by Diana Bold
“We’re almost there,” Tristan conceded, wishing for a little more time alone with his thoughts.
Apparently, Ian had no intention of allowing him that respite. “What do you think of her? These mountain horses aren’t the thoroughbreds your father used to raise, but they’ve got a lot of heart.”
“I’m impressed with your stock,” Tristan answered, finding it impossible to remain detached when the conversation involved his favorite subject—horses. “I looked around a bit when I first came outside. That stallion of yours is one hell of an animal.”
Ian grinned, obviously pleased. “The cattle are still my main source of income, but eventually I’d like to turn my attention to making this place the best horse ranch this side of the Mississippi.”
“I’d say you’re well on your way.” Tristan turned away, staring at the mare, remembering when he’d had dreams of his own. He’d wanted to breed a horse that could run like the wind and have the heart of a champion.
Ian gave the mare a more thorough examination, then turned and looked Tristan straight in the eye. “You should stick around for a while and lend me a little of your expertise. I can’t pay much as far as wages go, but you can have that little cabin down by the creek and three home‐cooked meals a day.”
Tristan was stunned by Ian’s offer. He’d been drifting for so long that the thought of settling down was a temptation he didn’t know if he could resist.
Lord, what he wouldn’t give to work with horses again, even if they weren’t his own. It was a chance to start over, and he knew second chances didn’t come around every day.
He’d have plenty of time to get to know his nephew.
“I don’t know what to say.” He frowned and held up his right hand, demonstrating his inability to make a fist. “I won’t be as much help as I’d like. I don’t know whether or not this arm will ever be like it was.”
Just voicing his fears out loud made him realize how much he needed what Ian offered. If he tried to go back to his old life, he’d be dead in a matter of weeks. Vulnerability was easy to scent in his line of work.
“You don’t have to make up your mind right now.” Ian returned his attention to the mare. “Just keep in mind that it’s an option.”
Tristan leaned against the side of the stall, exhausted. He didn’t know how to handle the acceptance this family handed him at every turn. Didn’t they know he was a killer with no morals and no conscience? Were they fools to allow him into their home?
“You look tired. Why don’t you go back up to the house? You missed lunch, but I’m sure Savannah can rustle you up something to tide you over ‘til dinner. I’ll finish here. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Birthings are my favorite part of this whole business.”
“I am tired,” Tristan admitted. “Maybe I’ll take a short nap.” He needed time to think about all of this.
“I’ll see you at dinner.” Ian smiled as though he knew exactly what Tristan was thinking.
“Sure. Dinner,” Tristan replied. He wondered if they were all in some sort of conspiracy to make him human again.
* * * * *
Savannah paused on the top step of the porch, staring in rapt fascination at the man who slept on the swing. Tristan’s blond head was bent in an awkward angle, and his long legs hung limp over the side.
The kitten she’d captured earlier in the woodpile squirmed in her hands. She gave it a distracted pat as she moved closer. Tristan’s thick, dark lashes fanned his cheeks, giving his lean face a youthful cast. In repose, he looked years younger, more like the boy she’d fallen in love with so long ago.
Beautiful Tristan, broken and bleeding from a dozen emotional wounds.
The top button of his black shirt was undone, revealing the steady pulse of his heart beneath the smooth tanned skin at his throat. That heartbeat had always been desperately important to her.
She couldn’t bear to think of losing him again. Once he left the ranch, there would be other hotheaded young fools with a taste for glory. They’d be watching him, waiting for him to make a mistake.
One day soon, he’d lay face down in the dirt, drowning in his own blood, a bullet piercing his scarred heart. They’d bury him in some barren field, and there would be no one to shed a tear or remember the shy, sweet boy he’d been.
The only way to prevent that from happening was to keep him here.
She couldn’t let him leave. Billy needed him. She needed him.
Michael would have hated to see Tristan suffer. He wouldn’t have begrudged Tristan whatever happiness she might be able to give him. But what could she do to help? What would he allow her to do?
