Remnants of Trust

Chapters 40-48

by Redwood

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the TV program "Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended by the author. The ideas expressed in this story are copyrighted to the author.

Chapter 40

She huddled behind the wagon with its heavy trunks, piled one on top of the other. She tried to think, tried to reach a decision. She knew Matthew was out there, over near the barn, separated from her by the trunks, the buckboard, the barrels, and the dark. And, she knew he was angry, angrier than she’d ever known him to be, angrier even than he’d been when the end of the war was announced all those years ago, and defeat was assured.

Worse, she knew that his anger was directed at her.

But, maybe, she didn’t need either one of them.

Maybe she didn’t have to choose.

Maybe, if she could just make it back to the house behind her. . . .

Glancing over at the man to her immediate left, she pulled together her courage, gathered her skirts, and prepared to flee back to the open doorway of the log-framed house, and the rifle she knew rested behind the door.

As she turned, she felt a grip of iron clamp down on her arm. Twisting away from the smiling green eyes, she cried out.

Immediately, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, her husband rising quickly to his feet, his tall, lanky frame distinguishable even in the moonlit darkness.

“Let go of her, Reese!” Matt’s voice rang out, filling the silence that had fallen in the deepening dark, filling the camp with his outrage. Swiftly, he stepped forward, out from behind the barrels, and in four long strides, he reached the side of the buckboard.

“Not another step, Bentell,” said the shorter man, dressed in what looked to Jarrod to be a gentleman’s attire, light in color. “She may be trying to get away from me now that you’ve caught her, but I assure you, she sought me out willingly. Don’t interfere, and we’ll be out of your way.”

Jarrod stepped in quickly and took up Bentell’s position behind the barrels, still trying to figure out what had happened, why at least one man lay dead beside the barn, and who had done the shooting.

Going back to meet Nick now, was not an option. The only way to know what was happening was to watch the drama unfolding in front of him, to listen closely to the words of challenge being shouted into the night.

From where Jarrod waited, he could only see the gun hanging loosely from Bentell’s hand, down at his side.

Was the other man armed? Who was he? And, what was he doing with Matt’s wife?

Bentell had called him Reese, but he certainly wasn’t the large, strapping man by the same last name who was the camp’s assistant foreman.

“You got what you came here for,” Bentell spat out. “Take the damned rocks and go. There’s plenty more where they came from. But, leave my wife where she stands.”

“No, Bentell. I may have come for the stones in that mine, but I’ll leave here with everything, including this woman.” He took his eyes off of Bentell for an instant and looked down into the face of the woman whose arm he held. His face cracked into a leering smile as he said, “Tell him, Cynda. Tell him, now!”

Again, he shook her arm.

Jarrod’s hand tightened on his pistol. If the woman was being taken somewhere against her will, the decision he needed to make was easy. . . .

But, suddenly, Jarrod remembered what had occurred in Coreyville over a month ago. That too, had had its origins in what he now knew to have been a misshaped lover’s triangle, and, from his discussion with Heath a few weeks before he had left on his recent horse-buying trip, Jarrod knew all was not as it had appeared, not as it had been told to him by Amy Coulter.

He narrowed his eyes and renewed his attention to all three of the people standing by the wagon.

At Reese’s tightened grip on her arm, Cynda Bentell caught her breath in fear.

But, seeing Matthew’s irate movements, she knew which of the two she was more afraid of, and she pulled her arm roughly out of Reese’s grasp.

Besides, she had to get away from here!

Then, her resolve returning, she straightened her dress and lifted her chin, reaching back out with both hands to take Reese’s arm in hers and turning to face the frightening blue eyes that bored into her from fifteen feet away.

She said breathlessly, backing up a step to place the dapper man between herself and her husband’s fury, “He’s right, Matthew. I’m through here. I’m through with waiting for all that I’ve deserved for the last ten years.”

The longer she talked, the bolder she grew. Finally, she spat out at him, “I’m through with you, Matthew Bentell, and I’m through with the Barkleys and their precious lumber camp in these forsaken mountains. I’m going back to civilization with Newman, and you can’t stop either one of us.”

The tall, angry man in front of Jarrod seemed to falter, taking a step back as if he had been punched in the gut. He reached out, across his body, to grab hold of the rough wood of the wagon beside him with one hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jarrod saw Nick edging up to some bales of hay in front of the barn, saw him go down on one knee, out of sight from the log-framed porch, but watching intently as the situation in front of them unfolded.

Jarrod breathed out a quiet sigh of relief, glad he would have help in dealing with whatever came of this situation.

Though they had both heard the earlier shots and knew of the violence that must be lurking, somewhere, just beneath the surface, Jarrod was reasonably sure that Nick didn’t know of the deadly results he had already seen.

Was it really just some lover’s triangle laid bare before them, or was there more to this? How had that man behind him died? Who had shot him, and why?

Not knowing what had already happened here was forcing both of them solely into the role of intent watchers, at least at this point. But, just as a similar situation had turned deadly in Coreyville, it had already, apparently, gone that way here. And, if they weren’t careful, they could inadvertently contribute to more destruction, or become caught up in it like he and Heath had before.

Remembering Renegade Rocks, and all that had happened there, Jarrod felt a chill of foreboding clench his spine.

Suddenly, at a faint noise from somewhere behind him, he glanced back to make sure no one was approaching from beside the barn. Satisfied, he cautioned himself to remain as objective as possible.

Again, the questions shoved their way into the forefront of his ever-logical mind.

If the woman was going willingly, who was the victim?

Who, if anyone, needed their help?

And, again, who had fired the shots that must have killed the man behind him?

Remembering what had happened in Coreyville, Jarrod knew he needed to be sure, needed to be positive, before deciding who deserved their trust this time.

Suddenly, however, the questions were pushed abruptly away.

Jarrod and Nick, as well as the other three occupants of the area between the house and the barn, all turned to look, as a quietly serious voice from above them, apparently from either the open loft or roof of the barn, called out.

“Stop! Put your guns away. Now-----both’a you.”

Chapter 41

Neither Jarrod nor Nick could see the man above them, but both recognized the voice.

As for the three standing near the buckboard, all three immediately recognized the man behind the rifle that was pointing in their general direction, even in the dim light. And, being able to see who had spoken, who had them out-flanked from above, neither of the two men by the wagon holding a gun believed that he would shoot.

The green-eyed man in the tan plaid suit smiled at this twist of fate. He stared deeply into the blue eyes of his opponent, Matt Bentell.

However, after glancing briefly over his shoulder at the man in the open loft doorway, Matt Bentell only had eyes for his wife. He took a step forward, recovering the distance he had lost when she had spoken moments before.

And, before he spoke to her, he raised his pistol, pointing it at Newman Reese. “Cynda, back away from him. You’re not getting in this wagon. I know what you want, and I’ll do whatever I have to do to get it for you. You know that.”

But, the blond-haired woman shook her head and pushed on Reese’s arm, stepping with him, moving them both toward the seat of the loaded wagon----and her way out of there.

“I believe the lady wants to go, Bentell. So if you’ll just step back, we’ll be on our way.”

“NO!”

In that second, Jarrod and Nick rose up from their positions close to the barn, certain that one of the men in front of them was about to fire. But, unable to see Newman Reese clearly, they couldn’t be sure which one, couldn’t be sure how to prevent what was happening right before them.

Two shots tore through the night, one so close on the heels of the other, that they were almost indistinguishable.

Bentell, who had lunged toward Newman Reese to pull his wife away from him, caught the bullet from the man’s handgun in the center of his chest at close range. He was propelled backward, where he fell, his eyes still on his wife.

By the time Jarrod reached Bentell, Newman Reese was dead, smile still on his face. A bullet from the rifle pointed at him from above had cut through his chest.

Nick stood slowly, the pulling of his own pistol’s trigger unnecessary in the aftermath of the quick reaction of the man above him. He turned and looked up at the man still standing in the open loft, the rifle held loosely, pointing toward the ground.

Watching the man’s face, Nick saw the emotions carving out a path of anguish, betrayal, and guilt just before the man turned away.

Nick walked over to the dead man, the man he did not know, and he stood looking down at the open green eyes, dark now in the quietness of death, and he waited for the other man to join him. He glanced up when he saw Cynda Bentell, her footsteps sluggish, change her choice-----change her mind, now that it was too late.

Jarrod glanced up, from where he knelt, his arms supporting the head and shoulders of the dying man. He saw the dismay and guilt on the face of Mrs. Bentell, and he saw Matt’s hand reach up to touch her. Swallowing his own anger at this woman, Jarrod backed away and let her take Matt’s head into her lap as she lowered herself to the ground beside him.

“Cyn-da.”

“I’m here now, Matthew.”

“Why, . . . Cynda?” Matt asked.

“Shhhh,” she said, his hand wrapped in hers.

“But, why, Cynda? He’s a criminal. . . . You’d be. . . running with him. . . the rest of . . . your life.”

“Oh, Matthew,” she cried, lowering her head, her tears falling into his face, “I’ve been running with you for years.”

Silence followed her words.

Then, Jarrod heard him ask, his voice choked with pain, “The money?

“Yes, the money. That, and a name that was clean.”

Matt Bentell’s next words, if there were any, were drowned out as several men on horses rode into the camp. Jarrod turned his head to see the local sheriff with two of his deputies. Since Nick was walking toward them, obviously to offer explanations of what they had seen, Jarrod turned his head back to look at the man and woman on the ground behind the buckboard.

He was just in time to see the woman closing the man’s eyes with her hand and bending over him, holding his head to her breast, and to hear her quiet cries as she rocked him, giving him the comfort in death that she had denied him moments ago when it might have made all the difference.

Suddenly, he felt a large hand on his shoulder, and he turned to look into the troubled eyes of Jim Reese, Bentell’s assistant on the log flume project.

“Jim,” Jarrod said, reaching to take the still warm rifle barrel from the man’s other hand, “Are you alright?”

The large, brawny man in the red-plaid shirt just shook his head. Then, he left Jarrod and walked toward the man lying dead on the ground in front of them. Jarrod followed, placing his hand on Jim’s shoulder, as the man knelt in the dust, hands on his thighs, not touching the body of the man he had shot.

“Jim,” Jarrod said gently, “You knew him, didn’t you?”

Without looking up, Jim Reese nodded his head. Then, Jarrod heard him say, in a quiet voice, “He was my younger brother. Even though he used me, betrayed me, in fact-----I never wanted it to end like this.”

Closing his eyes, Jarrod let the words wash over him, the pain at one man’s loss of a brother at his own hand something he couldn’t imagine having to endure.

