“So, all in all, himself.”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Though exasperated with him, she couldn’t help smiling as a slight snore slipped through his lips.
Smothering a chuckle, Joe strutted to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. “If you need anything, just let me know. He’s a stubborn cuss but a good man.”
“Thank you, Joe. For everything.”
He nodded once more, then closed the door softly.
Stevie Rae stood in the middle of the room for several moments, allowing her heart to slow its rapid pace, allowing herself to breathe deeply. She heard Joe and Cora put their three-month-old son down for the night, then turn in themselves. Silence crept through the house except for Brock’s light snore. Through the open window, she heard the caterwauling of a cat prowling the neighborhood, the howl of coyotes off in the distance, and the faint plunking of a piano from the saloon down the street.
The energy that had kept her upright and moving from the moment Brock had been shot vanished, and she wearily pulled the rocking chair between the bed and the table and slumped into it, drained of everything except the tears that blurred her vision. Scrubbing her face with her hands, she wiped away the offending moisture and studied him, her gaze touching every part of him in a mental inventory.
Exhaustion, not only of the body but of her spirit as well, overwhelmed her and she inhaled deeply as she broke apart one of the yeast rolls and shoved a small piece in her mouth. She barely tasted it, but she had to eat. She felt dizzy, as if she’d spun in circles with her arms outstretched for far too long. If she could just finish this roll then close her eyes for a moment, she could get her strength back.
• • •
Stevie woke to the dim light of the lantern on the bureau, moonlight seeping in through the space where the heavy draperies covering the window didn’t quite meet, and part of a yeast roll still in her hand. Her gaze took in the unfamiliar room, then finally fell on Brock. His eyes were open…and on her.
“Are you all right? Do you need anything?”
“I’m finished, Stevie.”
“Finished?” She dropped the roll on the plate, then rose from the chair and stretched the kinks from her shoulders and back before she adjusted the light sheet over him. She sat on the edge of the bed, her heart rate already picking up its pace. “What do you mean ‘finished’?”
He drew in a deep breath and opened his mouth, but no words emerged. Instead, he simply stared at her. After a moment, he reached for her hand, curling his long fingers around her slender ones. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t do this anymore. Today…” He took a deep breath and brought her fingers to his lips, kissing the tips lightly. “You could have been killed, Stevie Rae. Any one of those bullets could have hit you and taken your life. If something had happened to you because of me, I…I…”
Her heart began to thunder in her chest. Tears smarted her eyes as she gazed into his. “But you protected me. You took those bullets yourself. You…” She snatched her hand away. Her fingernails dug into the soft skin of her palm, leaving indentations in the shape of half moons, as the enormity of his words struck her. “Are you saying you’re giving up?”
He nodded slowly and tried to reach for her again, but she shot to her feet and stepped away. His eyes radiated pain, perhaps mental as well as physical, the color now the soft gray of early morning. “Don’t be angry.”
“Angry?” she shouted, then remembered where she was and lowered her voice to a harsh whisper, her voice shaking in an effort to keep it level. “You promised me we’d bring Logan in together, Brock. You said—”
“I know what I said. I know…what I promised. I…” He struggled with the words, probably because of the laudanum. “I’ve been thinking…for a long time, and I just…we have to stop, Stevie. I want peace. I want—”
She couldn’t believe what he was saying. Her body trembled—so much so, she thought she would simply break apart. And the tears, the ones she fought against shedding earlier, burned her eyes once more. “You can’t mean this, Brock. It’s the pain talking.”
“No, Stevie.” He took a deep breath, his eyelids fluttering, dark lashes sweeping against his pale cheek. When he opened them again, his eyes were clear, but only for a moment before becoming unfocused once more. His voice grew softer. “I do mean it. I won’t…chase him anymore.” He tried reaching for her again, but his aim fell short and his hand flopped to the mattress. “And neither…will you. It’s over, Stevie. Go home. You—”
He lost the battle with the laudanum and drifted to sleep once more, the words dying in his throat.