She’d watched him come up from the barn after lunch. His steps were slow, and she could tell his shoulder was hurting, but instead of coming inside and letting her do something for him, he’d remained out here, alone.
Ian had taken over watching the mare, and she wondered if he’d offered Tristan a job. If so, had Tristan denied him outright, or was he thinking about accepting?
She wanted to wake him up and tell him every single thing that was in her heart. She wanted to declare her love and place her future in his hands, but she knew how foolish that would be.
Ian was right. If Tristan wasn’t ready to leave the killing behind, it wouldn’t be wise to tell him about Billy. She had to think of her son and ignore her own crazy, selfish need to have Tristan back in her life.
The kitten in her hands purred like a freight train, the sound impossibly loud, considering its tiny source. She remembered how much Tristan had always loved cats.
Smiling, she patted the kitten’s white and gray head, and then placed it on Tristan’s chest. The kitten swayed for a moment, confused by its new point of view. Then he daintily picked his way toward Tristan’s face.
When the cat reached the hollow beneath Tristan’s chin, he looked up at Savannah and stretched, digging his sharp little claws into Tristan’s neck. She held her breath, thinking Tristan would wake up, but he slept on, oblivious. The kitten circled a few more times, then settled in a ball next to Tristan’s cheek and began to purr.
“Take care of him,” she whispered. “Don’t leave him alone for a minute.” Then she tiptoed away.
* * * * *
A rough tongue licked Tristan’s neck. The odd sensation broke through his sleep, and he startled awake, dislodging the kitten that had been sitting on his chest. He stared down at the tiny gray and white cat in surprise.
“Hello,” he murmured at last, a reluctant smile curving his lips. “Where did you come from?”
The kitten purred and wound itself around his wrist. Tristan lifted it to eye level. “Didn’t Joel tell you I needed my rest?”
The kitten meowed and tried to scratch his nose. Tristan grinned and rubbed the animal’s furry little belly. He’d always had a soft spot for cats.
Savannah, he thought, glancing at the house. She knew far too much about him.
He shook his head, wondering what she hoped to accomplish with such a gesture. Whatever her motives, it made him uncomfortable.
He sat up and leaned back in the padded swing, still petting the cat, thinking about Ian’s offer. If not for Savannah, he’d have accepted in an instant, because he’d dreamed of working with horses again for years. But seeing Savannah every day, knowing she’d been married to Michael and had a child with him so soon after she’d sworn her undying love, was more torture than he could bear.
Ignoring the pain, he clenched and unclenched his fist, contemplating what his future held if he refused Ian’s offer. His fingers moved a little, but not well enough to hold a gun. That might get better with time, but time was something he wouldn’t have a lot of once he left the safety of the McKenzie ranch.
His gaze narrowed as a rider came up the road toward the house. Even from a distance, he could tell it wasn’t one of the McKenzies. This man didn’t sit a horse with the ease Savannah’s brothers did.
Danger prickled down the back of his n
eck. He stood, keeping his attention fixed on the intruder. The man drew closer, and Tristan noticed the shiny silver badge on the lapel of the man’s black vest.
The sheriff, he thought with a sneer, wondering what trumped up charge the bastard intended to pin on him. He’d always been careful to stay on the right side of the law. He knew he wasn’t wanted for anything, and he’d be damned if he’d take the blame for the fiasco with Johnny Muldoon. He’d never even drawn his gun, yet the kid had shot him in the back.
“Kane,” the lawman said without preamble, riding his chestnut mare across the lawn right up to the front porch. “It seems reports of your death were exaggerated.”
“Yeah, well, Joel never did know when to leave things be.”
“That’s the truth.” The man dismounted and climbed the porch steps with wary grace. “I’m Sheriff Keegan.”
“Keegan,” Tristan acknowledged, petting the tiny kitten he still held in his hands. “What can I do for you?”
