They’d headed west, away from Española, but hadn’t traveled very far when Brock stopped their progress, saying it didn’t feel right. They turned north, but still were unable to pick up Logan’s trail. Hours later, hot, sweaty, and with the sun beginning to sink into the horizon, he finally suggested they camp early and start again in the morning.
They’d found a homestead…or what was left of one. Several planks of rotted wood, ready to disintegrate with the slightest of breezes, was all that remained of the barn. The house was in equally bad shape—roofless, defined only by crumbling adobe walls that defied gravity and the elements, but cool water still filled the well dug deep into the ground near the front of the house.
Stevie Rae stared at the wild profusion of roses twisting and turning around the well, then focused on Brock. He sat against a wall, removed his hat, and put it to the side, then pulled pipe and tobacco from his shirt pocket. He went through his ritual of preparing his pipe, which usually relaxed him. It did not this time.
“It’s more than a lack of fear, Stevie.” Brock clamped the pipe between his teeth and spoke around the stem as he tucked the pouch of tobacco back in his pocket. “I think he enjoys the chase. It’s doing something to him, making him braver. More diabolical. Look at what he did to the Westons.” Sadness crept into his eyes as his jaw tightened. The pipe rose under the pressure and she winced, afraid he’d snap the stem between his teeth, then she relaxed a bit when he removed the pipe from his mouth and gestured with it. “Since I’ve been after him, his violence and the senseless killings have increased…almost like…”
“He’s showing off for you. Taunting you. Rubbing your nose in the fact he’s still committing crimes…and you haven’t stopped him.”
Brock sat straighter against the wall he’d been resting against, his muscles tensing. A frown pulled down the corners of his mouth and created furrows between his eyes. “He is taunting me.” His shoulders slumped as if beneath the weight of Logan’s horrible actions…and his own part in the commission of those crimes.
Stevie Rae’s heart went out to him. “It isn’t your fault, Brock.”
He glanced at her, his eyes dark like storm clouds, then slowly rose to his feet and walked away from the camp.
She watched him disappear behind what was left of the barn, noticing how stiffly he walked, like an old man hunched with age and brittle bones…and regret. After a moment, she rose to her feet as well and followed him. He stood with his hands on his hips, the pipe clenched between his teeth, though still unlit, the muscle in his jaw twitching.
“Maybe it is my fault.” He removed the pipe from his mouth and jammed it his pocket, mindlessly spilling tobacco down the front of his shirt. His eyes were focused on the horizon and the last rays of the setting sun. “If I weren’t chasing him, maybe he wouldn’t take so much pleasure in killing. Maybe I should—”
“Logan would be killing people even if you weren’t after him.” She refused to listen to the words uttered by this brave, honest man, nor could she tolerate the doubt she heard in his voice. Tears pricked her eyes, and her throat tightened. She laid her fingers on his arm, feeling the steel-hard muscles beneath his shirt. He didn’t pull away from her. “That’s who he is. What he does. He’s been killing for years, Brock, long before what happened in Paradise Falls and your vow to stop him. His behavior has nothing to do with you. Or me.”
Brock turned and finally looked at her and Stevie Rae sucked in her breath. Such pain radiated from his eyes, from his entire face. It was all she could do to hold his gaze as she repeated the words in her heart. “It’s not your fault. None of it, Brock.” Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around him and held tight, offering what little comfort she could give. He stiffened within her embrace.
Stevie Rae rested her head on the hard planes of his chest and tightened her arms around him until he accepted her gift for what it was. The tension in him started to abate and his muscles relaxed. After a long time, he rested his chin on the top of her head, then wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him even closer.
How long they stood in the dying rays of the sun, holding each other, Stevie Rae didn’t know. What’s more, she didn’t care. Peace stole into her, a feeling of comfort that warred with the turmoil she’d felt since seeing the devastation at the Westons’ ranch. Surprisingly, the horrible visions in her head started to fade. Not forgotten—never forgotten—but somehow, within his embrace, not nearly as vivid as they’d been earlier. The sadness in her heart eased enough so she could draw in her breath without pain.
