged the outstretched hand and scooted instead around Emma.
“Shiloh! Don’t!” Martha Wainwright cried, but Shiloh was already across the front porch and scrambling down the steps.
“Emma, go after her,” Shiloh heard her mother say, but then the sickening sound of the bullwhip meeting flesh once again filled the air. Everything around her narrowed, converging on the sight of Jesse yet again jerking in silent agony.
Her booted feet pounded against the dry earth, sending up puffs of dust with each stride she took. Her arms pumped furiously.
Jesse. I’ve got to reach him. Protect him.
“S-stop!” she screeched even as she neared the half-circle of men who’d gathered around Jesse and the foreman. “Stop it! Stop hurting him!”
Henry Wilson paused in surprise, lowering the whip he’d raised yet again. When he caught sight of Shiloh, his gaze hardened.
�
��Someone. Anyone. Grab and hold her,” he snarled, then turned back to the task at hand, unfurling the bullwhip behind him.
A pair of hands nearest her reached out. Shiloh pivoted sharply, just managing to evade the man. She twisted, nearly losing her footing, then righted and threw herself between the foreman and Jesse, covering Jesse’s now-ravaged and bleeding back with her own body.
“No! Blast you, girl!”
Shiloh shot a swift look behind her. Henry Wilson staggered backward in an attempt to halt the forward flight of the whip he’d just unfurled forward. Yet, though he threw all his weight into the effort, it was too late.
The whip’s leather tip caught Shiloh a passing glance on her upper right cheek, slicing open a tiny cut. It burned like fire. She choked back a scream. If Jesse could take such punishment in silence, so could she.
“S-stop it!” As a thin stream of blood trickled down her face, Shiloh wheeled about to face the now panic-stricken foreman. “Stop it, right now!”
For a fleeting moment, Henry stared in disbelief. Then a firm resolve darkened his eyes. An angry flush gave color to his formerly pasty white face.
“Clay. Go. Get a hold of her. I aim to finish what I started. As long as I’m foreman of this ranch, no half-breed piece of trash is going to take liberties with the boss’s daughter!”
The hand named Clay hurried to do what he was told. This time, Shiloh was too shocked to resist. He took her by both arms and pulled her away from Jesse, dragging her to stand behind the other men.
Liberties? With the boss’s daughter?
The blood pounding through her brain, Shiloh fought to make sense of the man’s words. Then, as comprehension flooded her, she turned, searching the gathering until she finally found her sister standing several feet behind the men.
Jordan’s flawlessly groomed hair was mussed. High color pinkened her cheeks. She was, however, quite obviously unharmed. Their gazes met, and the look of guilt in her sister’s eyes was almost instantly replaced by one of defiance.
Heart of the Rockies Collection Page 30
