Painted by the Sun

by Elizabeth Grayson

"Taking care-—of Ty," he murmured.

  In spite of herself, a sob worked its way up her throat. "Well, you did a very fine job of it."

  "Worth it, then."

  She could hear Owen's breathing going reedy and thin, and took one black-smudged hand in hers. "What you did was very brave," she told him, tears spilling down her face.

  "Brave," he whispered and smiled. The word seemed to please him.

  Shea tightened her grip as if she could hold him there by the strength of her will.

  "Love you, Sparrow," he murmured.

  Shea sobbed and bent over him, pressing her smooth, cold cheek to his whiskery one. "I love you, too, old dear."

  And then he was gone.

  She bowed her body over him, silently keening for this frightened little man who had died so gallantly. She wanted to gather him in her arms and ease his way on. She wanted to hold him for a time and remember the things he'd taught her and the places they'd seen together. But her other responsibilities dragged at her, and she knew Owen would understand her leaving him.

  "I'll be back," she promised, touching his face in farewell. She forced herself to her feet, then draped her bloodied shawl over him.

  Drying her tears, she straightened and turned and saw her two boys—her two sons—kneeling together beside Ty's father. Love for both of them welled up thick and potent inside, giving her strength to cross the field to where Sam Morran lay.

  She crouched down beside them and drew Ty into her arms. He came to her ashen and dry-eyed.

  "Pa's dead, isn't he?" he asked her.

  She pressed her cheek into his tumbled hair. "I'm sorry, Ty. I'm so terribly sorry."

  She felt his shoulders shudder and heard the sobs break free, raking up his throat, making him shiver in her arms. She hugged him to her as he wept, rocking him just as she'd once rocked her own child. As she'd rocked Rand in the weeks before she'd given him away.

  With fresh tears in her eyes, she looked across at her boy hunkered down beside them, seeing him with both a mother's pride and a stranger's distance. Though she reached across and took his hand, she could see how separate he was from her now—lost over time and distance. Lost to fate and desperation and the choices she'd had to make.

  He would always be her son, but she knew she could never tell him who she was. Or who he was. She could never take him back—and somehow, making the decision at last brought a kind of resolution, a kind of peace.

  When at length Ty raised his tear-streaked face from her shoulder, he seemed younger and more vulnerable than Shea had ever seen him.

  "What—what will we do now?" he asked her.

  Shea cupped his face in her hands and dried his eyes with a swipe of her thumbs. "We'll pay our respects to your father and Owen," Shea told him gently. "Then we'll make ourselves into a family, the two of us together. Is that all right?"

  Ty took a moment to consider then dipped his head. "Sure," he said.

  * * *

  Cam could see the Seaver brothers half a mile ahead of him pushing their horses every bit as hard as he was pushing his. The three of them were half an hour out of Denver and headed west.

  Headed for the mining camp in the mountains, Cam figured.

  As they rode farther and farther from town, Cam kept looking back, hoping to see the dust of a posse rising behind him. When Wes and Jake had escaped from the hanging, Cam had grabbed one of the outlaws' extra mounts and chased the Seavers up along the river and across the Fifteenth Street bridge.

  He'd fallen back some as the ground turned progressively more rolling and gravelly underfoot, but he'd kept up. Now, ten miles beyond the outskirts of Denver jagged little coxcombs of rocks serrated the landscape, making the going even more treacherous. Still, the Seavers were kicking their horses, trying to outdistance him so they'd have a chance of losing him when they reached the foothills.

  Then, as if their luck had suddenly run out, Jake Seaver's horse stumbled on the uneven ground. It staggered a wavery step or two, dropped to its knees, and rolled, its rider still in the saddle.

  Cam pulled a Winchester from the saddle holster and kicked his pony hard. As he closed the distance between Seaver and himself, he could see the fallen horse scrabbling in the dirt as it tried to rise, hear it scream in pain as it fell back.

  A good way ahead, Cam saw Jake Seaver kick loose of the stirrups and drag himself to his feet. He hobbled a step or two, pulled his pistol, and put his pony out of his misery.