The urge to rail at the heavens for what had been done to good, innocent people receded and a new emotion took hold.
She raised her head from Brock’s chest and studied his face. The pain was still there and uncertainty glittered in the clear gray of his eyes, but at least his features were no longer carved in stone. She loosened her hold on him and rose up on her toes, following through on a newly awakened yearning for an affirmation of life. Gently, she touched her lips to his.
Brock stiffened before running his fingers through her hair and lowering his mouth to slide over hers with a desperate hunger that made her blood sizzle through her veins.
His stomach rumbled.
Startled by the sound, she broke the kiss, realizing neither one of them had eaten since breakfast. “Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“You say ‘no’ but your stomach says otherwise. You must eat. Even if it’s just a little. I can make some of those biscuits you like.”
Without waiting for him to respond, Stevie Rae broke their embrace and walked back to their camp. She heard Brock follow, but at a much slower pace, as if the mental ache in his mind had become physical. She headed straight for the sacks of supplies tied to Whiskey Pete’s back and found everything she needed to make the simple fare. Brock settled himself once more on his bedroll, his back against the wall. He pulled the pipe from his pocket, filled it again with tobacco, and clamped it between his teeth. Moments later, he struck a match against the bottom of his boot and brought the flame to the pipe. Smoke wreathed his head as he puffed it alight, and the aroma of fine tobacco filled the air to compete with the scent of roses growing wild and untended around the water well.
As she prepared the biscuits, she kept watching him, her eyes darting from the skillet to his face, worried about him and the way he felt at this moment. Would he stop pursuing a man who was as difficult to capture as quicksilver? Would he just give up?
She prayed he wouldn’t. She didn’t want to do this alone, but she would if she must.
Stevie Rae put the lid on the skillet, slipped it under the coals in the fire, and…didn’t quite know what to do with herself. The inclination to hold him, to touch him, still lived within her and yet, she couldn’t bring herself to approach him again. The expression on his face left no doubt that he wished to be left alone.
To wallow in his own doubts?
To accept blame for the actions of another?
It wouldn’t do. She knew all too well what happened to a person’s mind—and their heart—when one allowed guilt to corrode one’s sense of worth. She’d seen it with her own father. The guilt of not being able to save either his wife twelve years earlier or his patients two years ago had eaten at him, changed him from a brilliant doctor who treated everyone regardless of their ability to pay to a man who was afraid of everything.
She didn’t want that to happen to Brock. He was an honorable man with a good heart, much like her father had been.
Brock needed a distraction from his self-torture. “It’s still light enough. You could give me another shooting lesson.” She willed him to say yes, but he just shook his head, his eyes focused on the horizon, the pipe stem clamped between his teeth.
Stevie Rae let out a long sigh, slid the skillet out from the coals, removed the lid, and poked her finger against the biscuits to test for doneness, then used her pocket knife and lifted the edges. Golden brown on both sides, they were perfe
ct.
“They’re ready.”
Brock didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge she had spoken. She moved several biscuits to a tin plate and handed them to him. He nodded his thanks, but that was all.
Stevie Rae let out another sigh. It was going to be a long, silent night, even more silent than usual.
• • •
Morning did not bring an improvement to Brock’s mood. He’d spent a sleepless night, haunted by nightmares of the bloodstains on the floor of the Westons’ little house. What horror they had gone through. He awoke feeling, deep in his bones, that Logan’s increased terrorism was his fault. Stevie Rae didn’t believe that, but he did. If he weren’t hell-bent on bringing the man in, would Logan simply quit his murderous spree across northern New Mexico?
The answer was simple. Logan would never stop. Stevie Rae knew it. He knew it. Killing was in Logan’s blood. He enjoyed it.
Logan had changed, though, leaving Lily alive to witness his act of terror.
