by Diana Bold
Why was she being so kind? he wondered, his mind spinning. Why was she pretending she still cared for him when she’d already admitted her heart belonged to Michael?
Didn’t she know how angry he was, how much he hated her for destroying the image of her he’d kept in his mind all these years?
He hardened his heart and prayed she’d finish quickly.
* * * * *
Savannah stared into Tristan’s troubled green eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of his soul. So many turbulent emotions churned in the emerald depths she found it impossible to interpret any one in particular. His chiseled features were set in a grim and forbidding visage, the touch of humor he’d shown earlier gone.
She sighed and made a pass over his jaw with the razor, careful not to nick him. Why had he sought her out this afternoon? At first, she’d been glad to see him because she’d expected him to avoid her until he was well enough to leave, but now she wished he’d stayed in his room. It was hard to keep the conversation light when all she wanted to do was throw herself at his feet and beg him to forgive her, beg him to be a father to their son.
For some reason, he’d allowed her to fuss over him. Even though she didn’t understand his motives, she wasn’t about to jeopardize this opportunity with tears and regret. He was so beautiful. She might never again have the chance to touch his face, to smooth beneath her fingertips in the wake of the razor, or run her hands through his thick, golden hair.
How she wished she had the courage to lean forward, press her lips to his skin, and simply breathe him in.
Clearing her throat, she passed him a towel. “You look much better.”
“Thanks. I owe you.” He wiped away the last traces of soap, his eyes darkening with some emotion she couldn’t name. “If you ever need someone killed, just let me know.”
“That’s not funny.” Her enjoyment of the last hour disappeared like smoke in the wind. She didn’t want her wonderful fantasies clouded by the truth of what he’d become.
“It wasn’t supposed to be funny.” He tossed the towel aside and got to his feet. “I’m not Michael. Hell, I’m not even Tristan; not anymore. Not the Tristan you knew.”
She reached out to him, wanting to give him the comfort and understanding he needed, but he stopped her with a dark look. Then he brushed past her, leaving the kitchen without another word.
She let her hands fall to her sides. Empty.
Chapter Six
Tristan spent the rest of the day pacing his room, walking until dizziness overwhelmed him, and then resting until he felt strong enough to try again. His arm was still nearly useless, but he practiced opening and closing his hand until the pain became so intense he could barely drag himself to bed.
Through it all, the memory of Savannah’s kiss spurred him on. He couldn’t stay here. She was destroying him one smile and gentle touch at a time. The reason was all too clear.
His love for her was much stronger than his anger.
She made him ashamed of what he’d become. When she touched him and whispered his name, he was willing to do almost anything to remain at her side. He was terrified of forgiving her, of taking whatever she offered, regardless of the fact that it had once belonged to Michael.
Luckily, he’d pushed himself so hard he fell into an exhausted sleep and didn’t awaken until early the next morning. He stretched, feeling the lingering effects of yesterday’s exertions in the screaming protest of his shoulder. He grimaced and swung to a sitting position, wondering if he’d ever regain full use of his arm.
Damn Johnny Muldoon to hell.
If not for Johnny, Tristan would have already found out everything he needed to know from Joel and been long gone.
Tomorrow, he decided as he put on his boots. Tomorrow, he should be strong enough to leave. Even if he wasn’t, he couldn’t stay here. He would ride to the next town and hole up in a hotel for a while if need be.
But before he left, he needed to talk to Joel about Michael, no matter how hard it was to hear whatever he had to say. He also needed to talk to Billy again and let the boy know he’d be back to see him. Someday. If he lived long enough.
Mind made up, he left his room and headed downstairs. He passed the kitchen, which smelled of coffee and eggs, and headed outside for some much needed fresh air. There were several comfortable wicker chairs and a big wooden swing on the porch. He sank into one of the seats, watching as the sun came up over the plains in a blaze of silver and orange.