  The gunshot boomed across the empty landscape, rippling like a raindrop spreading rings across a pond. Two hundred yards beyond where his brother had fallen, Wes Seaver pulled in his pony, jerked him around, and galloped back.

  Cam did his best to reach Jake first, but he was just too far away. As soon as Cam closed to pistol range, Jake started shooting. The first bullet whined past Cam's leg. The second blew his hat off.

  Still clutching the Winchester, Cam dismounted on the fly, and dove for cover in a waist-deep ripple of upright rocks. He squirmed forward on his belly and sighted on where Jake Seaver was balanced precariously, hunched and obviously in pain.

  "Surrender, Seaver," Cam shouted, and he fired, pecking up dirt a foot away from Jake.

  The outlaw fired back, sheering off the rock just to Cam's right, sending up a spray of dust. Cam ducked and covered his eyes. When he looked back a few seconds later, Wes Seaver was turning his horse in small tight circles around his brother.

  "Don't make me kill either of you, Seaver," Cam yelled to them. "You can come in peaceably."

  "And what, Gallimore?" Wes Seaver reached down and caught Jake's arm. "Let you hang me?" He was doing his best to heave his brother into the saddle.

  Jake foundered and fell backward.

  While Jake fought his way to his feet again, Seaver shot at Cam, forcing him down behind the rocks.

  Cam rolled to his left, popped up a yard away, and squeezed off another shot. He caught Jake Seaver square, knocking him backward, sending him sprawling in the dirt. He lay on the frozen gravelly earth, limp and utterly still. Cam couldn't see any sign that he was breathing.

  Wes Seaver bent sideways in the saddle and looked down at him. For an instant his shoulders bowed. Then he turned and, bawling a bone-chilling howl of rage and grief, he charged Cam's position.

  Cam got off one quick shot before Seaver rode over him. As the pony cleared the little rill, one of his hooves slammed into Cam's shoulder. Numbness chased down his arm. Another hoof thudded between his legs as Seaver swept past.

  Seaver turned his horse and came at Cam again, yelling and firing.

  Cam pumped off two shots, then scrambled away. As he did, something caught him hard and low in the ribs. Hard enough to make him flinch, hard enough to send that tight, achy weakness spilling through him. He knew he was hit.

  Cam kept moving anyway, kept scrambling, kept seeking purchase along that shallow ridge of rocks. He'd lost the Winchester in the scuffling, but up this close his pistol was going to be more effective.

  Grimacing, he jerked the pearl-handled Colt from his holster and checked the load. Was Seaver carrying this gun's mate? Who'd have the pair of them when this was over?

  Wedged sideways in a notch in that low, rock wall, Cam swiped the sweat from his face with the back of his sleeve. He was protected on the left by a crumble of boulders. A rim of rocky coxcomb rose against his back. Beyond him, the low, striated wall curved toward the mountains like a dragon's tail.

  In spite of the thick, hot panic pushing up his spine, Cam knew he was as safe here as anywhere. He wasn't in any condition to go looking for someplace better, anyway.

  Taking a shivery breath, he finally looked down at his side. The bullet he'd taken was a good deal more than a graze, but it hadn't hit anything that would kill him outright. Still, blood had ruined his best waistcoat, and the left leg of his trousers was damp halfway to the knee. With a grunt of effort he fumbled for his handkerchief and pressed the completely inadequate square of cloth against his side.
<
br />   Shifting even as much as that made his head reel and his hands shake. He was sweating like it was summer, not twenty degrees. He looked off toward Denver and wondered where that posse was.

  Then, swallowing a sudden wave of sickness, he tried to concentrate, tried to figure out what Seaver was doing. He'd seen him dismount and take cover behind his own cluster of rocks. He was probably over there reloading his pistol, assessing their positions, and making his plans.

  Cam couldn't seem to do anything but pant and sweat and wait for Seaver to make his move. If he waited very much longer, Cam knew it wouldn't matter what he did.

  Finally Cam saw Seaver creep out from behind the rocks. Using his horse for cover, he circled around to Cam's left. It was the side where Cam was most protected, where the rocks were highest. But the outcropping also obscured his view.

