Kelly Boyce – Salvation in the Rancher's Arms (страница 4)

A shiver crept up his spine and nestled at the base of his neck, making the hair prickle and stand on end.

That’s destiny tapping you on the shoulder, his mother used to say.

Caleb shrugged. He was not interested in destiny today. He wanted to take care of business and be on his way. More so now than ever.

“Heard he told her some cockamamie story about goin’ to Laramie to buy cattle.”

Caleb’s ears perked up. The man next to him stood half a head taller than his own six feet but couldn’t have weighed enough to matter soaking wet. He’d addressed the man beside him, who stood out of Caleb’s sight.

“Geez, Styles. Ain’t no way he could afford to be buyin’ more cattle in Laramie or anywhere else. ’Course, with Kirkpatrick breathin’ down his neck, guess you can’t blame the man for trying. Wouldn’t have done no good. Kirkpatrick’s bought up all of Bobby’s gambling debts. Jus’ a matter of time before he stops waitin’ on gettin’ paid back.”

Styles shrugged his bony shoulders. “Probably jus’ as well he got ’imself shot, then. Save Rachel the trouble when she finds out jus’ how much he owes.”

Caleb furrowed his brow. It sounded like Sutter had dug a deep hole and was about to drag his whole family down into it with him.

“Ain’t that the truth,” the other man said. “Still, cain’t say I’m surprised much. Bobby always was a gambler. Like my pappy always said, a man is what his past was.”

A woman in the pew next to them turned around and shushed the men. Both straightened and mumbled their apologies, but their words resonated through Caleb.

A man is what his past was.

The thought filled him with a deep sense of desolation. If that were true, there was no hope for him.

* * *

Rachel sat through the service focusing on what needed to be done rather than the words spoken by Reverend Pearce. If she listened, she would fall apart. Reality would settle in, take root and grow like a weed until it choked out everything else. She had to keep her mind on the future, not on the past or what might have been or all the things she’d done wrong. It couldn’t be changed now.

She had to think of the boys. They needed stability, a place to call home, a future to look forward to. Someday, a part of the ranch would be their legacy. Maybe all of it, given that she had no children of her own.

A prickling sensation tickled the hairs at the back of her neck, pulling her away from her ruminations. She turned to her left and scanned the faces of the congregation who had come to pay their respects. Her gaze swept the line of men standing along the wall and settled onto the stranger next to Jeremiah Styles.

He leaned against the wall, and though his manner appeared casual, Rachel sensed a predatory air about him, as if his posture was nothing more than a ruse. His sharp gaze spoke of a man well aware of his surroundings and any threats it might present. Lean and broad shouldered, he maintained an air of readiness, like a mountain cat about to strike. A frisson of unease tangled itself around her.

His gaze bored into hers, steady and unwavering. There was something in those eyes. Something hungry. Desperate. Haunted. It was like looking in a mirror.

Rachel’s breath caught and she turned back to face the front. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and forced her heart to slow.

She knew who he was. Strangers were easy to pick out in a town where so few passed through. He was the man who’d brought Robert’s body back from Laramie.

He was the one who would tell her the truth about what had happened.

After the ceremony, they convened to the graveyard and lowered Robert’s casket into the newly thawed earth. Rachel took a handful of dirt and dropped it into the gaping hole. It fell with a heavy thud onto the coffin. She didn’t think she’d ever heard a more lonely sound.

“In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to the Almighty God our brother Robert Charles Sutter, and we commit his body to the ground. Earth to earth...”

Next to her, Ethan gripped her hand and squeezed, pressing his face into her arm.

“...ashes to ashes...”

Rachel’s stomach twisted. How had it come to this?

“...dust to dust...”

Eight years ago she had been full of hope. She pulled in her lip and took a deep breath, blinking back tears she refused to let fall. She would not break down. She would not give in.

“...the Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make his face to shine upon him...”

This was it. It was over.

“...and be gracious unto him and give him peace. Amen.”

It was done.

