by Rachel Lee
"I'm fine, child, just fine," he said in answer to her question. "Just a little headache is all. You go on home and get some rest. Is Gideon with you?"
"Yes, he's been here most of the night. I was so worried…"
"Sh-sh-sh," he said, and brushed away her tears with his fingertip. "My time has not yet come, child."
Sara looked away, biting her upper lip and blinking rapidly. Little by little the tightness around her throat loosened, and breathing became easier. Finally she found her voice.
"Do you remember what happened, Grandfather?"
"No. Dr. MacArdle already questioned me about that. He told me what happened."
"But you don't remember?"
Zeke shook his head slightly. "The last thing I remember is stepping outside to watch the sunset."
* * *
"He doesn't remember a thing," Sara was telling Nate only a short time later. The sheriff's office was gearing up for the day, a steadily rising level of activity apparent as they talked. Gideon stood over by the front window, waiting patiently. "Dr. MacArdle says that's normal, but that he might never remember what happened."
"That's probably best for Zeke," Nate rumbled, "but it sure as hell handicaps the investigation. At this moment, hon, we don't have a damn thing to go on."
Sara nodded, glancing toward the windows and the sun-drenched square beyond. Marigolds in the courthouse flower beds bobbed gaily in the gentle morning breeze, and old Bill Haldersen and Al Loomis were already out there reading the morning paper. Those benches ought to have their names on them, she thought vaguely.
"Maybe," she said after a moment, "I'll notice something when I get back up there. I'm the best person to know what's out of place."
"That's what I'm hoping," Nate agreed. "Micah will meet you up there a little later this morning. He especially wants to check out the area where the biker was spotted."
"But he worked swing shifts last night," Sara argued automatically, which meant he shouldn't work today at all.
"Yeah, but he figures this is his case. Hours don't mean a thing to Micah when he gets on something."
Sara nodded, remembering other times. "I'll need a few days off."
Nate half smiled. "You never needed to ask. You're off the schedule already. You can make up for it when Ed's wife has the baby."
Sara almost chuckled at that. Ed Dewhurst had been the first deputy in Conard County history to request paternity leave. Nate had granted it without a moment's hesitation, but the subject had been hotly debated in the Bible Study Group, over coffee at Maude's Diner, and probably in most of the bars. Opinion was pretty evenly divided, and not along lines of gender.
"I'd better go up and tell Joey about Grandfather," she said after a moment.
"He's still not talking," Nate warned her. "Sullenest so-and-so I've ever seen."
"Well, that's just too damn bad," Sara said, her ordinarily quiescent temper snapping. "He doesn't have to talk, but, by God, he's going to listen!"
Nate and Gideon watched her stalk up the stairs toward the jail, which was in an armored room on the second floor.
"That girl," Nate remarked, "was always a damn sight too patient with that boy. She should have kicked his butt out of the house at least two years ago."
He looked at Gideon. "Just so you know, I did a priors check on you."
Gideon nodded, undisturbed. Given the circumstances, Nate Tate would have been a lousy sheriff if he hadn't checked up on the stranger who was involved.
"One felony when you were sixteen and a couple of misdemeanors for barroom brawling don't make me nervous, Ironheart," Tate continued. "I've got people in this county who did a whole lot worse in their youth and lived to become upstanding citizens."
Gideon gave a brief nod, waiting, sensing more.
"But you make me nervous, anyway, son," the sheriff continued. "Something about you is ringing my bells like mad, and I get the definite feeling you're not just vacationing here. So I'm going to keep an eye on you."
Well, he'd been anticipating that all along, ever since he arrived and started asking questions about Micah. Conard County was so thinly populated that a stranger was bound to draw attention. "Fine with me, Sheriff," he said easily.
Nate studied him a moment longer, then turned away to greet Velma Jansen, the department's dispatcher, as she walked in the door.