He gripped Jim’s shoulder tightly, letting the man know he would be there for him, though all he wanted to do at this moment was to pull both of his own brothers into a fierce hug and never let go of either of them.

Then, as Jim nodded and said, “Just give me a minute, Mr. Barkley,” Jarrod nodded and stepped a short distance away.

Jarrod looked over at Nick, saw his eyes watching Jim, knew that Nick had heard the sorrow-filled words.

Then, Nick turned his head and returned Jarrod’s gaze, his own anguish speaking volumes, even across the distance between them, even through the darkness that surrounded them.

Silently, Jarrod nodded in acknowledgement and gratitude of that bond they shared.

Then, as one, they each turned back to the tasks at hand, Nick to continue speaking to the sheriff, and Jarrod to continue offering his support to Jim Reese.

But, even as he continued to stay close to Jim, it was Heath that he thought of. Silently, he vowed that he was going to find a way to keep the fledgling bond, the bridge between them that had begun with the offer of a cigar and a hand, that had flourished despite betrayal and because of shared hazards, as strong as it could have been had they grown up as he and Nick had----as brothers from the start.

* * * * * * * *

Though the surface of the trail was fairly smooth, the elevation changes were not. The ground-eating lope became more and more erratic.

As its hooves met with another gradual ascent, the horse, of its own accord, dropped down into an uncertain jog.

Finally, as the slope sharpened, the horse drifted to a hesitant walk.

After a little while of moving forward along the trail in the dark, it suddenly jerked its head up, snorted, and halted in its tracks.

In response, the man on its back shifted briefly, squeezing with long legs, and again, the horse moved off, but slowly, with uncertainty evident in every step.

A little later, the horse tossed its head and stretched its neck, pulling on reins which, surprisingly, slid forward, offering greater range of motion.

After a few more tentative yards, the animal stopped again. Then, it lowered its head to a clump of grass next to the trail, and snatched up the succulent green growth, before taking several more steps forward.

Tossing its head, the horse chewed the grass, and then, stopped, waiting for correction that did not come.

Then, with one more toss of its head, one rein slithered to the ground, leather trailing there among the thick carpeting of pine needles. The horse recognized the unspoken signal to stand and finally relaxed, finally sure of its actions.

It stood still for a little while, unmoving, then, lowered its head again, reaching for another clump of tall, sweet grass.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the weight on its back shifted again, and the horse rolled its eyes at the unfamiliar sensation. The animal sidled to the right, its hindquarters dancing around and away from the weight drifting down on its left.

Suddenly, the weight dropped and hit the ground beside the horse’s left, front hoof with a sharp, single-syllable of sound.

Though the horse immediately tossed its head and jumped away, startled, it held its ground after that, tethered by long hours of patient teaching to the center of its tenuous circle, where the pivot point of its trailing rein met the ground.

As the bright moon began to descend and more glittering stars began to poke through the inky darkness, through the canopy of pine needles above, the quiet shifting of the horse’s weight was the only movement along the trail.

Chapter 42

Dawn came late to the western slopes of the mountains, their trails silently shielded from light behind thick stands of trees and tall, imposing ridges to the east.

The grey of early morning still held his surroundings in its grip when Heath struggled back into the saddle.

Though he had shed no blood in the fall from the saddle the night before, he was hurting.

Each groan that escaped, punctuating the quiet of the morning, spoke of aching muscles, battered bones, and a constantly throbbing shoulder. Worse, every movement of his head heightened the steady pain that had hit him as soon as his eyes had first cracked open, making him all too aware that traveling anywhere, at any gait, was not going to be pleasant.

Turning the bay toward the next ridge and the river beyond, Heath clenched his jaw and forced his thoughts toward the lumber camp still several hours away.

* * * * * * * *

A little while later, and beginning to feel slightly better as some of the stiffness of his muscles eased up, Heath halted the bay on top of the ridge and, though breathing deeply, he was able to appreciate the magnificent view all around him.

Off to the east, the sun’s first appearance was heralded by a dazzling display of vibrant red, the hue an announcement of a possible storm later in the day.

Laying the reins loosely across the saddle horn, he took a deep breath, stretched his left arm out across his body, and closed his eyes. Knowing this wasn’t the sharp, unbearable pain of re-injury, but the constant ache of over-use and stiff, reluctant healing, he did his best to work through it. Concentrating, he embraced the pain, forcing himself to relax into it.

Then, as he cradled his arm next to his belt for a moment, he took in a deep breath. His shoulder, its pain bearable for now, was one thing, but his head was a different matter.

Reaching behind him with his right hand, he removed from his saddlebag a leather pouch of beef jerky. He untied it and tucked a couple pieces into his shirt pocket for later. Then, replacing that pouch, he felt deeper down into the same saddlebag until his fingers found a smaller one. Pulling it out, he loosened the rawhide string and removed a packet of dried yarrow, carefully wrapped in the thin rice paper normally used for hand-rolling a cigarette.

Opening one end of the packet, he tapped it against the open palm of his left hand, where he caught some of the grainy, crushed powder of the crisp, green leaves and tiny, white flowers. Satisfied with the amount, he lifted his hand to his lips, tilted his head back, and let the gritty powder fall into his open mouth.

Holding it there on his tongue, he deftly re-folded the packet and put away the pouch. Then, he opened his canteen and took a swallow of water, letting it wash down the powder. The water immediately relieved his thirst and, together, it and the yarrow would hopefully give him some relief from the constant pounding of his head.

He hated the way Doc Merar’s medicine always left him feeling groggy, much preferring this less invasive, though not as strong, method for occasionally taking the edge off of a severe headache. With a sigh, though, he admitted to himself, that he might have been tempted to take the laudanum if he had been back at the house and in his bed.

“Gettin’ soft, Heath,” he noted aloud, grinning at the way the bay’s ears swiveled back to listen.

As he patted the horse’s neck and put away the canteen, he let his eyes follow the path of the river below, noting the wide bridge that he would soon need to cross. Then, just as he lifted the reins to follow the trail across the top of the ridge before it began its descent toward the river, Heath caught his breath in a gasp.

With white-knuckled hands holding the horse still, he stared down at the bridge, his eyes wide and his breathing increasing rapidly.

A memory flickered quickly through his brain.

Something about the bridge . . . .

It was like suddenly seeing the recognizable flash of a trout swimming close to the surface of a rushing river as it headed for a calm spot among the shaded rocks on the other side.

It was there, . . . then, it wasn’t.

The bridge, . . . .

Somehow, it seemed familiar. . . .

But, how could it? He’d never been this way before, . . . or had he?

Frustration loomed, threatening to choke away the thin, barely visible thread of memory before it had had a chance to work its way into the light.

Heath closed his eyes and fought to calm his breathing.

What was it about the bridge?

Then, . . . as if he could hear the deep voice beside him, . . . as if he could see the smiling, begrudging respect reflecting back from the eyes in front of him, . . . he knew.

“English.”

“Do tell?”

“Core an apple at half a mile.”

“On a tree or fallin’?”

“’Horseback, in a hurricane.”

It was as if the river below him had been dammed above the bridge weeks ago, and had suddenly burst forth from the debris cluttering its path.

Just as the trapped water would have rushed downstream, its intensity slamming into anything trying to stand upright in its way, the memories came flooding back.

Heath reacted as if he had been hit in the gut by one of Jamison’s punches in Jarrod’s Coreyville hotel room. With his head and body reeling, he grabbed hold of the horn and eased himself down and out of the saddle, just making it to the ground as his stomach lost all its contents.

Dropping to his knees, he clung to the reins of the horse above him and dug his fingers into the tan jeans covering his thighs, continuing to retch violently.

With his eyes closed, all he could see was his brother, . . . the brother that he had avoided for days on end, . . . the brother that he had dreaded talking to, . . . the brother whose image shook him to the core every time he laid eyes upon him.

“Nick!”

Heath clutched his head and rocked back and forth, the agony of seeing the hurt on his brother’s face, the hurt he had put there with his memories of only the tumultuous times between them, warring with the mounting fury that pounded through him with each heave of his gut.

“Nick. . . “ Heath whispered, as he squeezed his eyes tighter and sagged toward the ground.

Chapter 43

The sun had completely cleared the ridges to the east by the time Heath could attempt to lift his head from the baked hard, crusty dirt of the trail beneath him.

Leaning more heavily on the foreleg of the horse than he would have liked as he sat up, he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his head of the many memories of his brother that continued to find him.

Then, smiling lop-sidedly, he reached up and steadied his awkward climb to his feet by holding onto the left stirrup.

“Damn, Nick,” he muttered, still smiling, “Don’t you ever shut-up?”

After clinging to the saddle for a moment, Heath began leading the horse forward, trying to make sure his legs were working properly before he attempted to climb back into the saddle. He shook his head at the images and words that had been unleashed with that one returning memory of their encounter at the bridge months ago.

Reaching up, he pulled out a piece of the jerky he had placed in his pocket earlier, and he led the horse over to a medium-sized rock next to the trail. As he turned to ease down against it for a moment, he noted how narrow the ridge was at this point. On one side, he could see the road below him as it wound its way down through the cut toward Stockton, and on the other, he could still see the river, stretching off to the east through the trees below.

He shook his head again as the sight of the river brought back an image of Nick fishing by a stream out near one of the line shacks. Nick had hooked into a big one and was working the fish up and down the bank, first one way, then the other, trying to find a spot that would allow him to get closer to his catch without getting his boots wet.

Smiling now, Heath remembered how Nick’s biggest worry had been that his large-roweled spurs would get rusty if he went in.

“Nick, why don’t ya’ let me get it, if ya’ don’t want to wade in.”

“Nah, Heath, if you go out there, you’ll tell Jarrod you had to help me land this heifer, and he’ll dredge up some story about Father having to do the same thing for me. . . .”

Nick paused in his response only long enough to grin back at Heath as the dark-haired rancher changed his approach and walked half-way out on a wet log lying across some rocks. Then, he continued, talking to Heath from over his shoulder, “. . . When I was about seven.”

At that moment, when Heath had been about to ask what exactly had happened when Nick was seven, Nick was pulled slightly off balance by a sudden change in direction on the end of his line, and he back-pedaled furiously, trying to maintain his purchase on the slippery log.

But, unfortunately for Nick, he was getting absolutely no help from his hard-soled boots in the way of traction.

With Heath’s laughter ringing in his ears, Nick quickly stood up from behind the log where he had fallen, water swirling around his knees. Everything, from his dripping black hair to his submerged spurs, was soaking wet as he stood there, hands on his hips, glaring at the blond, who was all but rolling on the bank.