Stunned, Stevie Rae sank into the rocking chair and stared at him as the full implication of his words filtered into her mind. He meant them.
He’s giving up. Logan’s won.
Her throat constricted as she tried to pull air into her lungs and gasped as pain seized her chest. “Go home, Stevie” echoed in her head, as if he continued to repeat the words over and over, his voice soft.
He doesn’t want me. After everything, he doesn’t want me.
Tears fell unheeded down her cheeks. She didn’t even bother to wipe them away. What would be the point? Only more would come, her broken heart feeding the supply of hot regret- and anger-filled tears.
How long she cried, she didn’t know, but eventually, her tears lessened then were gone. There was nothing left except a grittiness in her eyes and an emptiness in her heart.
She watched him sleep, his features full of the peace he wanted. She rose from her chair and laid her palm across his forehead to look for signs of fever, then adjusted the sheet over him before she started pacing the floor. She’d only traversed the room once when she remembered the Bennett family still slept. Weary and heartsick, Stevie moved to the window and pushed the draperies aside to watch the glow of dawn lighten the sky.
Brock mumbled in his sleep, the tone urgent. He dreamed, of what she could only guess, but the panicked, horror-filled way in which he said her name told her whatever visions he saw terrified him.
Stevie Rae rushed to the bed and touched the side of his face. “Shhh. It’s all right, Brock. I’m here.”
He quieted immediately beneath her caress, and she continued to stroke his whisker-laden cheek, then went further and ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair. The gray at his temples seemed more pronounced in the glow of the lamplight. He whispered her name in his sleep and this time, there was no fear or panic in his tone, just a sweet caress.
In that moment, she understood why he uttered those terrible words to go home. He wasn’t giving up the search for Logan for himself, though he said he wanted peace. He was giving up out of concern for her. Logan had warned them he would kill them and, at least once so far, he’d tried to make good on his threat. Brock didn’t want her to go home because he didn’t want her. He wanted her to go home because he thought she’d be safe there.
“I understand, my love,” she whispered, “but I can’t—I won’t—give up looking for Logan.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly through her parted lips as she brushed the hair off his brow with her fingertips. He smiled and sighed in his sleep, and the resolve she’d always counted on came back to her, strengthening her will. She drew another deep, cleansing breath into her lungs. “I will find him and kill him. For both of us.”
Chapter 20
Sunlight filtered through a crack where the draperies didn’t quite meet, shining in Brock’s face, forcing him awake. He turned his head on the pillow, expecting to see Stevie Rae in the rocking chair beside the bed, where she’d been every other time he’d opened his eyes.
Disappointment rippled through him. He turned his head the other way. Still no Stevie, but the comforting sounds of dishes being washed and low-voiced conversation punctuated by Joe Junior’s gurgling met his ears. A slow smile curved Brock’s mouth as he closed his eyes. Stevie would be back. He could wait.
Brock opened his eyes and drew in his breath as he looked around the room.
The sun was higher in the sky, but still coming in through the gap in the draperies. He’d fallen asleep again, and his thoughts were fuzzy and incomplete.
“Good. You’re awake.” Joe pushed against the door with his hip and entered the room, a tray in his hands. “Cora thought you’d be ready for something a bit more solid than broth.” He placed the tray on a table and looked at him, hands on his hips.
“And good morning to you, too, Joe.”
Joe cocked an eyebrow. “It’s afternoon, pal.”
“Afternoon?” His brain was still foggy, making it hard to think, and his mouth felt like he’d tried eating his boot. He moved his tongue around his mouth, trying to find some moisture.
“Yup. You’ve been sleeping on and off since we brought you here.”
“And when was that?”
“Four days ago. Doc Capshaw said he thinks you can try sitting up today. Want to try?”