Another part of his game? To what purpose?
Brock froze, his breath seizing in his lung. Shit! Logan left Lily alive so I would find her and see what he’s capable of.
He shook himself, but the thought remained in his head. He tried to ignore it as he filled their canteens from the water well, his gaze resting on Stevie Rae. Worry ate at him, especially knowing what Logan had done to Patrice.
Could he protect Stevie Rae? Keep her safe?
He hadn’t been able to keep Kieran safe, nor Mary or Matthew.
Stevie Rae smiled at him as she adjusted the cinches on Willow’s saddle, then plopped her battered hat on her head. She adjusted the collar of her duster and pulled on her gloves, then, grabbing the pommel, slipped her foot into the stirrup and climbed into the saddle. With a few clicks of her tongue and a gentle tug on the reins, she neatly turned Willow and walked up beside him and Resolute, Whiskey Pete following behind her, but not happy about it. His loud hee-haws disturbed the peace of the morning as he tugged against the reins. “I’m ready.”
Brock nodded once, then handed her one of the canteens. She looped the long strap around the pommel, a gentle smile curving her lips.
He led the way, heading north once more. Rolling hills, dotted with yucca, juniper, and creosote, spread out before them. Dew sparkled in the morning sun, making those plants and trees shimmer. In the distance, a coyote gave chase to a hare while an eagle soared high above, its wingspan nothing less than astonishing.
Brock tugged lightly on the reins and slowed Resolute’s pace, allowing Stevie Rae to catch up to him. He glanced at her and admiration filled him. The woman handled her mount well. She sat tall in the saddle, her long honey-colored hair spreading out from beneath her hat to curl down her back. He swallowed over the dryness in his throat. “About last night…”
“What about it?”
He opened his mouth, but the words seemed stuck in his throat. He swallowed hard and tried again. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
For letting you come with me. For letting you see things no woman—or man for that matter—should see. For putting you in danger. For so many things. Though the words popped into his brain, he didn’t say any of them. He couldn’t, not beneath the steady gaze of her warm blue eyes. “For taking advantage—”
“You didn’t take advantage, Brock. I kissed you.”
He nodded once, accepting the truth, though the truth didn’t lessen his guilt. He had liked the feel of her lips against his, and God help him, he wanted to kiss her again. He wanted to run his fingers through her gloriously thick hair and feel her body pressed against his until he just couldn’t think.
But he couldn’t allow that to happen again. Not now. Perhaps not ever again. Three times had been tempting fate. A fourth time, well…he had a mission. Two of them, if he were honest: find Logan and keep Miss Stevie Rae Buchanan safe and untouched. He couldn’t do either of those things if all he thought about was holding her in his arms and caressing her soft skin.
He filled his lungs with sweet morning air, nodded once more, and trained his eyes on the horizon. The steady clip-clop of Resolute’s hooves against hard ground echoed in his ears and became a refrain in his head. Keep her safe.
Brock glanced in her direction, but her eyes, too, were on the horizon, her back straight, hands loosely holding the reins.
She squinted beneath the shadow of her hat before she tilted her head, her attention drawn to something in the near distance. “What is that?”
“What is what?”
“There’s something glistening in the sun. Do you see it?” Stevie Rae pointed to a spot where several creosote bushes shaded the earth, then she nudged Willow’s sides and trotted ahead, Whiskey Pete following behind, braying for all he was worth.
“Wait!”
But she didn’t wait. She never did. Headstrong and sometimes foolhardy, she rushed in without thought to the consequences, whatever they might be.
Brock drew in a deep breath and lightly kicked Resolute’s sides. He caught up with her as she slid from the saddle and picked up a string of pearls, holding them outstretched in her hand. “These must be Clara’s. Remember, Paul said Logan had taken them from her.”
