He added one more name to his list of those who died around him…or because of him. Tripp Simms. He hadn’t planned to kill Tripp, hadn’t even known the man was in the vicinity of Little River when he captured Hank until the man walked into the saloon. He should have known, though. Hank and Tripp were as close as he and his brothers had been.
And now he had another reason to feel guilt. He’d been downright rude to someone who had suffered just as he had. He shouldn’t have been so dismissive of the young woman who had approached him on the street, offering to ride with him until Zeb Logan no longer caused anyone else heartache. Remorse for his rudeness trickled through him, but the truth was, he worked alone. He didn’t want to be responsible for someone else while he was on the trail of a dangerous criminal. He needed no reminder of what could happen. Those images and memories, like the physical scars from the bullet wounds on his shoulder and back, were with him all the time, never letting him forget the part he played.
Brock nudged Resolute with his knees and tugged on the reins, turning his mount up the rutted mountain path Sheriff Hardy had told him about. A wide stream rippled alongside the trail, flowing swiftly from the rain last night. Sunlight dappled the dark dirt beneath Resolute’s hooves. Birds chirped and flitted from Ponderosa pine to aspen to cottonwood.
Halfway up the mountain, he saw a clearing and a gaping hole hewn into the mountainside—Poor Man’s Dream, he assumed. To the left, a cabin with a steep roof, a sight familiar in this part of New Mexico. The steepness assisted in keeping the snow from staying on the roof and causing the roof to collapse. Two rocking chairs kept company on the front porch.
A golden palomino stood in front of the structure, her reins loosely wrapped around the porch railing. Beside the palomino, a mule waited, weighed down with a bulging soft-sided valise, a worn leather satchel, bedroll, and assorted burlap sacks.
Brock took in his surroundings, his gaze passing over the entrance to the gold mine. Buchanan must have had a wry sense of humor, naming his gold mine such a thing.
Dismounting, he tied Resolute’s reins to a nearby tree.
“What are you doing here?”
Brock turned and faced the voice coming from the doorway of the small cabin. It was her, the young woman who had approached him on the street, the one he’d so rudely dismissed.
“Miss Buchanan?”
She didn’t answer, just stood there staring at him, her mouth set in a grim line.
He eyed the Winchester shotgun in her hand. He didn’t know if she could use the weapon, but why should he take the chance of finding out? Even if she wasn’t a crack shot, she wouldn’t miss him…some of the buckshot would surely catch a body part he might need later. “Are you Stevie Rae Buchanan?” he asked again, just to be certain.
She wasn’t wearing the beat-up hat now, which made it so much easier to see her features harden. She squinted in his direction, but before she did, her eyes seemed to grow darker and glitter with dangerous intent. The finger caressing the trigger of the gun tightened just a bit. If the situation weren’t so serious, he’d laugh because he’d managed, just by showing up, to make her angry.
Her chest rose and fell beneath the threadbare shirt and light duster she wore. Dark trousers fit her like a second skin, showing off her long, shapely legs and slim waist. “I’m her.” Those eyes of hers narrowed as she stepped out of the doorway and drew closer to him, her boots loud on the wooden planks before she jumped to the dirt. “I asked what you were doing here.”
Sunlight glinted off her dark blond hair, showing various shades from spun gold to dark honey. He could plainly see the smudges of dirt on her face and the color of her eyes, which were nearly sapphire, but brighter. He let out his breath in a sigh. At least her finger wasn’t teasing the trigger of the shotgun anymore.
“Dan Hardy told me about you. About what happened.” He watched her as she drew closer, saw the stiffness come over her as if she drew into herself. One look at her told him how much she suffered from her tragedy, and the last thing he wanted to do was make her relive the torment of losing her father. Yet he needed to know what she knew. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about…that night.”
“And why should I help you?” The expression on her face betrayed nothing, but her tone spoke of grief and anger. He knew that grief, that anger. Both emotions sustained him when he didn’t think he could face another day. He supposed those emotions sustained her as well. “You weren’t exactly friendly when I approached you in town.”