“Amen,” the congregation chanted back in subdued tones.

Robert was gone.

And all he’d left behind was questions.

Rachel searched the crowd for the stranger. She needed to understand, needed answers, and he was the only man who could give them to her.

She found him lingering in the shade of the gnarled oak growing in the far corner of the graveyard. He hadn’t joined the graveside service, but instead hung back near the road, away from the crowd. His hat, pulled low over his eyes, kept his expression hidden in shadow, but in her mind’s eye she could see the clear outline of his chiseled features. The deep-set eyes and wind-burned cheekbones. The firm set of the mouth against a few days’ growth of beard.

He was a handsome man, though not conventionally so. But something about his essence grabbed your attention and held it. This was a man who would be hard to forget, yet she sensed from the way he held back from the others and kept his face half hidden, being forgotten was exactly what he preferred.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the townspeople began filing past her, issuing platitudes and condolences. One by one, Rachel answered with the appropriate, “Thank you....I appreciate it....” And finally, most emphatically, “...no, we’ll be fine.”

The words had a strange, hypnotic effect, even if she didn’t believe them. Standing not too far away on the small crest of the hill, Freedom waited. Rachel sent the boys to her, giving Ethan one last hug before Brody led him away. She watched their retreating backs. What would they do now? The winter had been hard on them, but Robert had promised they had enough funds to replenish their cattle herd at the spring auction in Laramie.

Like a fool she had believed him.

The corner of her eye caught a motion coming toward her. A wall of black wove through the crowd with the determination of the Grim Reaper.

Shamus Kirkpatrick.

Her jaw tightened. Did the man have no compassion?

She could not deal with Shamus, today of all days. No doubt he would come to her dripping of sympathy with all the sincerity of a snake-oil salesman, sizing her up to find her weak spot before going in for the kill.

She had to get away, but panic paralyzed her limbs. The congregation had moved from the grave site to the courtyard in front of the church, leaving her alone.

“Come with me.”

The voice was low and husky, and hot breath tickled her ear. A hand gripped her elbow from behind with firm pressure. The sudden intimacy shocked her, causing her to stumble as she was maneuvered away from Robert’s graveside. She glanced up into the chiseled features of the stranger. Up close, the details of his face were even more captivating than from a distance. Tiny lines creased the edges of his eyes, and his full mouth pulled itself into a severe line. There was no give or softness to be found anywhere. He was all harsh angles and rugged maleness. It overpowered her senses, and she let him pull her along without protest.

He led her away from Shamus, down the hill toward the church, his hand solid and firm where it gripped her arm. It had been a long time since a man had touched her. Warmth spread through her and she cursed her body’s weakness. So much like her mother.

She gritted her teeth against the thought and found her voice. “Where are you taking me? The boys—”

“Boys are fine,” he said, casting a quick glance behind them to where Ethan and Brody stood with Freedom.

So close, his eyes were even more potent, neither brown nor green but a mottled shade of both, and set above a pair of razor-sharp cheekbones burned by the elements. Poking out from beneath his hat, thick brown hair curled up at the ends and whiskers, tinted red where the sunlight touched them, prickled his jaw.

“You’re the man who brought Robert home.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She waited for more as he directed her around Mrs. Lyngate and her brood of eight children, but the man was silent as a church on Monday morning. She struggled to keep up with his swift gait, gathering her skirts in her free hand.

“Do you mind telling me what my husband was doing in Laramie that got him shot?”

His gaze drifted over her, making her tremble, as if he had reached out and brushed his fingertips against her bare skin. The sensation left her unsettled.

“Maybe that question is best answered at another time. I’ll be at the Pagget this evening. Seven o’clock.”

Before she could respond, the stranger propelled her into the crowd in the courtyard and the pressure on her arm disappeared, leaving her staring at the broad expanse of his retreating back. Another round of platitudes began. Rachel accepted the condolences, realizing he had left her safely ensconced in the bosom of the mourners where Shamus wouldn’t dare accost her.