Before long, the door opened behind him. He steeled himself, wondering which of the McKenzies had come to harass him now. To his surprise, it was Ian who came out and sat beside him.
“Morning,” Ian said. “Good to see you up and about.”
Tristan met Ian’s steady blue gaze and liked what he saw. There was a trace of caution, but it was tempered by an equal amount of welcome. Tristan had always looked up to Ian. Though only a few years older, Ian had always seemed so sure of himself and his place in the world.
“It’s been a long time, Ian.”
Ian nodded and turned his gaze toward the mountains. “What do you think of Colorado?”
“It’s beautiful. Rugged and wild.” Such small words to express what this place had come to mean to him, but somehow he knew Ian, of all people, would understand. They’d always shared a love of nature and living things.
“Yeah. I thought you’d say that.” Ian smiled. “It’s everything I ever imagined it would be.”
Tristan was stunned by how easy it was to slip back into his friendship with this man. An entire decade had passed, yet Ian acted as though they’d seen each other yesterday.
After the difficulty he’d had with the rest of the McKenzies, the simplicity of this relationship was more than welcome. Here, at last, was someone who wouldn’t drive him crazy with guilt or longing.
“You were wise to come here instead of rebuilding in Maryland. The wounds back east will take decades to heal.”
The last conversation Tristan had with Ian had been about his decision to join the Confederacy. Although Ian hadn’t agreed with his views, he’d claimed to understand them. No one else had even pretended to.
“It’s a shame. I think this country has amazing potential, if we can only put the past behind us.”
For just a moment, Tristan had a feeling the country wasn’t the only thing Ian was talking about. “You were right, you know. About the South’s lack of industry, and the impossibility of help from Europe. I should have listened to you.”
“You did what you thought was right. I always admired you for that.”
Tristan turned his gaze toward the horizon, embarrassed. “I made the wrong decision. I don’t even remember why I thought a state’s right to secede was so important. It certainly wasn’t worth what it cost me.”
“We all take the wrong path sometimes. I still haven’t decided if coming out here was the right thing to do. For me, yes. But for my family...” Ian shrugged, his voice troubled. “The first few years were hard, especially on Savannah. She worked like a field hand, learning how to cook and sew and tend the garden.”
Tristan kept his face carefully neutral. “Savannah’s stronger than you think.”
“Maybe she is. Maybe she isn’t.” Ian turned and stared at him, searching his face as though he were looking for the answers to all life’s questions.
Tristan shifted uncomfortably, sensing Ian was testing him. “Do I pass?” he snapped.
Ian smiled a bit and leaned back in his chair. “Just seeing if there was anything left in you of the man I used to know.”
“I don’t think I want to hear what you decided.” In truth, Tristan did want to know. Ian had always been fair and honest, and he wanted to know if his old friend thought there was still hope for him. He wanted Ian to tell him he’d seen something worth saving.
Instead, Ian laughed. “Let’s go inside. Breakfast is almost ready.”
* * * * *
Savannah was carrying a basket of biscuits to the tab
le when Ian and Tristan entered the kitchen together. She put the basket down on the big pine table and stepped away, hoping neither of them noticed how the mere sight of Tristan Kane was enough to make her hands tremble.
Heat rushed to her cheeks at the thought of the intimacies she’d shared with Tristan yesterday. She couldn’t even look at him without remembering the way his thick, wheat‐colored hair had felt between her fingertips, and how his emerald eyes had drifted shut when she’d touched his beautiful face.
Her dreams had been filled with images of the night they’d made love. In her dreams, their lovemaking hadn’t been hurried or awkward. In her dreams, he’d been gloriously naked, and she’d been free to touch him everywhere.
Ian smiled and brushed her arm in passing. “It smells wonderful, sis.”
“Thank you.” She hurried to set another place for their guest. “I’m glad you decided to come down for breakfast, Tristan.”
She knew this meant he’d be leaving soon, perhaps even today, and the knowledge made her weak with despair. She couldn’t bear to let him go. He was so lost, so achingly alone, and she wanted to help him find himself again.
