by Linda Ford
Joy erupted in Brand’s heart. He had to share this feeling with someone, and looked up into Sybil’s eyes, not caring that she would likely not rejoice as deeply as he was. Why would she? Most people would think the Duggan gang deserved nothing but punishment.
Her mouth curved in a sweet smile.
His heart threatened to jolt from his chest. For one heartbeat, two, and then a thunderous third beat he let himself drown in that look. Then Pa grabbed his hand and mercifully brought him back to his senses.
“Son, I ain’t long for this world. Promise me something.”
He wanted to argue that Pa would recover, but he couldn’t. He’d seen how Linette had earlier applied a paste of something she said an Indian woman had given her, said it would stop bleeding in normal situations.
Pa’s was obviously not normal, as his wound continued to bleed. “Anything.” If it was in his power to do.
“Promise me you’ll tell Cyrus he can be forgiven, too.”
Surprised at the request, Brand jerked his gaze toward Sybil.
She shuddered. He felt her anger.
“Brand?” Pa sounded anxious, and Brand brought his gaze back to him.
“Yes, Pa. I promise.”
The old man sighed. Brand waited, but Pa had fallen asleep, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.
Brand allowed himself to lift his gaze to Sybil again. “Can God forgive my brother?”
She would not meet his eyes. “Of course.”
“Can you?”
She gathered up a basin full of soiled rags. “I don’t know.” And she left the room.
He understood. Neither brother could expect forgiveness from her. Cyrus didn’t merit it and wouldn’t care.
Brand could never prove he deserved it, even though he cared so much that his throat was impossibly tight.
* * *
Sybil hurried to her room, grateful that Mercy had gone out and Linette was busy elsewhere. Sybil needed to be alone. She didn’t want to forgive any of the Duggans. And it bothered her more than she cared to admit.
In an attempt to forget about the whole business, she pulled out her notebook, intending to write something imaginary that had nothing to do with outlaws and cowboys—a story for children that ended happily in victory. But her fingers went instead to the pages she’d written about Brand.
She should send the story away as it was. A nameless cowboy. Only he was more than that—less than that. A cowboy with a shameful name, a shameful life. She jammed the pages back into her drawer and flung herself facedown on her bed, burying her sobs in her pillow.
She deserved every bit of pain she would endure. All along she’d known she should avoid the man.
She and Linette, with Mercy’s help, cared for Mr. Duggan the rest of the day and throughout the night, but he died as dawn broke over the horizon on Sunday morning.
Both Sybil and Linette were in the room when he breathed his last.
Brand hovered at his side, knowing the end would be soon.
Linette reached over and touched his shoulder. “He’s gone. I’m sorry.”
Brand sank to the chair, his face drained of all color.
Eddie, who was guarding him, went to his side and squeezed his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
For all he showed, Brand might not even have heard.
Sybil stood immobile. He’d lost his father and that had to hurt, even for an outlaw. It reminded her of her own pain and sense of loss and loneliness when her parents had died. Even her anger at Brand for his deception could not block out her concern.
She joined Eddie at Brand’s side.
He lifted his head enough to see the hem of her dress. She waited, wanting more. So much more. All of which she could never have.
Slowly, his head came up until he met her eyes. She knew he tried to bank his emotions, but his eyes darkened until they were almost black. She sensed his difficulty in breathing. Her own throat constricted and her eyes stung with tears. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
He nodded, his eyes narrowing, his breathing deepening. “Thank you.” He turned to Linette and then Eddie. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
Linette smiled. “It’s what we do.”
The rancher cleared his throat. “We’ll give you a moment to say goodbye to your father.”
Linette headed for the door. Sybil hesitated. There was so much more she wanted to say. But it was to the Brand of unknown name. Not Brand, one of the Duggan gang.
For just a moment she let herself believe he was still the former, and touched his shoulder as Eddie had. “You have my deepest sympathy.” And then, lest anyone misjudge her actions, she hurried after Linette.
Eddie stayed behind, his back to Brand and his father, out of respect for Brand’s loss.
That afternoon they buried Morton Duggan in the little graveyard on top of the hill.
Jayne had questioned it. “He’s a criminal. Should he be buried in the same ground as these good people?” Four graves of those who had died passing through the territory stood in the small plot.
“He’s a sinner saved by grace,” Linette said in her decisive way. “Aren’t the angels in heaven rejoicing? How can we be less than charitable?”
And so a little assembly accompanied the body to its final resting place. Most of the cowboys refused to attend on principle. Cookie and Bertie came. Jayne and Seth, Cassie and Roper joined the procession, as did Mercy and Sybil. Linette and Eddie led the way, with Brand following them.
Eddie spoke a few words over the open grave. Sybil was not the only one who wiped away a tear. Perhaps, like herself, they were recalling their own pain. Jayne had seen her fiancé shot dead before her eyes. Cassie had buried a husband and two infants. Sybil didn’t know what loss the others remembered, but it seemed each had a share of pain. Her own seemed fresh in her mind—a mother and father who’d died within weeks of each other.
A best friend who had died way too young.