Gideon turned to face the window, staring out over the courthouse lawn and flower beds, his mind wandering over the events of last night. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it, he thought. Unless somebody out there just got their kicks terrifying people or beating up old men.
And Micah Parish. The man was calm, assured and silent. Enigmatic. Not an easy man to know. But a man Gideon nevertheless wanted to know.
Last fall, on the seventieth story of the job he had mentioned to Zeke, there had been an accident. He and his partner, Barney Witt, had shinnied up opposing columns and waited for the derrick, resting on plank flooring thirty feet below, to swing a beam toward them. Connectors needed to have an almost telepathic understanding of their partners, needed to know them well enough to anticipate every move, needed to feel absolutely comfortable with them. Barney and Gideon were such a pair, and they always worked together.
As close as brothers, Gideon thought now. Facing the sunlit square, he forced himself to remember.
The beam had swung into place slowly, cautiously, guided by a tag line held by a man below. It was his job to keep the beam from swinging wildly or spinning out of control. To guide it into the right place. Below them, he braced his feet and leaned backward so far his shoulders were only a foot above the plank flooring as he kept that beam steady.
Gideon and Barney, clinging to their opposite columns, watched it come closer. Barney's end arrived a little sooner, and he reached out, grabbing a corner to help guide it toward his column. Gideon got ready to grab his end.
The tag line snapped suddenly. Without warning. The beam, released abruptly from the guiding pressure of the tag line, swung the other way and caught Barney Witt right in the chest and flung him from his precarious perch. Then it swung back, but Gideon had had just enough time, barely enough time, to slide downward on his column and get out of its way. He was safe even before Barney hit the ground.
Gideon broke into a cold sweat every time he thought of it. Every time he remembered clinging to his column with one hand and watching that beam spin and swing until he got dizzy. Every time he remembered hanging there while his heart stopped beating and his soul quieted. While everything inside him froze with the knowledge that Barney was falling. Barney was dying.
And then the instant Barney died. He hadn't seen it. Hadn't heard it. But he had felt it. A black, roiling wave had crashed through him suddenly, and he had known Barney was dead. Only then did his heart start beating again. Only then did his body move, his brain think. Only then.
But he would never, ever, walk the iron again.
He had lost a brother that day. The only brother he had ever really had. He had gone home to his uncle's ranch, and his uncle, as always, had given him a sanctuary. Gideon worked with the horses, mucked out their stalls, performed all the mindless labor he could manage, trying to silence his grief and loss and nightmares with bone-deep fatigue.
And then he had learned of the existence of Micah Parish.
His real brother.
* * *
Joey wouldn't even look at her. Sara stood outside the cell, fighting for patience and strength, and got madder and madder at her brother. He was sixteen, handsome as sin, with just enough of his grandfather's looks to make him exotically attractive. Up until two years ago she had always imagined a bright future for him. Girls flocked like bees to honey around him. Teachers had always praised his intelligence and creativity. He'd seemed only normally rebellious, normally difficult, for his age.
All that had changed. Not all at once, but rapidly enough. What had at first been called a phase by teachers, other parents and the minister, ha
d finally become a serious problem. Detention and expulsion from school had only seemed to make it worse. He'd run up against the law any number of times, and time and again some deputy let him go with a warning. Sara heard about it all, of course. Her fellow deputies felt she needed to know what was going on. She hadn't been able to prevent it, though.
Now this. Grand theft auto and jail. A felony record. And no sign that he was going to turn around.
He still wouldn't look at her. She glanced at her watch and realized that she'd been standing there for five minutes, waiting for that sullen brat to look at her so she could tell him what had happened. She had stood there for five minutes, trying to rein in her rising temper. Why the hell should she?
"Okay," she said, not caring that her voice vibrated with anger. "Okay, don't look at me. I'm going to tell you this, and I'm only going to say it once. Somebody broke into the house last night and beat Grandfather badly. He's in the hospital with a fractured skull and some broken ribs. Right now he's in intensive care, but they think he's going to be all right."