Without a word and without waiting to be helped, Brock struggled into a sitting position and paid the price. Pain shot through him and a cold sweat broke out over his entire body. His head, feeling like it was filled with tons of wet cotton, could have fallen off his neck and rolled across the floor by itself. Joe tsked as he tucked pillows behind his back, propping him up then adjusted the sheet over him. He saw a pitcher of water on the bedside table, along with a half-filled glass…and the little tinted bottle of laudanum, which was almost gone.
“When was Capshaw here?” He fumbled for the glass, almost knocking it off the table then wiggled his fingers, which weren’t working the way they were supposed to. “Shit.”
“Earlier this morning,” Joe answered as he grabbed the glass before it crashed to the floor and placed it in his hands. Brock drank deeply, finishing the water, letting the coolness of the liquid slide down his throat to ease his thirst.
“You slept right through his visit.”
“I did?” All he remembered were bits and pieces, a kaleidoscope of images and visions. Sunlight streaming in through the gap in the draperies, like now, replaced the next moment by moonlight. Cora or Joe coming into the room, carrying on low-voiced conversations with Stevie. The taste of chicken broth on his tongue. The sound of a baby crying from far away mingled with the tinny plink-plink of an out-of-tune piano. The loud, rhythmic ticking of a clock. And Stevie.
Always Stevie.
Whenever he opened his eyes, she’d been there—sitting in the rocking chair, her hair falling in her face as she read a book. Several times, he caught her sleeping, her hands folded over her stomach, head tilted to the side. In those moments, she looked so young and carefree, without the weight of the world on her shoulders. Once, he woke to find her holding Joe’s three-month-old son and the look on her face was one of pure bliss. How beautiful she had looked, peaceful and happy, the shadows beneath her eyes curiously absent as she rocked Joe Junior, sending him off to dreamland.
As Joe flung the heavy draperies open, flooding the room with light, Brock winced. He glanced at the hated bottle of laudanum on the bedside table, and laid blame for his scattered, incomplete memories and sensitivity to light on the opiate mixture.
And where was Stevie?
Before he could ask or speak at all, Joe handed him the tray. “Eat.”
Brock settled it across his legs. The aroma of beef stew rose from the steaming bowl and his stomach gurgled. He’d been living on broth, Stevie Rae making him drink the savory stock from a cup every time he woke. He dipped his spoon into the thick gravy, capturing chunks of beef, potatoes, and vegetables, and brought it to his lips, his mouth watering. Cora Bennett was a good cook and he finished every last bit of the hearty meal. Neither he nor Joe spoke as he ate—the only sound in the room, aside from the constant ticking of the clock, was the scrape of his spoon against the bottom of the bowl. He grabbed a thick slice of bread, spread soft butter on it, then used it to sop up the last of the gravy.
Belly full, he wiped his mouth on a napkin and let out a long sigh. “Give Cora my regards. That was the best stew I’ve had in a long time.”
Joe took the tray and started to leave the room.
“Will you ask Stevie to come in?”
Joe stopped at the door but didn’t turn around. His body stiffened, though. That didn’t bode well.
“Joe?”
When the marshal finally faced him, Brock not only saw his anger, but he felt it as well…it was like stepping too close to a blast furnace. He should have burned to a crisp just by the fire in Joe’s golden brown eyes.
“She’s gone, as if you didn’t know.”
“Gone?” Brock sat up straighter, ignoring the pull of his stitches in his side. “Where?”
“She didn’t say exactly, but if I were a bettin’ man, she—” His eyes narrowed and his lips tightened before he demanded, “What the hell did you say to her anyway?”
Jolted by the accusatory tone in his voice, Brock turned his focus on Joe. “What are you talking about?”
Joe put the tray on the table once more and stood beside the bed, his arms folded across his chest, his expression dark. “I wasn’t going to say anything. It isn’t my business how you handle your affairs, but I like Stevie and don’t want to see her hurt.”
Brock shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs and produce a coherent thought or a full memory. Just one would be enough, but nothing became clear. He just saw more jumbled visions in his mind, though something niggled at the back of his brain.