As Nick began stalking toward him through the water, Heath jumped up, gave chase, and grabbed the fishing line and pole that were quickly being towed upstream. He landed Nick’s fish, pulling it out of the water and tossing it back at Nick’s feet where he now stood, streaming water onto the bank.

Remembering now, Heath laughed out loud at the look that had been on Nick’s face, the anger and aggravation turning to something between pride and disbelief at the size of the fish.

His face suddenly broke into a huge grin, just before it was followed by a growling voice that said, “Heath, if you tell Pappy, I swear, you won’t be able to ride by a horse trough for the next six months without taking a dunking!”

It wasn’t until Heath had walked in on Nick, telling the story himself to Jarrod that night, that he had realized part of what he had seen on Nick’s face that day had not just been Nick’s pride in the fish-----it had been Nick’s pride in Heath.

“Jarrod, you should’ve seen the way that boy moved. He was like some tawny-colored, fleet-footed mountain lion, running across those rocks and down into the shallows upstream as he caught up with that runaway fish!” Nick paused for a moment, shaking his head, and taking a swallow of the whiskey in his glass. Then, he added, “I just wish . . . I just wish he’d been here all those years ago when Father was alive. I tell you, Jarrod, I would have loved to’ve seen the two of them together, fishing pole in hand or otherwise.”

Heath remembered now that he had quietly retreated down the hallway outside the study and had headed out the front door of the house, content to let his brother’s words work their way deep inside and to hold them there, close against his heart.

With a start, he suddenly realized that day, and those words of Nick’s, had been a memory he had treasured then-----and that rediscovering it now made the memory, and the words, even more priceless.

As he broke off another bite of the jerky, he chewed on it thoughtfully for another moment. Then, he gathered up the reins of his horse where he had let them lie. His head was feeling better and his heart was much lighter as he mounted and reached once more for the canteen by his right knee.

Suddenly, he saw a flash of movement below him on the road to his left. Pausing to watch, he saw four riders come into focus between the trees. They were headed the other way, toward Stockton, but they stopped for a few minutes, drawing out their own canteens, and the leader turned back, facing in Heath’s direction, as he said something to the other three.

Narrowing his eyes, Heath watched for a moment to make sure neither Jarrod nor Nick were among the men. Then, just as he was about to turn back toward the bridge and the river down to his right, he caught a clear view of the man facing the others. The man had just pulled off his hat to wipe the sweat from his face with his sleeve.

“No,” Heath breathed, “’Thought you were. . . dead. . . .”

As the man turned away, and the group resumed their journey along the road in the opposite direction from the one in which Heath was headed, he closed his eyes, reached up slowly, and clamped his right hand down on his left shoulder.

He could see the cruel, sharp features of the man’s face as he had bent down over him, taunting him with the knife.

He could see the man raising his hand, as he had struck Victoria Barkley and then laughed about Heath’s instant reaction.

“Mason,” Heath breathed.

Then, opening his eyes and looking off to the west toward the town almost a whole day away, he knew that it was possible the gang leader had somehow figured out who the woman on the stage had been.

If he had, it was entirely possible the men were on their way there to finish what Jed and Mason had started up in the mountains almost two weeks ago----to take her with them and hold her for ransom----or worse.

Mason’s words drifted back to him from weeks ago, as he watched the receding dust from their horses, and he contemplated his next move.

“I think I’ll find out just how far you’ll go to protect this high and mighty lady, first, though. Are you gallant enough to be willing to die for some woman on a coach you don’t know? Or are you and your courage just bluffing?”

He laughed again and shoved Heath into the dirt with his boot. Then, he kicked him in the stomach. When he received no responding cry of pain, he kicked him harder and said, “But, when I’m done with you, Boy, you’ll have the pleasure of knowing that I’m gonna keep this fine lady that you seem to think so highly of. At least, I’m gonna keep her ‘til I find someone willing to pay a fine price for her return. She belongs to someone with money, and I aim to find out who.”

Heath felt the tendrils of fear creeping in, trying their best to shake loose the warmth he had felt as he had remembered Nick’s words a little while before.

There was no doubt in his mind.

If Mason was headed toward Stockton, she was in danger.

But, what about Nick and Jarrod?

Mason was coming from the same direction as the lumber camp. Didn’t that just confirm that the Reese he knew from up there was somehow connected to the Reese he had heard Mason mention after the attack on the stage?

If that was so, then, what about his brothers? He couldn’t just leave them there to ride into a trap, not without finding a way to warn them. He’d asked Silas to get Duke to send that telegram, but would it be enough?

Heath closed his eyes, his heart feeling like it was being torn in two.

How could he choose?

All the images of Nick’s recent anguish came flooding back. He could see the hurt in the hazel eyes as he had kept Nick at arm’s length ever since the attack on the stage.

Heath longed to make sure Nick knew that he had finally remembered him, remembered everything, not just the anger and the fists, but everything, every good memory of long hours spent riding together, of working together as a team to accomplish some tough or taxing task, of laughing together over a drink, and of quiet talks over a plate of beans and cup of campfire coffee.

“Nick!” Heath said, opening his eyes, his throat closing in grief at the loss of his brother’s closeness, at his overpowering need to look into those hazel eyes and let his brother know the strength of the love he felt, that he finally remembered feeling, for him.

What if he was wrong about Mason? What if he turned around now, heading back to Stockton for nothing, and something happened to his brothers?

But, suddenly, Heath was struck by another, single memory so strong, it took his breath away.

Gasping, he turned in the saddle, half expecting to see Nick there, beside him. Then, he closed his eyes again, letting the words-----and the powerful feelings cascade over him.

They were standing outside the stage depot, having already handed the diminutive form of Victoria Barkley up into the interior of the coach.

Suddenly, as he grasped the open door and turned to join her, Heath felt Nick’s gloved hand gripping the back of his neck. Glancing back into Nick’s clear, hazel eyes, Heath was overcome with that instant feeling of security and love that nothing else ever equaled.

“Hey, Little Brother, you have a good trip,” Nick said, a smile playing about his eyes.

“We will, Nick. You just don’t go gettin’ any wild ideas about thinkin’ you can break those two new fillies without me.”

“What two fillies would you be meaning, Heath? The two in the corral, or those two daughters of. . . . ?”

“N-i-i-c-c-k,” Victoria’s voice, from inside the coach, cut off the question.

“Uh, right, . . . well, don’t worry, Heath, there’ll be plenty left for you to do when you get back.”

By this time, Heath had his head down, his hand rubbing across the end of his nose, trying to swallow back the chuckle at Nick’s discomfiture before it burst forth.

Suddenly, Nick leaned down, placing his head next to Heath’s, as he continued to face him, holding tightly to the back of his neck with his gloved hand. Very quietly, he said in Heath’s ear, “I’m gonna miss you, Little Brother. I finally feel like I’ve really got you back, and I’m already looking forward to getting you home again.”

As Heath stared down at the ground, letting Nick’s words soak in deep, he just nodded.

Nick continued, just a few more words to add, “I trust you, Heath Barkley, like you trust me. I trust you to keep yourself and Mother safe, and to come back to us real quick, horses be hanged.”

Heath had looked up into Nick’s serious, green-gold eyes, and he had been overcome with the solid heft of brotherhood that settled into his heart for good.

With his eyes and the hand he lay on Nick’s arm sharing the unsaid words that he felt in his heart, Heath grinned up at Nick and replied, “You just remember ya’ said that about the horses, Big Brother, when the plug I purchase ‘specially for you arrives at the ranch in the next few days.”

Laughing now, Nick shook Heath by the neck again and said, “You wouldn’t dare, Boy!”

As Heath climbed into the coach and sat down across from Victoria, he raised his left eyebrow and said just loud enough for Nick to hear him over the driver’s call to the team, “’Doesn’t know me as well as he thinks, does he, Mother?”

The last thing he had heard as the coach pulled out of Stockton, had been Nick’s voice yelling at him, “Heath Barkley, you’re not funny, Boy!”

As the small smile invoked by the memory faded from Heath’s face, he knew that his charge was clear.

Hoping that somehow his warning telegram was enough to make his brothers aware that something was wrong and hoping that this heightened alertness would somehow be enough to send them home in one piece, he knew what he had to do.

The words echoed through his head again. . . .

“I trust you, Heath Barkley, like you trust me. I trust you to keep yourself and Mother safe. . . .”

With a shout, Heath turned his horse back toward Stockton, back toward the ranch, back toward his mother and sister, back toward home.

Chapter 44

Nick growled under his breath and tossed the rest of his now tepid coffee out of the tin mug and out into the brush. His pacing never lost a beat, as he reached the end of the route he had worn into the ground outside the cabin and turned, heading back the way he had come.

His thoughts swirled, like the small puffs of dust that rose with each spur-studded step.

What was taking Jarrod so long in there?

Nick had already gone out very early that morning with the too-quiet Jim Reese to view the disappointing lack of progress on the flume, as well as the unauthorized, resurrected mining activity in the burned out section of forest half-a-mile beyond.

Jim had been slow to provide details of what had been going on, though Nick had quickly realized he was asking a lot of the man to focus on anything beyond the fact that he had felt forced to kill his own brother the day before. Putting himself in the other man’s boots, Nick was torn between leaving Jim alone to grieve in silence as they rode or trying to take his mind off of the previous night by asking constant questions and persistently prodding the man for answers to them.

After twenty minutes, he had settled on something in between.

Slowly, over the course of the next hour or so, Nick had gotten Jim to open up and explain a little about what had been going on in the camp for the last three or more months, since shortly after Heath had returned home.

Apparently, Mrs. Bentell had become increasingly restless after the brief stay at the Barkley’s ranch and, especially, after the fire. Jim had heard her constantly pressuring Matt to find a way for them to clear a large profit from this job and to leave the area for good. She wasn’t quiet about what she wanted, which was to return home, or that she wanted to do so in style.

With the revealing of their last name, after having carefully kept it hidden for years, her bitterness at all that Carterson had exacted from them was apparently unleashed on Matt----slowly at first, but with growing ferocity.

Jim had said that his first hint about her discontent had been the day of the fire. When the fire bell was first rung, he had heard Cynda begging Matt to let the timber burn, saying that it meant nothing to them, pleading with him to come with her, to get away from there. From what Nick could gather from Jim, that had seemed to be the turning point for her, that and the fact that Matt had ignored her pleas that day. Jim said she had never seemed to act the same toward the man after that, and she had appeared to be driven more by greed and the need to escape, than by any other emotions from then on, at least from what he had seen.

Nick shook his head as he paced, remembering. The revelation of their name as Bentell, not Toddman, during that visit to the Barkley’s, Heath’s trip to the camp, as well as the fire, had all occurred at about the same time.