  Seaver was coming at him from the one place in all this open landscape Cam couldn't see. But then, Seaver wouldn't have stayed alive as long as this if he didn't play for the advantage.

  Cam waited, his throat dry and his heart churning inside him. Even as sharply tuned as he tried to be to Seaver's movements, his mind kept wandering.

  Who would look after Lily and Rand if he died out here? he wondered. Would they have money to live on if they sold the farm? He hated that he hadn't been able to explain to Lily about the guerrillas, that he wasn't going to have the chance to apologize.

  He rubbed at his eyes and tried to figure out where Seaver was. When he came, Cam had to be ready. He'd get a single chance to defend himself. He cocked the Colt, but his thoughts kept drifting.

  He hadn't told Shea he loved her, either. Because of Lily and Rand he hadn't so much as hinted at how he felt—how he loved Shea's softness and her courage, the sweetness of her body and the solace in her eyes. He hadn't dared to tell her, but now he wished—

  Some instinct deeper than conscious thought prodded Cam hard. He shifted silently, not knowing what he'd heard or seen or sensed. His mouth went dry and his heart thumped so hard in his throat he couldn't breathe.

  Then Cam caught the faint scrape of movement directly behind and above him. He jerked around and stared straight up at the muzzle of Seaver's Colt. The man loomed over him and there was no time to aim.

  They fired simultaneously.

  Seaver's bullet seared past Cam's hip, spattering gravel.

  Cam shot straight up at Seaver. The bullet caught the outlaw full in the chest. Seaver blinked once, teetered on the edge of the rocks, and tumbled headlong. He landed on his back on the opposite side of the little ridge, his eyes wide and staring.

  He was dead. Cam didn't have to check to know. The chaos spawned in the cruelty of the war had ended today—at least for Wes Seaver. Cam should have felt some satisfaction, some kind of vindication. But all he felt was spent and overwhelmed.

  Yet there was one last thing he had to do. Groaning with the effort, he reached for the gun Seaver had dropped as he fell. It was the Colt Seaver had taken from Cam so many years before. He cradled that pistol against his chest, feeling as if he'd recovered some lost part of himself. Finally he slumped against the rocks and closed his eyes, shutting out the face of what he might have been and hoping he'd last until the posse came.

  Chapter 18

  In the cold winter twilight, Shea Waterston and Tyler Morran stood over the two fresh graves. They'd come together to bury their dead, Ty's father and Shea's longtime companion. They'd done it just the two of them, and the man who dug the graves.

  He stood a little way off with his hat in one hand and his shovel in the other while Shea read the simple, comforting words of the Twenty-third Psalm. Then Ty stepped up to the lip of his father's grave. "I—I just want you to know, Pa," he offered quietly, "I'm going to miss you, and that I hope dying didn't hurt too much. I want you to know I really tried to be a good son to you. I did my best to take care of you, especially after Mama died. Shea says you're in heaven with Mama now, and that she's looking after you instead of me. I know you been pining for her for a good long while, so I hope that's where you are and that you're happy again. I'm going to say good-bye now, Pa. You know I love you. I promise I won't forget you—nor Mama, neither."

  Ty looked up at Shea when he was done. She saw that soft, earnest face through a film of tears and smiled at him. "You did well speaking to your father," she told him softly. "Would you mind if I said a few words to him, too?"

  When he shook his head, Shea wrapped her arm around Ty's shoulders and pulled him close. She cleared her throat. "I just want you to know, Sam, that I'll do everything I promised this morning. I'll take care of your boy. I'll love him as if he was my own." Shea squeezed Ty extra tight. "I'll see that he grows into a man we can both be proud of. And, Sam, I want to thank you for trusting me with him. I'll do my very best to live up to what you expect of me."

  Shea stood there listening to the wind humming through the grass, feeling the cold seep through her clothes. Feeling the warmth of the child she was hugging against her.