He’d been looking out the window but when she spoke, he cleared his throat and turned around. “It’s good of you to have me, all things considered.”
Was that an apology? Was he sorry for the horrible things he’d said yesterday?
Joel and Billy arrived, distracting her from analyzing his words and painfully polite manner any further. For the next few minutes, she had her hands full getting breakfast on the table.
At last she took her seat, which was right across from Tristan. He was engrossed in his meal, eating awkwardly with his left hand, avoiding her gaze.
“Billy, you need to keep an eye on that mare we bought in Denver,” Ian instructed, digging into his fried potatoes. “She’s gonna foal today. I’m sure of it.”
Billy frowned. “I told George Powers I’d go fishing with him today. The mare can foal by herself. They’ve been doing it alone since time began.”
Savannah bit her lip. Lately Billy had been bucking Ian’s authority at every turn. She wondered what Tristan thought of his son’s smart‐aleck ways. Would Billy be less prone to sulk and talk back if he had a loving father?
Was Tristan capable of being a loving father?
“You’ve got responsibilities around here,” Ian said firmly. “You can’t just take off whenever you feel like it.”
“I can look after the mare.” Tristan’s quiet offer surprised everyone, and ended Billy and Ian’s argument before it had the chance to pick up its usual steam.
Joel shook his head. “I don’t think you should take any chances with that shoulder. It’s healing well, and I don’t feel like stitching you back up again.”
“I’m not going to injure myself watching a mare foal.” Tristan gave a wry smile. “I was raised on a horse farm, in case you’ve forgotten. If there’s any trouble, I’ll let one of you know.”
Ian cast a quelling look at Joel. “He knows more about horses than you and I put together. If he wants to help, let him.”
Joel frowned and attacked a piece of ham, but said nothing more.
Ian’s attention returned to Tristan. “I couldn’t help but notice that stallion of yours. He’s a fine animal. What do you call him?”
Tristan lowered his gaze, but not before Savannah saw a flicker of anguish in the depths of his emerald eyes. “I never name my horses.”
“That’s not true,” she murmured, before she could think better of it. “What about Calypso?”
His father had given him the lovely little filly for his seventeenth birthday and it had taken him a week to pick out a name he deemed worthy of her. Savannah knew, because she’d helped him.
“Calypso was shot out from underneath me in the Wilderness,” he said, his voice bleak. “It happened the same day Michael was shot.”
It happened the same day Michael was shot.
His words seemed to echo in the sudden silence. She stared at him, fighting back tears, wondering again what had happened that day.
“I’m sorry for bringing it up,” she whispered. “I had no idea.”
Tristan pushed away from the table, his chair screeching on the wooden floor. The despair she saw on his face took her breath away. “Thanks for breakfast. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to head out to the barn.”
* * * * *
Savannah hurried through the breakfast dishes and then went outside to look for Joel. She was burning with questions, and he was the only one besides Tristan who might have the answers. She couldn’t ask Tristan, not after she’d stuck her foot in her mouth by asking about Calypso.
She found Joel in the garden, attacking some weeds that threatened a patch of wild strawberries. Her brother never worked in the garden, so she knew he was upset.
Well, she was upset, too. They’d all avoided speaking of the past for far too long. She knew next to nothing of what Joel and Ian had gone through during the war. By the same token, she had never confided in them about how things had gone in their absence.
She’d kept the constant fear that came from living in a war zone with a young child to herself. She’d never spoken of her mother’s depression and slow, lingering death. And she’d never told anyone how she’d watched the Kane’s Plantation, River’s End, which had belonged to her and Michael, burn to the ground. Their own friends and neighbors had set it ablaze because of Tristan’s decision to fight for the Confederacy.
Tristan’s re‐emergence into their lives had denied them the luxury of pretending the war had never happened. The time had come to find out the truth about what had happened in the Wilderness all those years ago.