What could he say? He’d been an arrogant ass, but in his own defense, he had been just a little busy. He’d killed Tripp Simms only moments before. He tipped his hat now. “I’d like to apologize for that. I’m not usually… I didn’t know who you were, didn’t—”
She cut him off. “Save it, MacDermott. I ain’t got time for your excuses. I’m busy.”
“I understand,” he said but didn’t move to climb back on his horse. Instead, they stood only a few feet apart. A stalemate, as it were, like the chess pieces he and Sheriff Hardy had moved about the board last night. She had information he needed and he would be a horse’s ass if he didn’t try one more time to glean it from her.
“You’re not going to leave, are you?”
He said nothing, but his gaze never left her face. He took in the fine lines around her mouth as her lips pressed together in annoyance, but his gaze kept roaming back to her eyes. They were beautiful. Such a fine color…and so shiny with the tears he believed she kept at bay. A moment passed. Then two. Resolute’s tail swatted flies, hitting him in the back as it did so. He didn’t move. Hell, he hardly dared to breathe.
“Fine. I’ll tell you what I know.” She threw her shoulders back, then turned and stomped toward the sagging front porch. “You might as well come in and have a cup of coffee.”
Stevie Rae didn’t wait for him. She hopped up on the porch and entered the house. Brock wasted no time in following her—she could change her mind if he didn’t move quickly and he didn’t want that.
He noticed the paper nailed to the door, announcing that the property would be auctioned off for non-payment of the mortgage as he removed his hat and ducked beneath the door frame. Despite the ramshackle appearance of the cabin’s outside, the inside was remarkably cozy, clean, and bigger than he expected. She gestured to a chair then swept past him and grabbed another cup and the coffeepot. She filled his cup and refreshed her own. “Hope you like it black. I ain’t got—” She winced and began again. “I’m sorry, but there’s no milk or sugar.”
Brock waited until she took her seat then dropped his hat on the table and slid into the chair opposite her. His eyes once more roamed her face as he waited for her to speak. She wasn’t nearly as young as he’d originally thought. When she approached him in the street with her hat pulled low on her head, he assumed she’d been sixteen or seventeen, but now he knew he’d been mistaken. Or perhaps it was the weariness on her face that made her appear older—twenty-four or twenty-five, just a few years younger than himself. He took a sip of his coffee, which was surprisingly good, and continued watching her. She opened her mouth several times, but no words came forth. She swallowed, then drew a deep breath as she pushed out of her chair and began to pace the small confines of the cabin.
“This is harder than I thought.” Her voice came out in a little whisper. “I haven’t spoken of that night since…that night.”
“Take your time.” Brock wanted to comfort her somehow—soothe away some of her hurt—and yet he had the distinct feeling this woman would rather face a sack full of rattlesnakes than allow him to offer sympathy.
She nodded before slumping into the chair once more. Another deep breath moved her chest beneath the threadbare shirt he assumed was once blue, but now was so faded, he couldn’t be sure. “A little more than four months ago, Zeb Logan came to this cabin and changed my life. He had a bullet in his leg and one in his shoulder. Daddy saw him ride up, but he didn’t like the looks of him so he made me hide
in the root cellar.” She gestured to the trapdoor in the floor, partially hidden by a small throw rug that hid some of the bloodstains as well. “They didn’t speak while Daddy fixed him up.” She spoke matter-of-factly with hardly a hitch in her breath, but he could see the tears shimmering in her eyes.