Brock dismounted, but he didn’t take the pearls from her hand. Instead, he hunkered down so he could study the ground. The dirt had been disturbed by hoofprints, clods of earth kicked up as if Logan had struggled to control his horse…and failed. “Looks like his ride reared and Logan fell. Dropped the pearls without realizing it.” He rose to his full height and finally took the necklace from her hand. Bile burned the back of his throat as the memory of the chaos in the Weston house flitted through his mind. A slight breeze ruffled the edges of his duster, and a chill chased up his spine that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with his pursuit of a madman.
“We’re on the right track then.” Stevie Rae took the pearls from his hand and stuffed them into the pocket of her duster. “Embudo isn’t too far from here. Maybe he’s headed there.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he doubled back and is on his way somewhere else, one step ahead of me.” The futility of his task settled deep in his bones. How long would he search for a man who didn’t want to be caught before he realized it was pointless? Bringing Logan to justice wouldn’t bring Kieran or Mary back. Seeing a noose around Logan’s neck wouldn’t reverse time and allow Matthew to grow into the man he had been destined to become.
The doubts that plagued him yesterday and this morning revisited him in full force. Feelings of incompetence and inadequacy afflicted him, and the hopelessness of his mission turned sour in his stomach. And yet…he couldn’t allow himself to give up the search, couldn’t allow Logan to win.
He looked at Stevie. She hadn’t moved but she watched him, weariness shadowing her brilliant eyes, her mouth set in a grim line of determination. She wouldn’t allow Logan to win either. That was plainly clear.
“He won’t always be one step ahead, Brock. We will find him. We have to.” She hooked her foot into the stirrup, hoisted herself into Willow’s saddle, then picked up the reins, all without taking her gaze from his. “I’m heading to Embudo. What about you?”
He gave a slight nod, then climbed into Resolute’s saddle and lightly nudged his sides. They rode side by side, neither one speaking until they reached the small town nestled in a sweet spot where the Embudo River flowed into the Rio Grande, aware of her intense stare as if she knew of the uncertainty drifting through his mind and tried to enforce her determination and stubbornness on him with nothing more than the warmth of her gaze.
Like Española, Embudo showed a surge in population with the building of the train station. People meandered along the raised wooden sidewalk, shopping at new stores as well as old, but even with the growth, it hadn’t changed much in the year since he last visited.
He stopped in front of the sheriff’s office and dismounted, then turned to Stevie Rae. She looked tired, shadows framing her beautiful eyes
, but her lips were still pressed together in grim resolve. “You all right?” he asked as he helped her from the saddle.
She nodded once, but he knew she lied. She wasn’t all right. Chasing after Logan had taken a toll on her, just as it had him, no matter how determined they both were. Did she harbor the same doubts he had? If she did, she never expressed those misgivings aloud. He drew in a deep breath and pushed all thoughts from his head then stepped onto the raised wooden sidewalk.
A small chalkboard had been nailed into the wood beside the door frame. “Back in fifteen” had been written in white against the black slate. Brock tried the doorknob anyway, but found it locked.
“Sonny isn’t in.” He glanced in Stevie Rae’s direction. She had removed her hat, placing it on the pommel of Willow’s saddle, and quickly pulled her shining hair into a ponytail at the back of her head.
“If it’s all right with you, we’ll wait.” He shrugged. “Unless you’d rather find lodgings for the night.”
She shook her head as she stepped up on the sidewalk beside him and leaned against the building. “We can wait.”
They hadn’t waited long when a young man approached from the south, a small canister in his hands, the Silver Star pinned to his vest gleaming in the sunlight. “Can I help you?” he asked as he stepped up to the sidewalk beside them.
“We’d like to see Sheriff MacLeish.”
“Sonny? He’s not sheriff anymore. He retired.” He pulled a ring of keys from his trouser pocket, unlocked the door, and swung it open. “I’m Will Rafferty,” he said with a wide grin. “Elected sheriff by a landslide vote eight months ago. Come on in.”
A Kiss in the Shadows Page 14