She sat down on a rough pine bench flanked by rose bushes and regarded her brother. “Joel, I need you to tell me what happened the day Tristan shot Michael.”
He glanced up, his blue eyes shadowed with pain. For a moment, she was tempted to just forget the whole thing. Perhaps it was better to leave everything buried.
Then he sat back on his heels and gave a weary shrug. “What do you want to know?”
She twisted her hands together, suddenly unsure. “You told me Michael’s death was an accident, but Tristan acts as though it was his fault. Just tell me how Michael got shot.”
“I wasn’t there. I can’t tell you exactly what happened, only what I managed to piece together from what each of them told me afterwards.”
He’d accidentally pulled out one of the strawberry plants during his attack on the weeds. Now he held it in his hand, staring down at the green leaves, his blue gaze unfocused and clouded with regret.
“Tristan was thrown from his horse and knocked unconscious during the battle. Somehow Michael sensed it. He found me at the hospital and told me he was going to go look for him. He asked if I would take a look at Tristan if he managed to sneak him through the lines undetected.”
A chill traveled down her spine. “Remember the time Michael broke his leg? You two were down at the river bottom and Tristan and I were in the orchard, but Tristan knew Michael had been hurt. He said he felt it.”
He nodded. “It was just like that. Michael even knew Tristan had a head injury. I believed him and promised to do anything in my power to help Tristan if Michael could just get him to me.”
“The odds against Michael finding Tristan must have been staggering.” She was awed by the connection between the two brothers. How brave of Michael to abandon his post and search through the chaos of battle for Tristan.
“In the end, I guess you could say it was Tristan who found Michael.” His voice was heavy with irony. “Michael was checking each body, looking for Tristan. Tristan saw Michael’s blue uniform, mistook him for a looter, and fired.”
She could see it all so clearly. Tristan wounded, hurting. Michael coming to his rescue, even after the harsh words they’d said to each other in parting...
“Dear God,” she whispered.
“Luckily, Tristan’s aim
was off. The bullet hit Michael in the leg. It wasn’t a fatal shot. Michael begged Tristan to leave him there. He was sure he could make his way back to the line, but Tristan refused to abandon him. He carried Michael through enemy fire and brought him to me. He trusted me and was certain I could save Michael’s leg.”
There was guilt in his eyes, even after all these years. Savannah wondered why she’d never realized her brother felt more than grief over Michael’s death. He and Tristan had both suffered over what had happened.
“Oh, Joel…” She reached out, wanting to comfort him, but he avoided her hand and pushed to his feet.
“I couldn’t save Michael’s leg. Hell, I couldn’t even save his life. All I could do was stand there and watch while Tristan was carried off to prison for his efforts on Michael’s behalf.” Joel crushed the strawberry plant with slow, deliberate pressure, and then threw it to the ground. “So if anyone should be feeling guilty, it’s me.”
He strode away before she could say anything else. The sun glinted off his dark brown hair as he squared his broad shoulders against the pain he’d been hiding all these years. Tears filled her eyes as she watched him go, but she didn’t know who she cried for; Joel, Tristan, Michael or herself.
Chapter Seven
Tristan rubbed the mare’s neck, whispering gentle, nonsensical words in her ear while she struggled to give birth. He tried to lose himself in this small miracle, but he couldn’t stop thinking of Savannah.
He’d tried to push her away, to distance himself by reminding her what he’d become, but it didn’t seem to be working. He’d deliberately sabotaged the pleasant interlude in the kitchen yesterday afternoon, but his plan had backfired. Instead of cringing in disgust, her blue eyes had gentled with understanding.
He didn’t want her to understand him. Now he felt ridiculous, like a child who’d thrown a nasty tantrum but still failed to get his way.
“How’s it going?”
Tristan turned at the sound Ian’s voice. He frowned as Ian entered the stall and circled the straining animal, his blue eyes lit with interest.
