by Kathy Shaw
A shaky sigh escaped him as he brought her almost bloodless fingers to his mouth and kissed them. “Sweet Jesus, sunshine, what have I done?”
“Nothing, Sullivan,” Rachel’s father consoled from the open doorway. “This isn’t your fault. You saved her. If you hadn’t gotten her home and you and Nessa stopped the bleeding until the doc could get out here, my daughter would have died.”
“If I hadn’t taken her out there, if I hadn’t—”
Ethan Hale cut him off before he could finish. “Don’t do this to yourself, son. The doctor said she’d be all right. You heard him. She’s just weak from blood loss.”
Donovan jerked to his feet and stomped away from the bedside. He slung his arm toward the bed and growled, “Does she look all right to you?”
“Damn it, Langley!” Hale barked just as loudly, sounding as worried as his son-in-law. “Doc Weaver gave her something to help with the pain. She’s sedated!”
“Don’t coddled me, Hale! I took an innocent, beautiful woman and put her in harm’s way.”
“Thank you for the compliment, but could the two of you hold it down?” Rachel murmured from the bed. “I’m trying to sleep.”
Rachel’s father, still standing bedside, clasped her hand. “How are you feeling, baby girl?”
“Thirsty.”
Donovan leaned against the bed’s footboard and gave a quick prayer of thanks. She still looked pale as a ghost, but with her eyes open and a weak smile on her lips, he finally let himself believe Doc Weaver’s words. His wife was going to be okay.
But he might not. He’d gone and fallen in love with his wife.
Damn it to Hell and back!
While Rachel was napping the next afternoon, Donovan made his way to the old log cabin.
Grandpa Finn had built a one-room log cabin when he and Grandma settled in Oregon fifty years ago. As their family grew, they added onto the original cabin. Later, they built the main house on the other side of the creek from the cabin. The walk between the new house and the old cabin took about ten minutes.
When they were young, Donovan and Sullivan played frontier men fresh off the Oregon trail around the old place. That’s when they found the hidden escape tunnel Grandpa Finn had dug in case of Indian attack.
The boys promised to keep the passageway their secret, hiding special childhood treasures within its walls. They figured their pa knew about the escape route, but hoped he’d forgotten about it over the years.
Donovan stepped onto the front porch of the old log cabin. Dread and grief rolled in his stomach until he thought he might be sick. But along with his gut-retching dread and profound sorrow, something else churned in his gut. Something that told him to look deeper.
Something was off.
Squaring his shoulders, he walked inside the cabin. Everything was just as he’d left it. He could hardly look at the table where Sullivan had taken his own life.
He moved to the woven rug centered in the large living and kitchen area. Flipping the rug back, he glowered at the trap door in the floor. If Sullivan kept records of his illicit undertakings, they would be hidden inside the tunnel. He wasn’t sure what he wanted. Finding proof his twin brother was a coldhearted sonvabitch or finding nothing and always wonder what kind of man Sullivan was.
Bracing himself for whatever came, Donovan lifted the trapdoor and jumped into the shaft leading to the tunnel. A lantern and a box of matches sat on a short shelf just inside the burrow. He lit it and moved deeper into the passageway.
About halfway through, he spotted his and Sullivan’s stash of spoils. Squatting, he fingered the carved horse figure and train he and Sullivan had spent hours whittling with a knife they’d lifted from the kitchen. There were also two sling-shots in the pile. Memories flooded over Donovan, some good—some not so good.
Shrugging out the past, he stood and noticed a discolored rock imbedded in the wall just above the old toys. When he touched the large stone, it wobbled against his fingers. He pried the rock from the wall and looked inside.
Someone had hollowed out a shelf in the back of the rock’s cavity. On it lay a leather-bounded journal and a pencil.
Donovan’s hand shook as he picked up the book. He read by the flickering lantern light. A few minutes later, he slapped the journal shut and cursed.