The recollection pained her. He commiserated. He knew how painful it was to bring up hurtful memories. He fought that particular demon all the time, and against his will, his heart ached for her. “Once he was patched up, he killed my father. Just shot him where he stood, the bloody bandages still in Daddy’s hand. Then Logan laughed and rummaged through my father’s pockets like he had the right.” She swallowed and an unusual sound issued from her throat, a sorrowful mix of anger, hurt, and regret. “I…I couldn’t do anything. I was trapped in the root cellar, Daddy’s…”
Again, she paused, the long column of her throat moving as she swallowed hard. Her eyes glittered and her lips tightened. “I saw everything but couldn’t do anything. He stood right there and killed my father.” Her voice was hoarse, but filled with anger. “I didn’t even know who he was until I went to fetch Sheriff Hardy and saw Logan’s Wanted poster hanging on the wall. Recognized him right away. Wanted to kill him right away, too, but I didn’t know where he’d gone after he…after what he did to my father.”
She must feel guilty for remaining hidden, even though it seemed like she hadn’t had a choice. Did rage carry her and keep her from falling into a million little pieces like it did him? “You’ve been looking for him ever since.”
She lowered her head, her shimmering blond locks falling into her face, but she never admitted or denied his statement. When she glanced up at him again, it was with steely determination.
Brock took a deep breath and tried not to let her heartbreak affect him. “What are you doing up here now? I thought you said the bank…”
“I couldn’t leave town without this.” She drew a pocket watch from her pocket, the gold glinting as it rocked back and forth on the small watch fob. He saw engraving on the back but couldn’t read it before she pressed a button, opening the cover to reveal the clock face and a picture of a woman. “My mother,” she said as she showed him.
“She’s lovely. Where is she now? Will you be going to her?”
“She’s gone, Mr. MacDermott. She died twelve years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
She waved away his sentiment like it didn’t matter, but he could see the truth written clearly on her features. Stevie Rae’s mother might have passed twelve years ago, but time hadn’t lessened the sorrow.
“I heard Logan might have a hideout somewhere in the mountains.”
His statement drew her attention and she sat up straighter. “I hadn’t heard that. You wouldn’t happen to know where, would you?”
Brock shook his head and almost chuckled as fresh hope eased the tenseness of her features. “If I knew, we wouldn’t be sitting here right now. Logan would be in jail.”
She said nothing for the longest time then finally, “I know these mountains. If he has a hideout, I could find it.”
Brock pushed the tin cup toward her and rose to his feet. “Thank you for your time and the coffee. I know this was hard for you, and I truly am sorry for your loss. For all your losses.”
“That’s it?” Stevie Rae rose as well, her body stiff, her eyes flashing.
“What do you mean?”
“I tell you everything and then you leave? What about me? I thought—” Anger sharpened her tone.
“You thought what?”
“I thought…you wanted my help. I…” Her words trailed off and he knew what she thought—that he would take her up on her offer to ride with him to bring Logan in.
Such sorrow radiated from her, he almost had a change of heart, but common sense and his own set of rules prevailed. He worked alone and needed to keep it that way. “I did. You answered my questions. Told me what I needed to know.”
She drew a deep breath, her tall, lithe body tense with anger, then moved away from him to grab the coffeepot and dump the remains over the coals in the little Ben Franklin stove, her movements stiff. The red coals hissed and popped, sending steam into the air.
“I’m sorry.” The words sounded hollow and useless to his own ears.
“Go to hell.” She didn’t turn to look at him as she said the words, simply wiped out the coffeepot with a rag then tossed the metal container into the sink with a bang. She stood with her back to him, her hands clenching the edge of the porcelain.
Brock grabbed his hat and jammed it on his head. He glanced at her and his mouth opened, but another apology would be useless. She didn’t want to hear it, and he supposed he wouldn’t want to hear it either. He closed his mouth and strode to the door, but lingered for a moment. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he didn’t want to leave her this way. Yet, if he didn’t, he might change his mind and allow her to accompany him. He couldn’t do that. Zeb Logan was a dangerous man, and Brock couldn’t be responsible for another human being.
He had failed before. The memory haunted him.
With a sigh, he slipped through the doorway without a word and sauntered across the dirt yard to where Resolute waited. Untying the reins and grabbing the pommel, Brock pulled himself into the saddle. Tension bristled along his spine, and the fine hairs at the back of his neck rose. He turned slightly to see Stevie Rae standing in the doorway, the coffeepot and two tin cups in her hands, her lips pressed tightly together. Her hat, once more on her head, shadowed her face but couldn’t hide the murder in her eyes. He nodded once, then nudged Resolute with his knees and rode off.