Keegan’s hard blue gaze went to the cat. “You seem to be making yourself right at home.”
“The McKenzies are old friends.” Tristan eyed the sheriff contemptuously and lowered the kitten to the porch with his left hand. He’d seen the type before. He was a bit of a dandy. Keegan probably liked the idea of being a sheriff a whole lot more than he liked the duties that went with the position.
“Well, I suggest you start saying your goodbyes,” Keegan snapped. “We don’t want your kind in our town. I’ve come to tell you to leave.”
At that moment, Savannah stepped outside, letting the screen door slam hard behind her. “Sheriff Keegan, are you threatening my guest?”
She came to stand between the two men, and Tristan glared at the back of her auburn head. He didn’t need this slip of a girl to stand up for him.
Keegan’s face gentled. “Now, Savannah. You know we can’t start letting men like this into our town. Who knows what kind of lawlessness that would encourage?
“What have you done with Johnny Muldoon?” She reached for Tristan’s hand in an unmistakable gesture of affection and support. “He shot Tristan in the back, yet I hear he’s still walking around town free. Tristan did nothing, yet you’ve come out here to my home to harass him?”
Tristan scowled and pulled his hand out her grasp. “Stay out of this, Savannah.”
“Yes, honey. This is between me and Kane.” Keegan glanced at Savannah, lust darkening his gaze. Tristan saw it and had a sudden, barely controlled urge to do murder.
Savannah remained calm and implacable. “You should leave, Sheriff Keegan. Tristan is still recuperating. He needs his rest.”
Tristan raised one eyebrow and gave a mean smile. “Yeah, I need my rest.”
Keegan gave him a final glare and abruptly turned away. “This isn’t over,” he warned, mounting his horse. “I’ll be back in a few days, and you better be long gone.”
“Don’t count on it,” Tristan called after him. But he was afraid the sheriff’s visit had made his decision for him. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was bring trouble to Savannah and her family.
Chapter Eight
Later that evening, Savannah paused in the doorway of her father’s old bedroom, watching with interest as Tristan finished shaving. He was using his left hand and it had obviously been difficult for him. His smooth face was peppered with nicks and cuts.
“Hello,” she murmured as he rinsed the razor in a basin of water.
He glanced up and caught sight of her in the mirror. Their eyes met and held for a long moment, but then he looked away. “What do you want?”
She frowned at his bad temper but was determined not to let such a small thing dissuade her. “You should have let me help you.” She crossed the room to his side and dabbed at one of his cuts. “You’ve made a mess of yourself.”
He flinched and jerked away from her touch. “Damn it, Savannah. I don’t need your help. I’m more than capable of shaving myself.”
“You’re angry because I interfered with Keegan, aren’t you?” After the confrontation with Keegan, he’d stalked away from her without another word. She was surprised to see him preparing to come down for dinner. She’d thought he’d sulk in his room all night.
He’d always had more pride than sense.
“I’m not angry.” He turned and glared at her. “Don’t you have anything better to do than plague me with your questions and silly speculations?”
She grinned and plopped down on the edge of his bed. “Not at the moment.”
The barest hint of a smile curved his lips at her audacity. “It’s bad manners to enter a gentleman’s room uninvited.”
She glanced around. “Oh, is there a gentleman around here somewhere?”
He sighed and pointed to the small gray and white ball of fur on his pillow. “Only this little fellow, I’m afraid.”
Savannah feigned surprise and picked up the kitten, cradling him to her face. “What a beauty. Where did you get him?”
Tristan sat down on the bed beside her and shook his head. “I don’t know what you expect me to do with a kitten.”
She laughed. “How did you know it was me?” He’d displayed a hint of the gentle humor that had always come so easily between them, and she didn’t want it to end.