Despite who and what Brand was, she felt his sorrow as if it was her own.
He stood before the grave, head bowed, hat in his hands almost hiding the ropes that bound him. Seth had been appointed to carry a gun to guard him. Out of respect the others had come unarmed.
Eddie said amen. Each of them tossed in a handful of dirt then passed by Brand, uttering condolences. Sybil went last. She ached to be able to forgive his treachery and who he was. But how could she? Yet she must let him know she understood his sorrow. She’d tried earlier, but felt he was too shocked by his father’s death to really hear her. “I’m sorry,” she said. Such inadequate words for all she felt. “I know what it’s like to lose one’s father.”
His gaze jerked to her, hard, glistening with tears, yet probing.
She jolted as his look rattled against the insides of her heart—an intruder, unwelcome, unsafe.
“Your father was a good man. Mine was an outlaw.” His voice grated. “It’s not the same.”
She patted his arm. “He was your father. It’s the same.”
She left. Why did she say that? It didn’t make sense and yet it was the truth, and somehow, she knew he needed to hear it.
Bertie went to Eddie. “Boss, he needs to be alone with his grief and loss.”
“It’s not a privilege I can give him.”
“Give me the gun. I’ll guard him but respect his need for privacy.”
Eddie considered the request, then nodded to Seth, who handed the rifle to Bertie. Bertie sat on a rock a few feet away.
Brand watched the proceedings without a flicker of expression.
“Ignore me,” Bertie said. “I won’t bother you unless you try and escape.”
Sybil joined the others as they returned to the house. She lingered at the back door, watching Brand standing over hi
s father’s grave. Dawg lay at his feet, his head on his paws, watching his master.
Mercy came to her side. “I guess you can’t help feeling sorry for him even though they are outlaws.”
Sybil didn’t answer. She could never forgive him for being an outlaw and for hiding his identity from her. Nor would she listen to her conscience, which said she must forgive if she wished to be forgiven. Any more than she’d listen to the part of her brain that said he hadn’t forced her to enjoy his company the few days he was at the ranch under false pretenses.
She turned away and put her efforts into helping Linette. Her body was usefully occupied. Too bad her heart wouldn’t be diverted.
* * *
Brand stared at the hole before him. His father lay in the cold ground. He shivered. The grave would soon be covered with dirt and then a layer of snow. But Pa wasn’t there. He was in heaven with Ma.
Brand wasn’t sure how to deal with the sorrow that clawed at his insides. How often had he wished both Pa and Cyrus would not bother him anymore? But not like this. Death was too final.
He sighed and shifted his gaze toward the house. Was that Sybil in the shadows? Then the figure was gone. She’d expressed her regrets. Said she understood that he mourned his pa. He wished he could think she cared, that it was more than politeness, but he didn’t dare allow such a thought.
He was more than grateful for the kindness shown his pa. That had to be all he could think of. Eddie had informed him he could wait in the barn for the Mountie’s return. It was no more than Brand expected. He only wished the Mountie would hurry up so he could leave this place. He fought a constant fight against the sweet memories of the past few days.
“I’m done,” he said to Bertie.
Bertie led him past the house, Dawg walking at his side. Brand forced himself not to look at the windows for a glimpse of Sybil. He had enough memories to carry him through his future, which would be short and end abruptly.
They went to the pen he and Dawg had recently shared. He averted his eyes from the place where Sybil had sat, her back to the rough wood as she visited with him and touched him. Silently, he submitted to being tied securely to a sturdy corner post.
“Surely hate to do this, son, but I got me orders.”
“Don’t worry. It’s what I expect.”
Bertie finished and squatted in front of him, eye to eye. “Linette says your pa made his peace with God before his death. Glad to hear that. What about you? Are you prepared to meet your maker?”
The man’s gentle concern melted Brand’s frozen heart and he smiled. “I am indeed. My ma was a strong believer and taught me to be the same, though truth be told, I let my faith slip for many years.”
“I, too, had a believing ma and I wandered far from God for a time. My mother’s prayers brought me back. Seems your ma’s prayers have done the same. Do you care to send her a letter informing her of your pa’s death?”
“My ma’s dead, though she would have been pleased to hear of his change of heart.”
“Son, I have to ask you, what led you into a path of crime?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Care to tell me?”
“I wouldn’t expect you to believe me.”
“I’d believe you if it was true.” Bertie held his gaze, demanding truth and confession.
Brand swallowed hard. If only he’d had a man like this for a father. The thought unleashed his usual reserve and loosened his tongue. “It was my brother who kidnapped Miss Sybil. He threatened...” Brand shuddered as he recalled Cyrus’s ugly talk. “He said he’d do awful things unless I helped him. I figured if I went along she might be rescued.” No point in mentioning Pa’s promise. No one would believe Brand had trusted the word of an outlaw.
Bertie didn’t even blink. “I see. Have you told Eddie this? Or the Mountie?”
“What difference would it make? I was involved in the robbery of the store. I’m a Duggan.” And that said it all as far as people were concerned. It always had.
“Seems to me you’re more than a Duggan. You’re a good man.” Bertie rose.