Suddenly, as a shiver ran up his spine, he was very glad Heath had not been able to accompany them on this trip.

If he had been here, would Cynda Bentell have blamed Heath for all that she had lost?

If she had turned her fury on her own husband, how would she have responded to Heath, the one man who had recognized Bentell and had, inadvertently, started a chain of events none of them could have foreseen?

Shaking his head again, Nick hit his gloved hands together, then paused in his pacing to stop by the wagon. The sun was beginning to heat the air around him, making him uncomfortably warm, even here at this altitude. As he glanced up at the sky off to the west, he realized that a storm was headed this way.

Nick had no intention of staying here another night. They needed to get moving. It was going to be a slow trip back the long way around with this loaded wagon.

What was taking Jarrod so long, anyway?

With an aggravated sigh, he opened the closest, tightly-tied canvas bag, reached inside, and pulled out a handful of rocks. Turning them over in his hand, he marveled at the unusual shapes and vibrant colors of a few of the larger ones.

“Tourmaline,” he muttered aloud.

The prism-shaped, crystal-like structure of the rock caught the light as he held up one particular chunk. Its three-tiered colors of red, white, and green made him think of a hunk of watermelon he had once shared with some of the men from his unit back in Tennessee.

While pieces of the stone could occasionally be found in worked out streambeds, Nick had never seen any like these-----although he had heard stories of men locating tourmaline using controlled, focused blasting in pockets of rock and earth inside played-out goldmines. The clay-like structure of the mine walls, carefully washed and worked, could sometimes, supposedly, reveal crystals large enough, and translucent enough, to be useful for jewelry.

These, however, . . . well, some of these were stunning.

He picked out several of the most eye-catching stones, looking for some medium-sized ones that seemed the least opaque. Then, he stuck them in his pockets to show Jarrod and retied the bags, before turning back to lean against the wagon and stare toward the open doorway of the cabin.

“Come on, Jarrod,” he growled, willing his older brother to hurry up and join him without having to go in and drag him out, kicking and . . .

Grinning suddenly to himself, Nick said quietly, “Who am I kidding? Pappy’s probably questioning that woman in full, Counselor Barkley form right now. I’d have to hold a gun to his head to get him to budge.”

Sobering quickly, Nick’s grin faded as he recalled the events of the previous evening, and how what had started out as an argument among family members had quickly turned deadly.

No, he didn’t want to think any more about guns being held to his brother’s head, not even as an idle expression.

Turning back around, he leaned both arms on the wagon and tiredly tried to think about what else Jim had told him, either last night or earlier this morning.

He hadn’t gotten much sleep, and it was all starting to run together.

Nick was sure that Jim blamed himself for part of it, for more even than having had to pull the trigger on the gun that killed his brother. And, it had been hard on Jim to hear the sheriff last night explain some things about the man.

Newman Reese, as it turned out, was wanted all over western Nevada as the brains behind a gang of notorious bank and stage robbers. They had carried out numerous heists he had apparently planned, and for not one of them had they ever been caught.

As Jim had explained to the sheriff, he knew his brother had been up to no good as soon as he had heard him in the camp, talking to Bentell. But, before that, all he knew was that Newman lived near the lake called the Upper Blue, near the small town of Silver Lake. It was not very far from the North Fork of the Mokelumne River, the same river their log flume tapped into below here to bring the logs down from the high country.

Jim had put his head in his hands as he had slowly owned up to the fact that he had written his brother of the discovery of the raw gemstones in the worked out goldmine. He and some of the others had uncovered the mine in the aftermath of the recent fire. Since its discovery, it had become a past time of some of the men to use their off hours to sift through the rubble to find the crystals, shine them up, and show them off to the others----at least it had been until the Bentells had laid claim to the mine and started dynamiting, bringing out the crystals in large quantities.

Jim had now realized that it must have been his newsy, but perfectly innocent, letter that had focused his brother’s attention on the Bentells.

As they had listened to Jim last night, and as he had continued to listen to the man throughout the morning, Nick had developed a pretty thorough knowledge of how Matt Bentell had been handily caught between keeping his wife or keeping his bargain with the Barkleys.

Jim had described to him this morning, as they had stood outside the old mine, how Cynda had threatened that she would leave Matt unless he found a way to give her what she wanted. Though it had started small, her greed had grown like a vine, choking off the man that she had effectively wrapped her unleashed ire around.

She had been vocal about wanting to take whatever she could from the Barkleys, hurting them along the way as much as possible. She resented their wealth, their power, their name.

Matt had started drinking heavily about that time, not providing enough supervision for the men, nor for the construction of the flume. And, as Nick had already suspected from the two messages they had received from the man, Bentell had been skimming, not only supplies like dynamite, but also cash intended for payroll, from off the top of the logging operations. He had even grown so desperate recently, because of being blackmailed on top of it all, to ask for more money straight out.

The more he had listened to Jim, the more Nick had understood that part of Matt’s problem was that someone had found out about the embezzlement, as well as the selling of the gemstones he, Cynda, and three of the men had begun mining in earnest. Whomever it had been had begun blackmailing Matt Bentell for a share of it all.

Jim had only figured out a day or so ago, after he had sent the telegram to the Barkleys, that the person doing the blackmailing had been his own brother, Newman Reese.

According to Jim, Matt had been like a drowning man these last two or three months, trying to save his marriage, being backed into a corner by the woman he would do anything to keep, and feeling forced to deceive the very family that had shown enough faith in him to give him a chance, despite their knowledge of who he really was.

His heart had not really been in any of what he was doing, except finishing the log flume-----but he was caught in a trap of his own making. He felt he couldn’t tell his wife no or he’d lose her. Similarly, his guilt about what she’d already been through, because of who he was and what he had done at Carterson, further prevented him from putting a stop to her demands and schemes.

Jim said he had tried to convince Matt to stop his actions, to stop his wife, several times. But, Matt was almost a broken man by then.

In desperation, in trying to get help for his boss, and out of loyalty to the family who owned the land, the logging operations, and the worked out mine, Jim said he had finally done the only thing he had known to do----contact the Barkleys directly.

Suddenly, as he stood leaning against the wagon and thinking through all of it again, Nick narrowed his eyes, pulled one of the multi-colored stones out of his pocket, and stared down at it where it lay in the black leather of his glove.

What else was it Jim had said about Newman Reese?

Something about being the man who was blackmailing Matt Bentell, about having used his gang to. . . . ?

Nick’s eyes widened.

That was it!

Somehow, Newman Reese had figured out from Jim’s letter that if he could waylay a stage carrying some of the stones the Bentells were sending by circuitous route to San Diego for sale, he could use them as evidence to convince Matt of his very real ability to expose him-----unless he relented and cut him in on the profits.

Where had Jim said his brother had been living at the time?

Near Silver Lake?

On the other side of Silver Lake, Nick knew, was Carson Pass. And, beyond that to the south, almost parallel to that main route, stretched the twisting, turning, less-used route of the stage from Ebbett’s Pass west to Tamarack. That was the stage route Heath and his mother had been on when they had been attacked.

Just how circuitous was the route the Bentells had used for the semi-precious stones? Could they have sent the tourmaline toward Nevada through Carson Pass, then south to Bridgeport, and back to California through Ebbett’s Pass?

Struggling to remember something, Nick thought back to that night when they had all been heading home on the stage after joining up with his mother and injured brother. What had the deputy they had met up with told Jarrod?

The name Heath had called Nick repeatedly during his delirium leapt into Nick’s mind immediately.

Nick grimaced, recalling Heath’s words, spoken through teeth clenched in pain and despite a body wracked with fever.

He saw Heath searching for something, then grabbing one of the bottles from the doctor’s bag, and reaching out to bash the end of it against an oaken drawer.

Despite the dark-haired man that thundered toward him, the only things he focused on when he turned were her grey, worried eyes, as she stood frozen in the doorway. Heath didn’t hear his own gasp of pain as he switched the jagged glass of the bottle to his left hand, reached out for her arm with his right, and pulled her behind him.

He found the hazel eyes of the man who was trying to advance on him, and he snarled, “Get away from her, Mason. Stay back!”

Nick watched as his normally calm, quiet brother glared at him in uncharacteristic rage, the pain in his blue eyes and the fever spiking through him returning Heath to a nightmare recently lived.

“Heath. It’s okay, now,” Nick tried to talk to him, and he held up his hands to show he had no weapon, that he intended no harm to either of them.

“Stay back, Mason! I won’t let you hit her again.” Heath growled, brandishing the bottle toward the threat, despite the pain each movement sent searing through his shoulder. He held his right arm behind him, protecting the small woman by keeping his body between hers and the cruelty of the man before him.

Mason.

According to Deputy Broyles, Carl Mason was a very dangerous man, wanted for robberies of stages and banks between the Sierras and Tahoe-----and that he was, as Jarrod had told Nick later, not one for leaving behind any witnesses.

Could the gang the sheriff had told them about last night, the one who was connected to Jim’s brother, be the same one that had recently attacked the stage with Nick’s family on board?

Nick had not heard either lawman mention both the names of Newman Reese and Carl Mason together, as if they were connected . . . . In fact, Deputy Broyles two weeks ago had not mentioned a man named Reese, and Sheriff Richards last night had not mentioned a man named Mason, but both had spoken of a notorious gang who had never been caught for their stage robberies---and both seemed based around the divide between here and Nevada.

Could they be part of the same bunch?

And, either way, if Newman Reese was here, where was his gang?

Before the thought was even fully formulated, Nick’s spurs were already jingling with the tension of each stride as his long legs carried him quickly toward the steps to the cabin’s porch.

“Jarrod!”

The name was out of his mouth, the quiet of the morning broken by his voice, when he saw his brother, already moving in his direction at a dead run.

Chapter 45

The inside of the log cabin was neat and clean, but it lacked any bright cheerfulness of carefully arranged furnishings and well-cared for possessions that marked it as a home. It was more than the spectre of recent death that shadowed them all, with the body of Matt Bentell laid out in the bedroom behind the closed door beyond them. It was as if the main room had taken on the personality of the stony-faced woman sitting in the rocking chair near the hearth, as her chair’s creaking frame moved back and forth with an interminable, and highly agitated, rhythm.

The sheriff had finally gotten tired of Cynda Bentell’s refusal to comment or answer any more questions during the last hour and had walked out back for some fresh air-----at Jarrod’s suggestion.

Jarrod sat across from her, his fingers steepled together as he leaned back in his chair, watching her face intently.

So far, the sheriff had had some success getting basic information from the taciturn woman. They had learned of the discovery of the old mine and the gemstones that some of the loggers had found by accident. She had proudly told them of the blasting she had talked Matthew into doing to uncover more.