“I just knew.” He reached out to stroke the kitten’s back, and his fingers tangled with hers. She grazed the calluses on his palm with her thumb, and he caught his breath, his gaze locked with hers.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do.” He squeezed her hand and then released it. “But I don’t need your pity.”
“We were friends once,” she interjected, stung. “There was even a time when I thought you loved me. Have I ruined it all so completely?”
His expression grew distant. Shuttered. “The woman I loved would never have agreed to marry my brother.”
She turned away, struggling to control bitter tears. She wanted to tell him why she’d married Michael. She wanted to let him know her marriage had never been consummated, that he was the only man who had ever touched her with passion.
Only the quiet resignation in his voice stopped her. It would have been better if he’d shown anger. At least then she’d have known he still cared. But there was nothing in his eyes but utter finality.
To him, at least, their relationship was over.
She stood, keeping her eyes averted so he couldn’t see her tears. “Dinner’s in a half hour,” she murmured on her way out the door. “I hope you’ll come down. I’ve made a pot roast.”
* * * * *
Tristan left the McKenzies house at daybreak the next morning and walked about a mile to a clearing on the other side of the ridge. The sheriff’s visit had made it imperative for him to see if he was capable of leaving this temporary sanctuary.
He set up a row of rusty cans on an old fallen tree, then paced fifty feet back and fumbled to load his revolver with his left hand. All he needed was a little practice, he assured himself, trying to rationalize his clumsiness. One day, he’d be as fast with his left hand as he’d been with his right.
Taking a deep breath, he emptied his gun, aiming for each of the cans in turn. When the echoes of the blasts died away, he didn’t have to look to know not a single one had hit its mark.
“Shit.” He was a worse shot now than Johnny Muldoon. After fumbling to dislodge the empty cartridge casings from the cylinder, he reached for another handful of bullets.
It was disconcerting to know he was a walking dead man. He’d never even make it out of town unless his aim improved. Sheriff Keegan was itching to put another bullet in him, and right now there was little he could do to stop him.
Strange. A week ago he would have felt nothing but calm resignation, perhaps even relief. But finding out about Billy had changed everything. He had an adorable nephew he ached to know. There was so much he wanted to tell Billy about Michael, if only the boy would let him.
And then there was Savannah.
Thoughts of the
boy reminded him of how Savannah had fallen into Michael’s arms after he’d left her. How soon, he wondered, firing off several more misses. Had she done it to get back at him, or had she merely been lonely?
If he’d joined the Union Army, as everyone had begged him to do, Savannah would have married him before he left, and she’d have given birth to his baby.
Michael would still be alive.
He blasted off another round, cursing his ineptitude. It did no good to think of the past. He couldn’t change what had happened, or what he’d become.
* * * * *
Joel heard the echoing blasts of Tristan’s revolver long before he finally found him. He stood watching as Tristan fired off round after round, aiming at a line of cans some distance away.
He frowned, his anger and disappointment growing with every passing moment. Unable to control his dismay any longer, he started down the hill. “What the hell are you doing?”
Tristan spun around, his gun already in hand, tension in every muscle. “That’s a good way to get your fool head blown off,” he muttered, lowering the barrel of his gun slowly, obviously stunned that Joel had managed to sneak up on him.
“Damn it, Tristan.” Joel snatched the pistol out of his friend’s hand and unloaded it with one smooth motion. “If you’re determined to get yourself killed, go do it somewhere else. My nephew is already entranced by your lifestyle. The last thing I want him to do is follow in your footsteps.”
“Don’t you ever take a gun from my hand again.” Tristan gave him a killing look, but Joel didn’t miss the tremor in his hands.
“Or what? You’ll kill me? Like you kill every other man who looks at you the wrong way?”
“Is that what you think?” Tristan raked his good hand through his hair in dismay. “Do you think I like to kill? Hell, I’d put my guns away in a second if I could.”
“Would you?” Joel shook his head and handed Tristan back the empty gun. “That’s a lie. Ian already told me he asked you to stay.”