• • •
Stevie Rae drew in a deep, ragged breath as Brock MacDermott rode away. Hurt simmered within her, filling her heart. When he first rode into the little yard in front of the cabin, she thought he’d changed his mind and they’d hunt Logan together. She shouldn’t have allowed herself that small seed of hope, for now the sorrow, which had become her constant companion over the past four months, doubled, the pain almost paralyzing her.
She drew a deep breath and glanced south, catching glimpses of MacDermott between the trees. He sat tall in the saddle, his broad back straight as his hands gently held the reins. Anger washed over her, a much better friend than the sorrow, and one she knew well.
“This ain’t over, MacDermott!” Stevie Rae snarled.
Jumping to the dirt yard, Stevie Rae stuffed the coffeepot and tin cups into one of the sacks Whiskey Pete carried on his back, then hopped up onto the porch once more. Tears shimmered in her eyes despite her best efforts to keep them tamped down, blurring everything as she took one last look at the cozy confines of the cabin and slowly closed the door.
She wouldn’t be coming back here, not for a long time. If ever. She’d been happy here, but now, a touch of evil seemed to permeate her home. She couldn’t stay very long without that malevolence seeping into her bones and making her sick to her stomach.
Attaching Whiskey Pete’s reins to the back of Willow’s saddle, Stevie climbed onto the worn leather, fitted her feet into the stirrups, and nudged the horse’s side. She’d say good-bye to Martha and Sheriff Hardy before continuing her hunt, but she would not turn around and look at the little cabin. Keeping her eyes straight ahead, she rode toward town.
Chapter 3
“Hello the camp.”
Brock recognized her voice right away and let out his breath, the tension in his body easing. He uncocked his pistol but kept the pearl-handled revolver in his hand. One moment more, if she hadn’t called out, he’d have snuck behind the big boulder and gotten the drop on her. He didn’t like being followed, and he knew he had been almost as soon as he left Little River. He just hadn’t realized it had been Stevie Rae. He should have known, though, should have realized when he left her at the cabin she wouldn’t be far behind, though he had told her unequivocally he worked alone. “Come.”
She approached from the direction of the stream running beside his campsite, lead
ing the pretty palomino and the mule by the reins, the last rays of the fading sun illuminating her figure, wisps of flyaway blond hair visible beneath the brim of her hat. Those soulful blue eyes of hers pinned him, and something in his chest, around the region of his heart, seemed to soften. He slid the pistol into its holster and placed his hands on his hips.
“You again.” He shook his head and resisted the urge to chuckle. “I will say this for you, kid…you are persistent.”
She said nothing as she tied the horse’s reins to a low-hanging branch beside his mount then did the same for the mule.
“Thought I told you I work alone.”
“You did.”
“Then what part of ‘I work alone’ didn’t you understand?”
She didn’t answer his question. Instead, she said, “I know all about you, Mr. MacDermott.”
Startled by her statement, he lifted his head a bit and studied her from beneath the brim of his hat, his hands on his hips. “No, you don’t, kid. No one does.” He couldn’t hide the plaintive note of loneliness that crept into his voice. He could only hope she hadn’t noticed.
A shapely eyebrow cocked over one of her dark blue eyes, but no smile graced her features, and it occurred to him that he had yet to see that. He wondered what she would look like when her lips parted into a smile. He shook his head and realized she’d been speaking the entire time he watched her and he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. He heard them now.
“You are determined and resolute. And stubborn. Inflexible. No one better get in the way of what you want. I can see that just by looking at your face. I know you’ve been searching for Logan for a little over a year.” She removed her soft leather gloves and stuffed them underneath one of the ropes across the mule’s back, then dug a dented tin coffee cup from a sack he carried and moved toward the fire.
A Kiss in the Shadows Page 3