It was all there. How his brother had saved Banker Roker from embezzling charges to practically owning the man’s soul. His brother had witnessed the barkeep Tom shoot the missing drifter because he was beating Tom’s best whore and then helped him dump the body into Reaper’s Ravine.
Evidently Tom had a shady past and had run to New Dawn Springs to start over. The barkeep’s mistake was telling Sullivan why he wasn’t willing to call in the authorities.
And finally, Donovan read the account of how Sullivan had purposely poisoned a bag of feed and gave it to George Jackson to feed to his prized studhorse.
Donovan paced in the dimly lit tunnel while fury and disappointment battled for dominance. Fury won out.
How could Sullivan do this to people? How could he smear the Langley name with his power-hungry schemes?
Yes, Donovan had stolen and killed, but only out of self-preservation—at least, in the beginning. When he’d finally found his footing and could return home, his pride wouldn’t let him. And then his reputation wouldn’t let him. He’d have put his family in danger.
Angry, he slapped the journal against this leg. A folded paper partially dislodged from between the pages. A letter. Holding its place in the journal with his finger, he read the letter. He felt the blood drain from his face.
Loretta Sewell—whoever she was—confessed her undying love for Sullivan and threatened to kill anyone who tried to take his affections from her. Even the sheriff’s daughter.
But it was Sullivan’s comments in his journal concerning the letter that renewed his fury into full-blown rage.
Sullivan admitted he was only marrying Rachel because she was the sheriff’s daughter. Sullivan needed the safety of having the lawman as his father-in-law in case something went wrong. Also, he was hoping to find some dirt on the man he could use later if the opportunity arose.
Then Sullivan went on to say he’d hold on to Loretta’s letter in case he needed a scapegoat for his wife’s sudden death. Had he intended to kill Rachel as some point?
“If you weren’t already dead, you son of a bitch, I’d kill you myself!”
Chapter 11
A week after Donovan found Sullivan’s journal, it still weighed heavily on his mind.
At the time of Rachel’s injury, he’d been sure someone had been shooting at him, but now he wasn’t so certain. They had been passionately kissing while he unbuttoned her bodice. It was obvious they were about to make love. Well, until the damned rattlesnake had interrupted them. Still, an onlooker, a jealous-crazed onlooker, might have been aiming at Rachel and not him.
Donovan scanned the horizon as he neared Reaper’s Ravine, his horse trotting at a steady gait. During the night as he watched Rachel sleep, he pledged to protect his wife at any cost. Even lowering himself to Sullivan’s level. Blackmail.
First thing this morning, he’d talked to Nessa and found out who Loretta Sewell was and where she lived. Now, he was on his way to town to have a forthcoming conversation with the Widow Sewell.
He intended to explain that their relationship was over. He’d tell her he still had her letter where she’d threatened to kill Rachel. Then promise to go to the authorities with letter in hand if even one hair on her head came to harm. As the scene played in his head, he envisioned his parting words, “I’d keep my wife’s good health in my prayers, if I were you.”
Suddenly, a shot rang out, jerking him back to reality.
A plume of dirt and rock exploded inches in front of him. His horse reared, pawed at empty air, causing them to turn toward the ravine. Donovan barely regained control before he and his horse plummeted over the edge.
Donovan didn’t take time to search for
the shooter. He was a sitting duck in the open like he was. He headed for cover on the ranch end of the ravine.
Ducking behind a tree, gun drawn, he scanned the area for any movement that might show the shooter’s location. Nothing. No, the shooter was long gone or burrowed in the bush and wasn’t coming out until Donovan was gone.
When he was sure—well, pretty sure—it was safe to step away from the cover of the tree line, he remounted and headed back to the Legacy. No use going into New Dawn Springs now. This last attempt was definitely aimed at him.
As he came upon the site where his buggy axle had gouged a gash into the road, it reminded him to inspect the wheel and broken axle when he got back to the barn. But something told him he already knew what he’d find. Tampering.
Yep, someone wanted Sullivan Langley dead. And the list was long.