No response. Nothing. Except that she thought, just maybe, he had stiffened a little. She couldn't be sure.
"Joey." With difficulty, she kept her voice level. "You wouldn't have any idea why anyone would break into the house, would you?"
Again there was no answer. Sara stood there for another moment, feeling as close to despair as she had ever come. And as close to violence. Her hands knotted, and she turned away, mentally washing her hands. That was it, she thought. No more. He could just sit there and rot.
Her hand was on the heavy steel door when he called her.
"Sara."
His voice sounded rusty from disuse, and something in her ached for the boy he had been and the man he might never be now. For her baby brother. She hesitated only a moment, then turned to look back.
"Sara, tell him … tell Grandfather I love him."
"I will." Torn, she stood there, wondering what to do now. Go back to him? Try to talk some more? And then she decided not to push it. "I'll tell him," she repeated. "We love you, too, Joey." Then, before he could reject her again, she hurried away.
* * *
Sara, Gideon thought as he watched her cross the room toward him, had just about reached her limit for now. Her eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue and unshed tears. The corners of her mouth were drooping, and she was trembling. At her limit or not, though, she walked with her head up and her gaze steady.
She didn't say anything as they stepped outside and he opened the door of his truck to help her in. She didn't say a word as he backed out and headed out of town. She didn't say anything until Conard City was well behind them and the truck's engine strained a little harder as they began to climb gently toward the mountains. The early morning air was crisp; the sun was warm and bright.
"Gideon?"
"Ma'am?"
"Will you … can you…" Her voice trailed away, and she sighed.
"I sure can," he answered. "I plan on sticking around at least until Zeke can manage. Somebody's got to look after those dang mustangs of his, and I kind of promised I would."
"But you're on vacation."
"I don't like to be idle. Besides, I'm in no hurry to get anywhere."
"But…" Again her voice trailed away.
This was not like Sara, he thought. He might only have known her for a few days, but she wasn't one to tiptoe around things. And then he realized what might be troubling her.
"Last night?" he said. "Is that worrying you? Forget it, Mouse. I'm not going to jump your bones without an invitation, and I honestly don't expect to get one. Relax."
She averted her face, aware that worry and lack of sleep were making her stupid, fogging her brain and scrambling her words. If she were feeling anything like normal, she never would have brought the subject up, but she wasn't feeling normal. Her whole world had managed to get turned upside down in just a few hours, and strange things were going on inside her. Things that compelled her to pursue a subject she should have dropped like a hot potato as soon as it crossed her mind.
"No," she said, leaning her cheek against the chilly glass of the window. "I mean the way I acted. I'm sorry I blew everything out of proportion. I acted like … like…"
"A frustrated woman?" Gideon suggested, and a warm, teasing chuckle escaped him. "Hell, Mouse, I'm feeling like a bear with a sore paw myself. Self-control is miserable, isn't it?"
Slowly Sara turned her head and looked at him. He was so incredibly frank, she thought. No hidden agendas with him. A woman would always know where she stood with him, and to Sara that was an incredibly attractive attribute. "Don't you have any shame, Ironheart?" she heard herself say, surprised to hear the uncharacteristic teasing note in her voice.
He glanced at her and smiled. "Shame about what? I don't see why I should be ashamed of being a normal, healthy male, or why I should try to pretend that you didn't get me all hot and bothered last night. You're dynamite, Sara Yates, and I'm not at all ashamed that I reacted to you." He paused as he downshifted and turned into her driveway. "I don't see why people are so afraid to admit that."
Sara might be groggy, but her brain hadn't completely failed. "They're afraid of being manipulated."
They had reached the yard before he responded to that. "I guess," he said, as he braked and switched off the engine. "Fear is a terrible thing, isn't it? Messes up things that ought to be perfectly natural and perfectly easy." Like telling a man you're his brother. What the hell would Parish do, anyway? The worst he could do was tell him to get lost. He turned and looked at Sara and realized he had let things get serious. He flashed her a smile. "You're welcome to manipulate me anytime, Mouse."