“I’ll thank you not to repeat what I just said.” Brand didn’t want to be mocked for making up stories so people would think him innocent.
The other man rocked back and forth on his feet. “Are you saying you’d refuse my help?”
“I’m saying I doubt you could help, and I don’t care to be considered a whiner.”
Bertie patted his shoulder. “You’re no whiner. Now try and be comfortable. I’ll bring your supper when it’s ready. You’re in for a treat. My Cookie makes the best meals in the whole territory.”
Brand chuckled at the man’s pride. Not until Bertie left did he realize he’d not given the promise Brand had asked for. Not that it really mattered. Nothing Bertie said would convince anyone.
Brand hadn’t slept at all the night before. He settled back in the straw now, Dawg at his side, and let sleep numb his thoughts. He jerked awake as Bertie entered and bent to loosen the ropes on his wrists.
“I ain’t into feeding an able-bodied man.”
Brand rubbed his bruised and raw skin, then turned to the food. “You didn’t exaggerate,” he said after his first mouthful. “I realized that when she sent a plate out to me before.” He took another bite of the tender roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy.
Bertie grinned. Then as Brand ate, he sat and told stories of people he’d met and places he’d been. He even managed to make Brand laugh a time or two.
“Son, I’d like to read from the Bible before I go.”
The idea sat well with Brand and he agreed.
Bertie read for a few minutes—stories of the Israelites as they wandered the desert.
The words gave Brand comfort, but his wanderings were soon to end and he would join his ma and pa in heaven. The comfort fled as he choked back the tightness in his throat. Tightness from an imaginary rope about his neck.
Chapter Thirteen
Sybil tossed and turned all night. She could not shake the uncertainty she felt about Brand. She rose tired and angry at herself. She did not want to think of him. He was an outlaw and would soon face justice. But he’d revealed nothing of that sort of nature while she’d kept him company, helped him sew up Dawg, nor when they’d walked to the river. Her cheeks burned with shame to think she had hoped he’d kiss her again. What was wrong with her? Never before in her life had she struggled to keep her thoughts on what was right and wise.
Realizing she was staring out the window in the direction of the barn, she jerked away and went to the library. She would take each book off the shelves and dust the place thoroughly. She sneezed as she tackled the job.
Two hours later she stood back, satisfied. Then her shoulders sagged. Now what? The job had not kept her from thinking of Brand and reliving every moment they had spent together. As it turned out, for her it was in blissful ignorance. Yet even knowing that couldn’t erase those memories.
How was she to move on, with her heart so full of regrets and forbidden wishes?
She hurried from the library. The kitchen was empty. Linette must have taken Grady to visit Cassie’s children. And who knew where Mercy disappeared to? The empty house echoed with Sybil’s inner turmoil.
“I must forget him. Put him out of my mind,” she murmured to the silent walls.
But how could she? Perhaps if she confronted him...
Her decision made, she grabbed a knit shawl and left the house, keeping her steps slow and measured, when she longed to rush down the hill.
She rehearsed what she would say: Why did you not tell me who you are? However, the answer was obvious. If he had, there would have been no chance of even a hint of friendship between them. Nor would he have been invited to come to the ranch in the first place.
Strange
that his reputation hadn’t preceded him. Everyone knew him only as a horse breaker. Why had there been no word of him being part of the Duggan gang? How did he manage to hide that and deceive so many people? Of course, his role in the gang necessitated he do exactly that. Win people’s confidence, learn their secrets so the gang could rob them.
But if that was the case, why hadn’t he accepted any of the invitations into the big house? Why had he shied away from any contact with others?
She pressed her palms to her temples. None of it made any sense. If she answered the questions truthfully, she couldn’t see him as guilty. But was she only trying to make herself feel better about the way she had practically fallen over him?
The cookhouse lay on her left. She slowed her steps. Would Cookie soothe her with tea and cinnamon rolls? Jayne’s cabin stood on her right. Would Jayne offer wise words? Tell her she should guard her heart?
Sybil stared straight ahead. She didn’t want comfort nor wise words. She wanted answers to the ache in her heart, and only Brand could offer those. Though he likely had nothing to give but more lies, more deceit.
The barn door had been pushed open, letting in the cool afternoon air and bright sunshine. Sybil paused to glance about. Noted the thinning leaves on the trees, the dusty brown piles of them gathering along the edges of the yard as if huddling together against winter. They would soon find how futile it was to try and fight the season.
Was she being equally foolish? Refusing to accept the facts?
She opened the gate of the pen in front of the barn and slipped past the bars, holding her breath lest anyone see her and wonder if she had lost her mind.
A man’s voice came from the interior of the barn. Not Brand’s. She paused in the doorway to listen.
“You’re not so high and mighty now, are you?” Cal. She recognized his voice.
She heard no reply from Brand, and wondered whether he spoke so softly she couldn’t hear, or if he didn’t even bother to answer the man.
“I’ve half a mind to drag you outside and let all your admiring fans see who you really are.” Cal laughed, a short, bitter sound. “In fact, that’s what I’m going to do. The others will be showing up for supper about now.”