Suddenly, a thought hit Donovan so hard, he almost lost his breath. What if Sullivan’s death wasn’t a suicide?
Enough was enough, Rachel thought as she readied for bed. She’d been asking Sullivan questions about their past—as in, remember when we…—for over a week. Sullivan only nodded or made vague comments or changed the subject completely. So, now it was time to change her strategy.
Tonight, she was going to feed him false information and see if he corrected her…or not.
As he had every night since they’d married two weeks ago, Sullivan stepped into their bedroom shirtless, barefooted with a damp towel draped around his neck. And like every night, a current of heat surged through her.
Dang it, even with the heavy weight of foreboding doubt pressing against her heart, she still wanted him.
Sullivan moved to stand behind her as she sat in front of her dressing table brushing her hair. After a moment, he bent and placed a tender kiss on her wounded shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. The doctor said another week wearing the sling, and I’d be back to normal.”
“Thank God there were no broken bones. It could have been much worse.”
Rachel put down her brush, stood, and turned to face him. Immediately, his arms encircled her waist, holding her tightly against his chest.
“I don’t know what I’d done if I’d lost you.”
Was he about to lose her now? she wondered.
She braced herself for the next few minutes and what they might bring.
Laying her palm over his jawline, she smiled. “Don’t worry, Sully, I’m going to be fine.”
His jaw clenched then relaxed against her hand almost in the same heartbeat. “Sully, huh?”
One time while they’d been courting, she’d called him “Sully,” hoping to relieve the tense formality of their rapport. The man had vehemently demanded she never address him as such again, informing her the nickname was below his station in society.
Yes, he’d reacted now, but just barely. Not the full-blown temper tantrum she’d expected. Maybe he didn’t want to upset her while she recovered from the shooting. Maybe he’d remind her of his preference after she healed.
“I thought since you have a nickname for me, I should have one for you. Do you mind?” she nudged.
“My brother used to taunt me with the name Sully when we were kids.” Sullivan shook his head. “But I like the way it sounds when you say it. All sweet and honeyed with a hint of your Irish accent that slips out every once in a while.”
She sighed in disappointment. She’d neither confirmed nor disproved her doubts. She’d have to continue her covert interrogation.
“Sully?” she purred as he leaned into her and nuzzled her neck.
“Hmm?” he answered, his lips not breaking contact along her neck and good shoulder.
“I’ve been meaning to apologize for my behavior during our first date. I tend to babble when I’m nervous. You couldn’t get a word in edgewise.” In reality, Sullivan had completely dominated their conversation during their lunch at Sarah’s Café. He’d talked about his time away at college, his current pursuits and his heady goals for his future. She, on the other hand, hadn’t said ten words through the whole meal.
“You were quite the chatterbox.” He scooped her up into his arms and carried her to their bed. “Kind of like now.”
Was he being sarcastic? Or just didn’t know any better?
He gently laid her onto the turned-down bed and kissed her forehead then stepped back, dropped his pants and crawled in beside her. When he reached for her, she went willingly into his arms.
Sighing, he stroked his fingertips up and down her upper arm. “This is my favorite part of the day.”
“Mine too,” she murmured against his bare chest.
They settled into a comfortable silence. Sullivan seemed deep in thought which allowed her a moment with own thoughts.
She wanted to trust her husband. She wanted to have a happily-ever-after with her husband. But first and foremost, she wanted to know the truth about her husband.
Sullivan’s hypnotic strokes slowed.
Rachel sneaked a peek through her lashes to verify Sullivan was still awake. It was now or never.
“Donovan?” she whispered.
His strokes never wavered. “Hmm?”
“When did you trade out with Sullivan?”
Sweet Jesus! Every muscle in his body flinched taut with fear.
How? How had he slipped up? What had he said?
Not that it mattered. She’d figured him out.
He took one look at Rachel’s set jaw, blue fury sparking from her eyes and the waves of loathing rolling over her body and he knew there was no need in denying the truth. “Rachel, I…”
“Do not lie to me.” Rachel scrambled out of bed as best she could with one arm in a sling. “When?”