His meaning was clear, and wild color blossomed in Sara's cheeks. He didn't wait for her answer but climbed out, chuckling, and came around to open the door for her. His laughter had faded by the time he handed her down, though.
"You go in and catch a nap," he said. "I'll take care of the animals and keep an eye out for Parish."
"But you haven't had any sleep yourself!"
He shrugged. "I feel okay. Second wind. Go on. I'll wake you if anything comes up."
He watched that nicely rounded bottom of hers sway as she walked toward the house, and he wondered if he was losing his mind. He had come to Conard County to learn something about the brother he had never known, not to get tangled up in the personal problems of the Yates family.
But here he was, anyway, promising to stick it out until Zeke could manage again, worrying about Sara and how she was going to handle Zeke's temporary disability and Joey's attitude.
And wondering who the hell would want to beat up a harmless old man.
* * *
Chapter 6
« ^ »
Mucking out stalls was filthy, backbreaking work, and Gideon threw himself into it with a will. In addition to the mustangs, which were wild, Sara kept three horses for riding. Zeke had brought them in last night, and this morning they were eager to escape their stalls. He put them all, plus Columbine's foal, into the fenced east pasture and stood for a few minutes watching them gambol.
They were sure feeling frisky this morning. He smiled and leaned against the rail, giving himself a few minutes to soak up the warm sun, the dry air, the pristine beauty of the mountains, trees and grasses. There was something about this place that had a quieting effect on his soul. Despite everything that had happened, everything that was worrying him, despite even his concern for Zeke and Sara, something deep inside him was opening, expanding, trying to flower in response to the sunlight and beauty of the mountains.
He was forty-one years old. In those years he'd experienced an awful lot, some of it things that other people would never experience. He'd had good times, he'd had bad times, and he'd seen hell more than once. He'd laughed with friends and had plenty of fun when he had a few extra bucks in his pocket.
But he'd never once been happy.
Right now something inside him said he could be happy.
That all he had to do was let it happen.
"Ah, hell," he muttered, and turned from the pasture toward the barn. Stalls needed cleaning, a mustang needed some attention, and happiness was a mental Shangri-la, a delusion, a place people kept trying to reach and never did.
He was just spreading straw in the last stall when Micah Parish found him. Gideon straightened, tensing inwardly as he faced the man. His brother.
Damn. Micah's eyes were the eyes of their grandfather, not just in shape and color, but in their quiet intensity. Shaman's eyes. Eyes that could see past facades, into the soul.
Tell him. But the words wouldn't come. He wasn't ready. He had to deal with his own tangled feelings about this before he would be ready to deal with Micah's reaction, whatever it might be. Leaning on the pitchfork, Gideon studied his brother and said nothing. Today, he realized suddenly, Micah wasn't in uniform. It was the first time Gideon had seen him in anything but khaki, but jeans and a red shirt didn't make Micah any less intimidating.
Micah tipped back the brim of his straw hat and then leaned against the stall gate. "Morning, Ironheart."
"Parish."
Feeling wary, Gideon waited.
"Is Sara around?"
"She was going to take a nap."
"Good." Micah's eyes flicked over him, missing nothing, coming to rest finally on the hand that held the pitchfork handle in a white-knuckled grip. "Zeke's doing pretty good this morning, I hear. I called the hospital before I came up here."
"That's good."
Micah's gaze returned to his face, and eyes like obsidian impaled him. "What are you doing mucking out stalls in Conard County, Wyoming, when you could be building a skyscraper in Dallas or Atlanta?"
Gideon's breath caught deep inside for just a split second. This man didn't pull his punches. And suddenly Gideon didn't give a damn who knew the truth. A punch for a punch, he thought. "My partner fell from the seventieth story last fall. I don't walk iron anymore."