In Cynda’s words, spat out at Jarrod as if she were sneering at him for his ineptness, they had used “Barkley-bought dynamite to make a killing in an over-looked, failed Barkley enterprise.”

She had even admitted to talking Matthew into stealing money from the logging operations----to squirrel it away so he could take her far from this place for good. While at first, Jarrod had been shocked that she would so openly admit it was all her idea, he had quickly begun to realize how desperate she had been to escape this place----even, in the end, willing to go with Newman Reese once he had arrived and had set a cycle of blackmail into motion.

It had become clear that Jim’s brother had forced them to give up a large amount of the cash they had set aside through embezzlement, causing Matt to ask for more from the Barkleys. Then, apparently, Cynda had seen her chance to both have all the money and to get out of there, by switching her allegiance from her husband to their aggressor.

From listening to her, Jarrod decided two things early on. First, that, even with Matt lying dead in the next room, she was very proud of the way her husband had responded to her pleas “this time,” openly saying that she had threatened to leave him if he didn’t do as she demanded, and that she had finally won. And, second, that somehow the loneliness she had apparently endured at Carterson was so similar to the ostracizing and isolation she felt at the lumber camp once the name Bentell had come out in the open, she had become truly desperate to escape.

Slowly, while watching and listening to her over the long night, Jarrod came to see her in a totally different light from the way he had perceived her months before. At their home, when Matt had been introduced to Heath as Toddman and, in the aftermath of all that had occurred when his brother had realized the man was really Bentell instead, Jarrod had hardly paid any attention to her. She had seemed to just be in the background, quietly supportive of her husband, almost demure in her responses to any of them, hardly saying a word.

But, now-----now, by her own admission, she was clearly the one who had forced many unscrupulous decisions on her husband for the last couple of months.

Finally, figuring out that they had gotten about everything she would tell them concerning the embezzling and the foray into the semi-precious gemstone market, Jarrod had quietly suggested to the sheriff that he should leave and give Jarrod a little while to talk to her.

Jarrod shook his head wearily. No matter how many times he had heard her explain it all to the sheriff, something still didn’t make sense.

She was just so bitter, so vehement towards him, toward the Barkleys, in anything she said. It was more than anger at her husband’s death, or even the death of Newman Reese. Her emotions seemed to somehow all be directed at him, at his family, and though it wasn’t the first time he had been faced with someone’s irrational jealousy toward his family’s wealth, this woman was completely confounding him.

There was something . . . but, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. She was almost too calm, too superior, as if she somehow had the upper hand over them, despite all that she had clearly lost, despite being caught in her own deceit and unlawful activities.

Something just wasn’t right.

There was more to this, more that she wasn’t saying, he was sure of it.

But, what was it?

Shaking his head again, he wished he could figure it out before the sheriff took her away.

Now, as he watched her rocking back and forth, almost humming to herself as she looked anywhere around the room but at him, he could see the cracks forming in the calm veneer she had been trying to cover herself in all morning.

As he watched her, waiting, trying to be patient, he immediately thought of his normally impatient brother. Fleetingly, then, Jarrod wondered how Nick was doing out there.

Not one to stand around, what had he been doing outside all. . . . ?

Suddenly, his wandering attention was brought immediately back to the woman across from him. She had suddenly halted the rhythmic rocking and was staring at Jarrod, her eyes glittering in mirth. Her mouth was wide open, and she was smiling, no----almost laughing at him-----as if she had figured something out about him, instead of the other way around.

Jarrod narrowed his eyes and said quietly, “What is it that you find so amusing, Mrs. Bentell?”

She continued to smile, her eyes lighting up, and she said incredulously, as if she hadn’t heard his question, “Your mother chose to take him in, didn’t she?”

Jarrod just stared at her, knowing she was suddenly talking about Heath, but unable to figure out why.

She continued, unperturbed by his lack of response, as if she were thinking out loud and putting pieces together for herself, “And, she feels something for him, doesn’t she?” Laughing again, she said, “Oh!” as she brought both hands up to her smiling mouth as if in delighted disbelief, “You feel something for him, too, don’t you? You all do!”

Watching her, Jarrod narrowed his eyes dangerously, as if daring her to continue.

Unmindful of the way her comments were affecting the man across from her, she threw her head back and laughed out loud. Then, she said, leaning forward and staring right into Jarrod’s glaring blue eyes, “You love him. You love that bastard, don’t you, Mr. Barkley? And, so does she!”

With ice in his voice, Jarrod leaned toward her and said, “Mrs. Bentell, I take it you are referring to my brother. What does Heath have to do with any of this?”

She smiled and said, waving her arms about, “Everything! He has everything to do with this, don’t you see?”

Then, Jarrod clamped down on his feelings and sat back, just watching her, unwilling to cut her off again, and sure that if he could manage to keep quiet, she would reveal the missing piece, the part he knew must be there, though he had no clue what it was.

“Oh, this is perfect! Perfect!” she laughed again. Pushing off with one foot, she rocked back and forth a few times, watching the silent Jarrod. Then, unable to keep her glee at the irony of it all to herself, she stopped the chair, leaned forward again and started speaking.

Though her voice was soft at first, as she continued she got more and more worked up, more and more angry, until she was practically spitting at Jarrod.

“It was all his fault, you know. If he hadn’t recognized Matthew, we could have come back up here, finished this job, and left. We would have had the respect of everyone, the respect your Barkley money would have bought us. But, that bastard realized who my husband was, and Matthew, being the noble, but oh-so tired, creature he was, couldn’t run from it any more! Your family seemed to bring out the gallantry in him for some reason, Mr. Barkley, and, without asking me, he decided to just throw away all those years of carefully hiding our name from the world.”

She took a deep breath and continued her tirade at a sharp, dagger-like pitch, her pale features growing more and more flushed with every word.

“The bastard exposed us! And, now, . . . now, your mother with all her riches, with all her finery, and with all her treasured family gathered around in that huge house of hers, is going to know what it’s like to lose something for once in her life, to lose something important to her-----like I’ve lost everything important to me for all these years!”

Jarrod could barely contain his urge to reach out to the woman and shake her. What was she talking about? What did yesterday’s events here in this lumber camp have to do with his mother and brother?

Instead, he willed himself to stay calm, to stay quiet, thinking hard about how to continue drawing her out. He had to know what she was talking about. What did Heath and Victoria Barkley have to do. . . .

Suddenly, Jarrod narrowed his eyes, staring at her. He thought back to the events of yesterday, to the last two weeks, and all of a sudden, his eyes widened as the thought began to form itself into a sharp splinter of ice, poised directly above his heart.

He had to know for sure.

Taking a deep breath, he said as calmly as possible, “You’re mistaken, Mrs. Bentell, my mother and brother are at home, far away from here where neither you, nor your actions, can reach them.”

Her response was instant, her words vicious.

She jumped up from her chair, leaving it to rock backwards abruptly, and she stalked toward him. Standing over him, she glared down and smiled cruelly, her eyes alive with an unnerving vengeance, “No, Mr. Barkley, it is you who are mistaken. My Matthew should never have risked his own life fighting your fire. He should never have saved that blond-headed bastard. He should’ve let it all burn, should’ve let him burn that day! But, now?”

She paused and took a breath before finishing, “Now, it’ll be too late for anyone to save him, too late for one more, filthy animal from Carterson to live out the week. By the time you get there, he’ll be dead! Just consider it our revenge for what you Barkleys did to me, to my Matthew!”

As the sheriff entered the room from behind her and stopped, watching and listening, Jarrod stood up slowly, took the shaking woman by the arms, and said in a deep, controlled voice that she didn’t recognize for the danger it represented, “What have you done?”

With a feral smile, she said, “It’s too late. It won’t do any good for me to tell you, except that I’ll have the pleasure of watching your pain, Mr. Barkley!”

Unable to contain the fear rising up inside him, Jarrod shook her once, as he demanded, his voice leaving no room for her to escape, “Tell me!”

The smile grew as she watched his face, as if she were a sharp-clawed vulture feeding on the anguish she needed for sustenance. She waited, gloating in her heart for the worry she saw on his face.

Then, she said quietly, “It was all purely a coincidence, really. But, once I found out, I was looking forward to seeing how it all turned out. Though, I must say, Mr. Barkley, I didn’t have any idea I would enjoy seeing your response quite this much. If I had known, I might have insisted on going along with them. But, we were going to San Diego to sell the gems first, Newman and I. We were to meet up with the rest of his men there in a week’s time.”

Jarrod felt the glacial ice of fear settle in his chest at the mention of the other men. All he could think about was his family at the ranch with most of the hands scattered out, working all over the range this time of year. Heath was at the house, but he was in no condition to . . . .

Cynda Bentell’s voice brought his attention back to her, and as he watched, he saw her eyes glaze over as she spoke, almost to herself, “He was frightening really, and I don’t think Newman would have let me go with him anyway. He looked like a weasel or a fox, with all that red hair and his pointed face----with that nasty smile every time he saw me walk by.”

She pulled away from Jarrod and went back to the rocker, easing down into it and, her arms wrapped around her waist, she began to rock back and forth.

But, she continued speaking, softly this time, her eyes and voice far away now. “I hated it when he looked at me like that. Matthew never saw him, or he would’ve sent him away sooner.” Then, she paused and said, almost as if she were asking a question to herself, one that she had just thought of, “Or, maybe he would have just died sooner.”

She looked back up at Jarrod and said, her voice growing again in strength, “Newman and his partner knew the lumber camp belonged to your family, but it wasn’t until they heard Matthew mention the bastard, heard the name Heath, that Carl started to get really interested. They’d been talking about all of you for a day or so, but all of a sudden Carl came storming up to Newman yesterday. Apparently he had figured something out, something about a stagecoach I didn’t understand.”

“Stagecoach?” Jarrod asked, his mouth dry. “What was the man’s name? Newman’s partner? Carl?” Suddenly, Jarrod felt the shard of ice twist inside him as he realized that his anonymous fears now had a name. “Carl Mason?”

She nodded her head, “I didn’t know why Carl was so eager to get to your brother, but I was thrilled to know that bastard was finally going to be brought back down to his own level for what he did to us!”

Her blue eyes locked with Jarrod’s for a moment, and, as she saw that her words had definitely meant something to him, as she saw the fear growing inside of him, she smiled again.

Jarrod quickly turned to the sheriff and said, “Nick and I have to get to the ranch, Sheriff. Can you finish up here and send someone immediately to get a message to Stockton? I need you to warn my family that a man named Mason is on his way there now. He’ll be out to kill my mother and brother, and probably a man named Ogden Haverty that works for the stage company.”