Something important.
He remembered talking to Stevie, remembered the touch of her warm hand on his brow and the tears in her eyes, but nothing cohesive. There was no order to his mishmash of memories.
He brought his attention back to Joe, who hadn’t stopped speaking, which was unusual—he being a man who believed actions were louder than words. “I don’t know what happened between you two, but something got her all upset. I’m thinkin’ it was something you said…you can be meaner than a grouchy bear sometimes. She’d been crying. More than once. I saw that plain enough, and it wasn’t because you were hurt. Well, maybe that was part of it. Cora saw it, too, but Stevie didn’t say a word. Just told us she had to go as soon as Doc Capshaw could assure her you would recover completely from your injuries. That was the only thing she was waiting for.” He shrugged his broad shoulders and some of his anger dissipated. “After Doc Capshaw left this morning, Stevie packed her saddlebags and was just saying her good-byes when the telegram came.”
Brock had listened without interrupting nor had he moved a muscle when Joe put Stevie’s leaving directly on his shoulders, but now his muscles grew taut, his entire body tensing. “Telegram? What telegram?”
“The one that arrived early this morning just as Stevie was leaving.” Exasperation colored his voice. “It was addressed to you, but she read it then took off outta here like her feet were on fire. Didn’t even take that ornery mule of hers.” He shook his head. “Never saw a person turn that pale before and still keep standing.”
“Show me.”
Joe drew in a deep breath as he straightened to his full height but he hesitated, his eyes darting all over the room just to avoid looking directly at Brock.
“Show me,” Brock demanded, more forcefully this time. After a moment, Joe pulled the paper from his pocket and shoved it at him. Brock studied his face, aware and clearheaded for the first time in days, as if the fuzziness of the laudanum had finally worn off. He unfolded the missive.
There were only four words on the telegram, but those four small words were enough to make Brock suck in his breath. Dan shot. Come now.
Dan probably had Martha Prichard send it and could only mean one thing. Logan had shot Little River’s sheriff. No wonder Stevie Rae had lit out of here like her feet were on fire.
Angry, not only at himself for still being laid up, but with Joe for not showing him the missive immediately and at Stevie Rae for taking matters into her own hands, he crumpled the telegram in his hand. “Damn fool woman! She went after Logan herself!�
�� He cursed then glared at Joe. Fear and frustration made his belly clench, and the beef stew, which had been so good a moment ago, now felt like a rock in the pit of his stomach.
“How do you know she went after Logan?” Joe asked. “The telegram doesn’t mention anyone other than Dan.”
Brock didn’t answer the question. Instead, he glared at Joe, his heart thundering in his chest, his mouth dry with anxiety. “Why did you let her go?”
The marshal took a step back, his brow lowering in anger. “I’m not taking the blame for this, pal. It was all you. Something you said or did. You made her want to leave.” He took deep breaths and struggled with his temper. When he spoke again, it was with a much calmer tone, his anger gone as quickly as it came. “To answer your question, Stevie wasn’t a prisoner here. Short of tying her to a chair or throwing her in jail, there was no stopping her. Cora and I both tried to make her see reason but you know her.”
He ran his fingers through his hair and blew out his breath. “You’re right. It is my fault,” he admitted. “I must have said or done something. It’s there. Niggling at the back of my brain, but I can’t…shit.” He flung the sheet off and swung his legs over the side of the bed. A wave of dizziness made the room spin around him, but he made it to his feet and remained standing. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead as the stitches in his side and his leg pulled taut and more pain rushed up to greet him. He gasped, finally drawing in breath.
“Brock!” Joe reached out and grabbed him, holding him upright so he wouldn’t fall. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“After her. Someone has to stop her from trying to get herself killed.”
“You can’t go after her like this. You’ve been shot and lying in this bed for four days, which means you have no strength.”
A Kiss in the Shadows Page 25