Donovan braced himself. Things were heading south—fast. “Almost a week before we married.”
Her eyes widening in…shock? “We? We married? I’m really Mrs. Donovan Langley.”
“No, you’re Rachel Langley, the most beautiful, honest woman I know. So, I completely understand why you’re having an issue with the situation.” Donovan reassured as he jerked his leg into his pants.
“An issue?” Rachel laughed, but it held no humor. “In the eyes of the law and church I’m married to you, outlaw at large.”
“No, you married Sullivan, a jackass and fool. All the papers say so, all the guests at the wedding will verify, and the preacher signed the marriage license stating he wedded Sullivan Langley to Rachel Hale.”
Silence pressed against the tense air around them. He could almost hear her thoughts as she processed what he’d just said.
After a long moment, she asked, “Where is Sullivan?”
Donovan sighed, knowing this was the beginning of the end for them. “He’s dead.”
She swayed slightly, almost as though his words had physically hit her. He moved toward her but stopped when he saw fear in her eyes.
“Get out!”
“For God’s sake, Rachel, I won’t hurt you.”
“Get out now!”
Donovan sighed and left. Hopeful she’d listen to his explanation later. But he doubted it.
He’d had almost three weeks of happiness. That was three more weeks than he deserved.
Chapter 12
Donovan was in a foul mood. Last night had been a bitch. This morning hadn’t turned out any better.
Rachel had refused to talk to him. Hell, she’d promised to put a bullet through the door if he so much as wiggled the doorknob. And he believed her.
Guess some people took longer to cool down than others.
She wasn’t any happier at noon. Or three that afternoon. Or five o’clock either.
Well, fine. He had other things to do than sit around and wait for his wife to quit pouting. He had a killer to catch.
By eight o’clock that evening, Donovan lounged in the back-corner table of the Watering Hole Saloon watching a couple rowdy cowboys playing grab-ass with one of the saloon girls. Everything seemed friendly enough now, but there’d be tr
ouble there before the night was over.
Donovan, his tongue pressed against the mouth of the bottle to obstruct the flow of liquor, slammed back a fake swig of whiskey. When he lowered the bottle from his lips, he noticed George Jackson and Tom Duffy, the barkeep, watching him from the bar. They seemed to be all buddy-buddy ever since Jackson had come in about an hour ago.
There also seemed to be a never-ending flow of whiskey coming his way. He’d already dumped almost a full bottle in the alley on the pretense of relieving himself.
Yep, time for another opportunity to knock on his would-be killer’s door.
Donovan stood, swaying on his feet for any interested on-lookers, clutched his whiskey bottle by its neck and staggered through the saloon on his way to the alley. Sure enough, just as he was stepped outside, Jackson left through the front door. Now the only question would be if Tom followed him to the side door.
The two men could have him in a cross fire if they were working together. Not the best situation, but nothing he couldn’t handle.
He stumbled around the dark alley, only the meager light from the saloon’s side door penetrating the shadows. A soft crunch on the street end of the alley alerted him. Jackson was about to make his play.
Donovan silently placed his whiskey bottle on top of a nearby barrel, then leaned his left hand high on the wall in front of him as though he needed help balancing while doing his business. When he spoke, he slurred his words with liquor-soaked bluster. “Can’t a man even pee in peace around here?”
“What’s the matter, Langley? The little woman already kicked you out on your ass?”
Anger and hurt coiled in Donovan’s gut. Anger because Jackson had dared to mentioned Rachel and hurt because what he said was true. Hoping to provoke Jackson into admitting to killing Sullivan, Donovan grunted, “Go away little man with a dead horse. I’m busy.”
“Kiss my ass, Langley!” Jackson moved farther into the alleyway and drew his gun. “I don’t know how I missed you that time at the cabin. I was sure I’d seen blood. But I won’t miss this time.”