As Jarrod turned toward the door, Sheriff Richards grabbed him by the arm and said, “Why is this man, Mason, after your family, Mr. Barkley?”

Shaking his head, Jarrod said, his worried blue eyes looking into the sympathetic brown of the lawman, “My mother and brother escaped from a stage he attacked a few weeks ago, and the word I have on him . . . .”

“Wait!” the sheriff interrupted, “A stagecoach robbery? That Carl Mason? If it was him, the posters on the man say he is very dangerous, Mr. Barkley, . . . a man that doesn’t ever leave any witnesses behind. You go on. I’ll take care of things here and get the message out.”

Jarrod took in a deep, ragged breath and nodded. Then, without a glance at the woman, he turned and bolted for the door.

Through the open doorway, he saw Nick running toward him, and he heard him hollering, “Jarrod!”

But, as his long legs took him through the opening and across the porch toward his hazel-eyed brother, Jarrod heard the high-pitched, shrill voice of Cynda Bentell from behind him.

“You’ll be too late, both of you! They’re going to be dead by the time you get there!”

Chapter 46

Though she had slept soundly after speaking with Ogden in the middle of the night, Victoria’s energy began to flag in the late afternoon.

While she normally retired to her room in the heat of the day, she didn’t always nap as her children assumed. Typically, she used the quiet time to catch up on correspondence or to just enjoy a new novel, often a gift from her thoughtful Jarrod upon his most recent return from a trip to San Francisco.

Today, however, she caught herself drifting off several times as she tried to force her eyes to traverse each page of the latest book he had brought home for her. Finally, she set the novel aside, pushed herself deeper into the soft pillows propped behind her, and let her eyes close.

She was tired. It had been a terribly tough time since the stagecoach attack. After spending countless, fearful hours sitting up with Heath through long, worry-filled days and nights, her elation at his improvement had been accompanied by a heavy exhaustion on her part.

Sighing to herself, she knew that all of it, including the fact that he and his brothers were out there, right now, planning to confront Bentell, was continuing to take its toll. Heath had been much too slow in healing for her to feel comfortable with his sudden trip to the lumber camp, and the recollections shared during his recent delirium regarding the role of Matt Bentell at Carterson, had triggered, in her, a deep sense of unease about Nick and Jarrod’s mission as well.

At least she had talked Audra into going off with her friends for the day. Her daughter had even agreed to stay the night at Annabelle Johnson’s house as originally planned, despite her worry for her brothers.

Now, as she relaxed into the pillows, Victoria smiled at the faint sounds of the much welcomed, drizzling rain pattering against the roof above her head. Listening to the muffled rhythm, she found her eyes growing heavier.

Unfortunately, the dream that found her brought her no rest at all.

Reaching down, the redheaded man grabbed Heath by the collar and hauled him back up to a kneeling position at his feet. Then, pulling Heath’s head up by his hair, he started laughing at the torment he was causing them both.

He snarled, “I’m not done with you yet, Boy, not yet. You killed three of my men, and I’m not done with you.

Then, he added, “I think I’ll find out just how far you’ll go to protect this high and mighty lady, first, though. Are you gallant enough to be willing to die for some woman on a coach you don’t know? Or are you and your courage just bluffing?”

He laughed again and shoved Heath into the dirt with his boot. Then, he kicked him in the stomach. When he received no responding cry of pain, he kicked him harder and said, “But, when I’m done with you, Boy, you’ll have the pleasure of knowing that I’m gonna keep this fine lady that you seem to think so highly of. At least, I’m gonna keep her ‘til I find someone willing to pay a fine price for her return. She belongs to someone with money, and I aim to find out who.”

Heath’s eyes opened a crack, and he looked beyond the redhead, finding her grey eyes with his, from where he lay in the dirt.

Why didn’t she tell them who she was? Maybe they wouldn’t hurt her if they knew they were right------that she would be more valuable to them if she were unharmed.

“Jed, he looks like he’s gonna pass out. And, that would just plain ruin my fun. Pour some water on him, or something. You, Boy, don’t you die on me, yet. Like I said, I’m not done with you.”

Returning with a canteen, Jed poured it over Heath’s head.

Heath rolled over and got to his knees, shaking the water out of his hair and face, and splattering the dark-headed man, who stepped back away from him. Then, he struggled to get one boot up and under him, but he could go no further.

Again, he tried to look up at her, unable to find the breath to speak, but willing her to tell them who she was. Then, he closed his eyes and dipped his head, struggling just to breathe.

She fought with her captor then, as he held her by one arm. She kicked his shin and hit at his face with her loose arm. Surprised, he lost his hold of her, and she dropped to her knees next to Heath in the dirt. When the man above her tried to pull her away, she turned and glared at him, her hands on Heath’s heaving shoulders.

“He’s hurt.” She said, her voice even and full of steel. “Give me some water. Let me take care of him. Then, you can do whatever you want with me.”

The redhead raised his eyebrows, as he glanced over at his partner, and, then, he just laughed. “I don’t know why you care about what happens to him, Lady. He’s nothing to you. . . but, it won’t matter what you do, we’re gonna kill him a’fore it’s over with, anyway. You’d better save your worrying for yourself.”

She glared up at the man, as she untied her brown bandana expectantly.

The dark-headed Jed looked to the other man. “Do ya’ want I should give the water to her, Mason?” he asked.

The grinning leader nodded and shrugged his shoulders. “The longer she keeps him outta the dirt, the more fun for me.”

Jed handed her the canteen. She poured water onto her bandana and gently turned Heath’s face toward her. She used the cool cloth to revive him a bit, and, as his eyes opened, she could see the pain behind them. But, he never made a sound. He just looked at her, puzzled again at how much compassion and tenderness she continued to offer him.

She handed him the canteen so he could drink, and after he did, she smiled at him slightly------until he deliberately stared into her eyes and struggled to wipe off the rim with a piece of his torn shirt, before handing it back to her.

She paused, her hand with the cold, wet cloth in it pressed against the left side of his head, staring at him, her eyes narrowed slightly.

They had already been through this once.

Why was he doing this again now, wiping off the canteen for her, as if he. . . ?

Sudden understanding hit her. He, too, had realized that it was better for them both if they didn’t reveal that they were any more than stage shotgun and passenger.

A crash of thunder outside her window startled her awake.

With her eyes open, she searched the room wildly, hoping upon hope that she would somehow see evidence that her boys had returned, safe once again.

Instead, her eyes found the note Heath had written to her the day before. It was propped up against her hairbrush on her dressing table, and it beckoned to her. The need to reach out to him was great, just as it had been that day that had continued to haunt her, even in her dreams, even now, during the mid-afternoon storm.

Her memories of that day were vivid, too vivid. She closed her eyes and covered them with her arm, trying to contain the tears that threatened.

“Heath,” was all she could whisper as she took it and drank from the canteen.

It hurt her heart so much to see him like this, see him like this and be unable to show or tell him how she felt.

But, though Heath did not know exactly who she was, she knew he was right about this.

The cruelty of the man above them was very evident. Something told her not to let this Mason, who was watching them intently, know how important Heath was to her.

She had no doubt that the man would see it as a weakness to exploit, hurting one of them to get at the other. And, even if Heath did not remember her relationship to him, she knew with certainty that he would continue to protect her as long as he could, no matter what.

“You’ve got guts, Lady. I’ll give you that!” Mason snarled at her, as he tugged on her arm, pulled her around the large rock and back toward the stage. Her right ankle was throbbing now, making it difficult to keep on her feet, but he didn’t notice. He hollered, “Jed, bring that Charlie!”

As he pulled her forward, she saw that the ground on the other side of the stage was littered with the contents of their luggage and a few boxes. A couple of empty bottles of liquor lay scattered about in the dirt. The sight helped explain what had taken the two men so long to come after them, that and the sight of the sheer drop off on the other side of the rocks behind them. She had not noticed it when she and Heath had dashed in that direction earlier.

For a few seconds, she was distracted from their current plight by the thought of what could have happened if Ellis and Heath had not been able to stop the stage in time. . . .

Her attention returned abruptly to Mason, who had shaken her and was now grinning into her face, “I hope you don’t mind watching, Lady, ‘cause that boy’s gonna pay for killing my men. I ain’t never seen no Jehu that could shoot like that, but it’ll be a cold day in Hell before I let somebody get away with what he done today.”

Victoria made no sound, as the angry man snatched loose the leather tie that kept his lariat bound to his saddle, but she was thinking hard. If she told them Heath was her son, would it make any difference? Would it help somehow, especially if she offered them money to release the two of them or told the men who she was.

But, just as quickly as she asked the question of herself, she knew the answer.

No.

This man beside her was pure evil. Like the alcohol on his breath, he reeked of it----with his snarling grin and his black, bottomless pits for eyes. There was no conscience inside this man. Finding out what they had tried to keep from him, would probably do nothing but infuriate the man more, and she shivered at the thought that he would do worse to Heath just at the idea of enjoying her suffering as she watched.

Then, she realized with a start, that Mason would probably be just as inclined to hurt her, so he could enjoy Heath’s pain at hearing the cries she knew she would not be able to silence. And, she had no doubt that Heath’s lack of memory for their relationship would not make any difference in how he reacted to any pain they caused her.

As he stood before her, wrapping her wrists with the rope and smiling into her eyes, he watched and waited for any sign of the discomfort he was causing. She had no doubt that he was enjoying her struggling attempts to make it harder for him to tie her. She knew her instincts about him were right. This man would pounce on any perceived weakness like a vulture tearing into fresh meat, and either carrion already dead or a victim still in the throes of dying would do.

No.

Telling this man that Heath was her son, was not a way to gain any ground with him.

She lowered her arm and looked around the room again, her eyes resting on the family portrait in the gilded frame next to her bed. She reached out for it and held it close, her thoughts running rampant and heart beating hard, charged with the ferocity of her memories.

Heath had protected her that day, protected her with his very life, and the cost had almost been all that he had to give.

Her worry and fear for him, riding out to find his brothers, compounded as she remembered Mason’s anger at losing his men.

In her head, she heard again the man’s words from her dream, from the stage that day, “I’m not done with you yet, Boy, not yet. You killed three of my men, and I’m not done with you.”

If Mason was still alive, she had no doubt now that he would be looking for Heath, and possibly Ogden, if he had figured out who had shot him.

But, then, she mentally shook herself, trying to think through it again logically, trying to figure out if there was any reasonable way the man could find any of them.

Even the dreadful memories of the dream had reminded her that they hadn’t revealed their names to the man.

Did they really have anything to fear from him?

Even if he tried, could he really find them?

Forcing herself to recall the rest, she struggled to remember further back, to remember if they had given anything away, other than the fact that her family had money.

Smiling at her as she dropped the thick limb, his cold, cruel eyes studied her. Then, he reached out and grabbed her by the chin and forced her to look into his dark eyes. Heath pushed forward, away from the rock to stop him, but the dark-haired guard stepped in and pointed his gun at her head.

Caught between fear for her life and fear for her safety, Heath stopped. He could only watch as the redhead pulled her close to his dark, filthy shirt, then, backhanded her across the face, sending her reeling away. Her cry as she stumbled, her injured ankle giving way, tore at Heath’s heart and spurred him into instant action.

He leapt at the man, knocking him to the ground and rolling over him with his fists flying. The man took several blows to the ribs and face before his partner managed to throw Heath off of him, as he grabbed the blond from behind, pulled him up, and shoved him into the dirt.

Struggling back to his feet, Heath saw the fear in her eyes for both of them as she tried unsuccessfully to get to her feet. He lunged back in, trying to knock both of the men to the ground and come up with a weapon. He was partially successful, and the redhead hit the ground again, but, the dark-headed man slipped out of his grasp.

The man brought his pistol butt down hard, catching Heath’s right shoulder in his blow.

Stunned, Heath dropped to one knee, as the redhead got to his feet above him. The man deliberately walked over to her and hauled her to her feet. Dragging her roughly by one arm, he held her up in front of Heath and said, “I don’t know why you think this lady’s worth dying for, Boy, but I can assure you she is so high above you she don’t know you exist. If you die here trying to save her, she’ll never give you another thought.”

Then, he ran his other hand through her silver hair and twisted his fingers in it, yanking her head back, and making her cry out, though she had been determined not to.

Heath tried to get to his feet once more, but the redhead nodded to his partner, who shoved him back to his knees.

He said, “Rip off that bandage there, Jed. I wanna see what’s been ailing this poor boy.”

With the dirt-covered bandage removed from Heath’s head, the redheaded man leaned in and touched the stitched-up gash curiously. “Well, now, it looks like you might have a powerful headache already from that, huh, Boy?”

He looked at Jed and nodded.

The butt of the gun descended again, catching Heath on the left side of the skull, just behind his ear and a few inches from the gash. He fell to all fours, biting off a piece of a cry, with his teeth digging into his lower lip, as the pain shot through his head and caused everything to explode in a blinding white light.

From far away, he could hear her calling his name.

“Heath! Heath!”

As soon as she said his name aloud, she knew she had made a mistake.

The redheaded man wheeled her around to face him, his hot, overwhelming breath hitting her full in the face and his eyes boring into hers. “How do you know his name? He’s nothing but a stagecoach Charlie! What is he to you?”

He raised his hand above her as if to strike her again in the face.

She deliberately cast her eyes down at his boots, shaking her head and saying nothing.

He snarled again, “I could kill you both right here and now, Woman!” He lowered his hand and shook her by the back of her neck. Slowly, she raised her eyes to stare into his.

Pushing the coverlet back and lowering her feet to the floor, Victoria reached out to return the picture to the table, and she grasped the post of the mahogany headboard. She closed her eyes and fought with the overwhelming sense of fear that threatened to strangle her.

With the same clarity with which she could recall the cruel darkness of the man’s eyes, she suddenly realized that, without a doubt, if the man called Mason were still alive, he would be looking for her son. He would stop at nothing, short of his own death, before tracking down the man that he probably still thought was an employee of the Matthews’ M & M Stage Lines based in Stockton, California.

He didn’t need to know Heath was a Barkley to find him. If he showed up in Stockton and started asking questions, he would quickly hear the stories about the stage attack, those who had escaped with their lives, and how to find them.

In fact, she herself had given the man more information than he would need to know to find her son. While Mason had consistently used the stager’s customary name of “Charlie” or “Jehu,” she herself had provided him with more.

That simple slip, the one she had known was a mistake as soon as she had said it, could come back to haunt them all now.

Heath had given her another chance at a relationship between them, another chance at life with her beloved family around her, and she had betrayed all of it, by the use of his name at the wrong time.

Somehow, she had to warn him.

Rising to gather her riding skirt and boots, she paused by her dressing table to extend trembling fingers to touch the note he had written to her.

Glancing up into the mirror, all she could see was her own image flanked on either side by warm blue eyes the color of the summer sky, mirror images of two, similar-looking men with lop-sided smiles staring down at her from where they stood, shoulder to shoulder, behind her, their reflection of love for her, love for her family, embracing her, keeping her safe.

But, she had failed to keep Heath safe. Inadvertently, in calling out to him, in crying out his name, she had betrayed him.

Betrayed him again.

“Oh, Tom! What have I done to our son?” she said, her heart breaking.

Gripping the gilt-edge of the ornate, white dressing table, she dropped her head and, through the tears, she said the one, highly unique name that, from the moment she had first heard it, she had hoped to never think of as a mistake.

“Heath,” she said quietly, the tears that trickled down her cheeks mirroring the raindrops tracking slowly down the panes of the window outside.

Chapter 47

Despite the looming headache, he tried to think it all through logically, as he guided the bay gradually lower through the mist-enshrouded mountains towering over him on both sides of the trail.

The men he had seen had not been in a terrible hurry. They had been talking and laughing, with a bottle passed around, in addition to the canteens they each drank from, as he had sat watching them from above.

If they had been at the lumber camp, had they just made up their minds to head over to Stockton, the base of the stagecoach line they had attacked, to try to find out about the woman passenger?

Or, did they have more definite information already?

If Mason had been at the camp, if he had been there because of a connection to Jim Reese, Bentell’s segundo, wasn’t it possible he had heard something about Victoria Barkley that had helped him connect her with the stage passenger who had escaped?

If they were still trying to locate the wealthy passenger, to figure out who she was, he probably had more than enough time to get home and to arrange for additional protection for the ranch before they found their answers.

But, the fact that there were four of them traveling together, though, seemed to suggest a more definite knowledge and purpose than just seeking information. And, knowing the sheer evil and cruelty of Mason as he did, Heath couldn’t believe their journey toward Stockton was a random, innocent coincidence.

“No,” he thought out loud, the bay’s left ear swiveling toward him as he spoke, “The problem is that ya’ can’t be sure. . . . Ya’ can’t be sure why he’s headed that way, just that he is. All ya’ can do is get home an’ be ready for him.”

He had the advantage over them of having the shorter route to the ranch. Of that much, he was certain, after having studied his brothers’ map, now tucked safely away again out of the constant dripping of the rain.

But, as the rain continued to fall, as he continued to push south and west, he realized not knowing wasn’t the only difficulty he was facing.

The problem wasn’t the trail, though it was growing a bit more slippery with each passing hour.

Neither was the problem the fine animal he rode. The bay was strong and fully recovered from yesterday’s ride. The horse could go all day, especially since most of the travel was now downhill.

The problem was him.

Heath hated to admit it, even silently, even to himself.

But, every part of his body ached with a deep fatigue and a hot heaviness that seemed to offer a place for the worry of not knowing to burrow in and get a tight hold on his very soul.

* * * * * * * *

Another hour passed, and still the rain had not let up.

If he could just dismount and let his headache ease up some before he went on . . .

He had swallowed some more of the yarrow powder a while back, but it was not doing much any more to curb the pounding pain behind his eyes or the occasional dagger of hot, bright light that stabbed into his left temple.

Trying to ignore the headache, he pushed himself to keep going.

* * * * * * * *

Another two hours crawled by, the rain beginning to soak through to his skin.

If he could just stop and build a fire to heat up some coffee. . .

The chills had started just after mid-day, the sweat from the exertion of staying in the saddle mixing with the cold rain blowing down the back of his neck and soaking in under his oilskin. He shivered again, trying to set his jaw against the wave of dizziness that seemed to go with the cold-hot feeling.

Trying to ignore the shivering and the dizziness, he pushed himself to keep going.

* * * * * * * *

The sky opened up after another hour, the lightning and thunder reverberating around him, seeming to shake loose a hard, driving rain that pelted him in sheets.

If he could just find somewhere dry to rest for a little while . . . .

His head nodded toward his chest, the weight of his closing eyelids seeming to pull his pounding head down, down toward the darkness that beckoned him, like the parched earth welcoming the relief of the rain’s cool moisture.

“No!”

Heath sat up straighter, shifting his weight in the saddle, and fought with his body to remain alert.

He reached up and removed his hat, letting the rain cool the heat of his face, as he pushed the bay back up into the controlled lope his lack of vigilance had let lapse some little while before.

It was early afternoon and the deep trees of the steep slopes were giving way gradually to the more sparsely forested hills that separated the mountains from the valley floor to the west.

He had been in the saddle now for hours, his fear for his family forcing him to keep moving, the pace varying with the terrain and his own alertness.

As the rain trickled down his face, soaking through his hair, he replaced his hat and began talking to the horse beneath him to keep himself focused.

“Gotta get home. . . b’fore Mason . . . makes it to the ranch.”

Suddenly, his eyes widened at the force of a sharp pain spiking through his head.

He slowed the horse to a walk, and he reached up to grab his head with the hand not holding the reins.

Almost curling in on himself, he closed his eyes, and let a ragged cry escape his lips as the power of the pain overwhelmed him.

Slowly, he raised his head and blinked to clear his vision, the black edges threatening to pull him down into oblivion. Breathing raggedly, he pushed the horse, which had stopped, back into a walk.

A few moments later, he said aloud, reminding himself of his task, “C’mon, Heath. . . . There’s four’a . . . them. . . . Ogden’ll . . . protect . . . her. . . if he can, . . . . . . . . . but he has ta have. . . “

When the wave of dizziness washed over him and he hunched over, unable to fight the pain any longer, he mumbled, “He just needs . . . a fightin’ . . . chance . . . .”

As he slid from the saddle to the ground, no longer able to see for the blackness that was pulling him down, all he felt was the anguish of being unable to reach her, to keep her safe.

“. . . Mo-th-er-r-r. . . .” he slurred, before he passed out on the ground, the rain continuing to soak him.

* * * * * * * *

Nick glanced over at Jarrod as they rested their horses for a moment at the top of a particularly steep ascent. They had been riding for over three hours in the driving rain, but he had still had to force the intently-focused Jarrod to stop for a moment once they had made this last ridge.

Even now, even though there was nothing to see but rain and the grey of thick clouds, his brother was staring out toward home, focused on nothing but reaching their ranch to the southwest.

They had had no conversation about what had happened back at the lumber camp, and Nick was not sure what his brother had uncovered that had fueled his fury to get home. But, watching his eyes now, Nick knew that, whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

Reaching a gloved hand out, he touched Jarrod on the shoulder. His brother slowly turned his eyes toward Nick, and he could see the anguish in the deep blue that stared back at him.

Nick’s fingers dug into the muscled shoulder, as he demanded, “What is it, Jarrod? What did she tell you?”

Though Nick had his own suspicions and fears about what the answer might be, it was somehow much worse hearing the truth of it all.

“We’ve got to get home, Nick.” Jarrod paused, pulling his eyes away. Then, he added quietly, “We may already be too late.”

“We’ll get there, Jarrod. Besides,” he assured, “Whatever it is, Heath’ll be there to handle it.”

Jarrod shook his head, “Everyone says Carl Mason doesn’t leave any witnesses behind, Nick. He’s going there to kill them both.” Jarrod gathered up his reins, preparing to go on. “We’ve got to get home.”

Nick stared back into Jarrod’s face, his heart suddenly pounding, threatening to burst from his chest. “She told you he’s headed there, now? How does she know that?”

Jarrod nodded, struggling to contain the fear and the frightening images that had been eating away at him for the last three hours, ever since they’d left the camp.

“She knows. Nick, I was sure there was something wrong. It just took me too long to get it out of her. She was too smug, too pleased about something. It took so long to get her started on what it was, but once she began, it was like watching poison dripping from the fangs of a snake. Every word was laced with venom, and all of it was directed at us, at our family, at . . . at our brother.”

Nick’s hazel eyes broke away from Jarrod’s face, and he too, found himself searching the trail below them, his throat closing as if it had been crushed by a fist made of iron. He rasped, “But, why, Jarrod?”

Jarrod closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “According to Cynda Bentell, Mason was there with Newman Reese, his partner, until yesterday. And, then, something was said that helped Mason put Heath and the lumber camp together. I’m not sure what that was, but I can tell you that woman sees Carl Mason as a way to destroy our brother and to teach Mother a lesson in humility at his loss. She despises Heath, saying that everything would’ve worked out fine if he hadn’t exposed who they were.”

He stopped, his tormented blue eyes searching the worried face of his brother, “Nick, she said Mason and his men headed for the ranch late yesterday afternoon.”

Nick nodded once, gripped Jarrod’s shoulder tighter, and said tersely, “It’ll be alright, Jarrod. You’ll see. Heath knows something’s wrong. He’s got to be the one who wrote out that telegram that came just before we pulled out. He’ll be vigilant. Besides, maybe they didn’t ride all night----maybe they aren’t in as big’a hurry as we are. Hopefully, we can still get there first. Let’s go.”

Then, they turned their horses toward the downward slope, . . . and home.

Chapter 48

As he slowly blinked his eyes open, Heath felt the raindrops covering his face. Unsure of what had happened, a sudden, recent memory of lying out in the rain swept over him, as a deep chill caused him to shiver violently.

He closed his eyes.

He was only minimally aware of the drops of rain hitting him in the face, keeping him awake and out of the blackness a little longer.

From far away, from far above him, he saw a man standing over him.

He turned his head and watched as the man’s face came closer, the man’s laugh ringing out as he knelt down beside him in the dirt. He saw the cruel smile and heard the words as if from a great distance.

“I tole you I was gonna make you pay for killing my men, didn’t I, Charlie?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Heath watched as the man lifted up a dirty knife.

Though the darkness was pressing in on him from the edges of his vision, he recognized it.

It was his own knife, the one with the four-inch blade, the one he had pulled from his boot not long ago, the one with the bone handle that he had thrown into the other man, . . . . . the one with the other man’s blood still on it.

Mason turned the knife back and forth in his hand, each drop of rain on its surface diluting the dark shade of red across its smeared blade.

He grabbed Heath by his injured shoulder and shoved him down, to lie on his back in the rain.

Then, with another smile, the cold, black eyes bored into Heath’s as Mason raised the knife and laughed again.

The sound of that heartless laugh merged, then, with the scream Heath could not stop, as the hot, slicing blade cut deep into him, its double edge burrowing through his shoulder and widening the path already slashed clean through by the bullet that had preceded it long minutes before.

As the next chill shook him, Heath forced his eyes open, looking for the man’s boots through his cracked eyelids. Seeing no one, he slowly reached up with his right hand to touch the other shoulder.

No knife.

He held the same hand up, in front of his face, and he blinked his eyes until he could see it clearly.

No blood.

Drawing in a deep breath, he wiped the rain from his face and struggled to a sitting position. The groan that escaped as he did so went unnoticed.

Pulling one bent knee up, he leaned forward, resting his head against his knee for a full minute, before he reached out and levered himself to his feet using his grip on the stirrup hanging down above him. The horse stood patiently, as Heath leaned against the saddle and reached across to remove the canteen hanging down on the other side.

Heath let the tepid water cool his thirst, before he carefully replaced the canteen, scratched the horse on the neck in silent thanks for remaining close by, and leaned down slowly to catch the rein trailing on the ground.

Then, with another groan, he hauled himself back up, into the saddle, and turned the bay toward the ranch.

* * * * * * * *

“I’m going, Ogden. There’s nothing you can say or do to change my mind. I’ve already sent Silas to make sure Audra stays at Annabelle’s house until I return, so there’s no reason for me to stay here. I need to find Heath, to get word to him to be careful, that Mason is probably going to be after him.”

“Mrs. Barkley, don’t you think that boy’s already figured out that’s a possibility? Why else would he send for me to stay here with you? He’s going to be powerfully angry with both of us when he finds out you left the safety of the ranch.”

He shifted his rifle to the other hand and reached out to touch her on the shoulder, the pain he could see in her face tugging at his heart.

He said more quietly, “You know you should stay here. You know he’d want you to. And, your other sons’ll back him up on that, you can be sure.”

She stopped saddling her mare, placed her hands on her hips, and stared into the distressed blue eyes of the white-haired man beside her, just outside of the stall.

Her eyes were flinty, her determination written all over her face, as she glared at him.

“Ogden Haverty,” she started.

But, just as quickly, he cut her off.

He shook his head ruefully and said with a long-suffering sigh, almost unwilling to play his trump card, the argument that he was positive would change her mind.

“Mrs. Barkley, Heath trusts you to stay here where I can best protect you, and he trusts me to keep you safe until he returns. Can either one of us afford to let him down?”

Slowly, he saw her hands drop down by her side and the anger dissipate from her eyes. Reaching out to pat his hand where it rested on the half-wall of the stall separating them, she smiled softly and replied, “Ogden, are you sure you never had a law degree? You sound just like my oldest son.”

Then, turning back to the mare, she slowly began unsaddling her, the man’s words having reminded her about the importance of the trust Heath placed in them both.

Quickly, Ogden propped the gun against the corner and, leaving the empty stall where he had been standing, he walked around her mare. From the off side of the palomino, he reached up, raising the heavy stock saddle after she had un-cinched it, and he removed it from the horse’s golden back.

Just as he turned with it in both hands to place it across the half-wall behind him, he realized his mistake.

* * * * * * * *

As Heath approached the narrow suspension bridge spanning the rapidly flowing river, its water muddy with the sudden run-off from the storm-swollen streams higher up, he halted his horse and looked around. It was cooler here, close to the water, and even the clay and rock wall beside him seemed to reflect back as much cool air as heat from the sun.

Heath shivered, as the cool mist from the river touched his soaked shirt. Though the rain had stopped over an hour ago, his clothes were still stuck to his skin, the normally light-blue fabric dark now with sweat.

With a small, lop-sided grin on his face, Heath carefully guided his willing mount down the unyielding, rock-covered trail toward the slightly sloping boards of the bridge. And, he thought about the last time he had crossed this bridge on horseback.

The bridge was just as it had been that day, except this time, it was in better shape than before. Though he had headed up the crew that had repaired it, he had not ridden across it except the one time he had clashed with Nick there, each of them unaware that the figure before him was his brother.

Since then, including when he had left the ranch yesterday to head for the lumber camp, he tended to use the broader bridge further up, if he had reason to come this way at all. But, today, hoping to maximize his chances of cutting off Mason and his gang before they reached the ranch, and counting on them not coming in on the main route from town, he had decided to come down on this shorter, but rougher, back trail before turning for home.

As he grinned to himself at the characteristic creaking of the ropes when he reached the lowest point of the crescent-shaped bridge, he glanced over the side and remembered the way he and Nick had both gone into the river, right at this very spot. The lop-sided smile grew as he reflected on the memories, immensely pleased and relieved that he could now remember that day.

The respect he had seen in Nick’s eyes, as they had sat their horses and sparred verbally with each other, still had the power to warm him from the inside, filling up any empty, cold places, and chasing away the chill-----whether the chill of the rising fever he knew was building inside him now, or the chill of angry desolation that had been consuming him back then, months ago.

“Good Boy,” Heath muttered to the horse, stroking the sleek, reddish-brown neck, as the horse picked its way carefully over the water-saturated wooden planks. Then, just as the horse’s front hooves touched the dark, rain-soaked dirt on the other side, Heath reined in abruptly.

Slowly, he backed the bay up several steps, returning all four hooves to the bridge.

Then, he dismounted stiffly, holding onto the saddle horn with one hand, the reins in the other, as a groan escaped his tightly-compressed lips.

Stepping forward, but holding onto the horse’s bridle for balance as a wave of dizziness threatened, Heath blinked his eyes rapidly before trusting himself to look down at his boots. Then, he stared intently at the slightly muddy area in front of him.

Easing down to one knee, he used his fingers to check what his eyes had already told him. His fears confirmed, he stood as quickly as he was able, shaking his head roughly to keep the dizziness at bay, and he concentrated on remounting.

As he urged the tall horse into a ground-eating gallop away from the bridge, all he could think about was how long ago the rain had stopped and the amount of water that had either seeped back into the muddy tracks or had begun to fill them before the rain had let up.

The signs showed that no less than three, probably four, horses had preceded him across that bridge, and they had a good head start on him.

If it was Mason and his men that had made the tracks, they must have indeed taken the main road into Stockton and then asked around to locate the back way into the ranch.

Thinking hard as he rode, he eyed the slope to his left. If he cut across the pasture stretching out into the distance, but at a higher elevation than this river trail, he could reach the ranch faster. However, the risk would be in whether or not his already well-used horse would tire too quickly by going that way, and if that choice would actually take longer as a result.

Heath felt the strong strides of the bay beneath him, glanced off across the rolling hills to his left again, and decided he had to chance it.

“C’mon, Horse,” he said, leaning slightly forward over the flying black mane, as he turned the animal away from the river and toward the grass-covered, rolling hills.

“We’ve gotta get home!”

If the tracks had been made by Mason and his men, he may already be too late.

Continued…