  She'd done a good deal of thinking since this morning at the jailhouse. She'd thought about Sam and Ty, about Cam and Lily. She'd thought about Rand and his future and how she'd given him up a second time. It was different from the first. Though she still ached with love and regret, there was no sorrow or resentment or devastating sense of loss in it.

  Maybe that was because she wasn't alone anymore, because she'd been given another child to mother and care for. Not that Ty was second best—he'd touched her heart from the first time she'd seen him. She understood Ty with a clarity and insight she'd never had for Rand. Ty was like her. She knew what drove him. She recognized her pride in him, her common sense, and her concern for people weaker than she. She was proud of the way Ty had looked after his father and the stubbornness with which he'd stood by him.

  He was also a child with a dislike for school, a penchant for trouble, and an affinity for strays. Which probably meant they'd have a houseful of ill-tempered, scraggly things just like Rufus. The thought made her smile.

  She hugged Ty hard, then stepped to the foot of Owen's grave.

  She had some last things to say to him, a few final words to send him to his rest.

  "Owen, my old dear," she began and drew a shaky breath, "you and I have traveled a long, twisting road together. I want to thank you for being my friend and companion for every mile. I ask your forgiveness for the times I was impatient with you, but I think you understood I just didn't know what it was you needed.

  "I want you to know that my life is richer for knowing you and for everything you taught me. Every time I make a photograph I'll think of you and miss your company and your skill. You were a fine, brave man, old dear, and you were the very last person in the world to realize it."

  When she finished it seemed wrong to walk away from the open graves, so she and Ty stood there together and watched the grave digger do his work. The sound of clods of dirt on a wooden casket was one of the most mournful sounds in the world, and one Shea had heard far too often in her life.

  They stood there into full dark, and when he was done she pressed two silver dollars into the grave digger's loamy hands. Shea and Ty stood over the people they'd loved and lost a few moments longer.

  "Sleep well," she finally whispered, "both of you." Then, with Ty tucked beneath her arm, she turned toward home.

  * * *

  Shea had just gotten into bed when someone came pounding on the studio door. She snatched up a shawl and her Winchester and went to answer it. Sheriff Cook stood outside on the landing. With the help of one of his deputies, he was holding Cam up.

  Panic swooped down on her and her belly went cold. "Mary, Mother of God!" she whispered, swinging the door wide to let them in. "What's happened to Cam? How badly is he hurt?"

  "Not as bad as all that," Cam mumbled, though his head lolled to the side when he tried to raise it.

  As Shea lit a lamp and led them into the cramped little bedroom, Sheriff Cook gave her a more precise answer. "He
caught a bullet down low in the ribs. It doesn't look like it did too much damage, but he's lost some blood."

  As the two men lowered Cam to the bed, his jacket and vest fell open. A big dark stain blossomed halfway up the front of his shirt, and his trousers were stiff with blood, too.

  "Lost some blood?" she echoed as she fumbled open the buttons on his shirt. Someone had wrapped a makeshift bandage around Cam's waist, but red had soaked through the thick pad of cloth.

  "Has anyone gone for Dr. Farley?" she asked, taking up a pair of scissors and snipping carefully through his clothes.

  "Not Emmet," Cam protested, opening his eyes for emphasis. "Not Emmet!"

  "We sent for old Doc Burns," Dan Cook told her. "He's dug out more bullets than any man I know. I figured if Cam didn't want Emmet Farley, Dr. Burns was the next best thing."

  Shea didn't ask why Cam didn't want Emmet to treat him. But he needed care—and quickly. There was more color in her bleached muslin pillowcases than there was in Cam's face.

  The chill of seeing him like this began in the pit of Shea's belly and spread outward, crystallizing the air in her lungs, making her fingers clumsy as she worked over him.

  "Then hurry Dr. Burns along, will you?" she said through gritted teeth, trying not to shout her frustration at the two tall men hovering at the end of the bed.

  "I'll go get him," Ty offered from the doorway.

  Shea glanced up and saw him standing there, shoving the tail of his nightshirt into the waistband of his trousers. He was nearly as pale as Cam was, but she nodded for the boy to go.

  He didn't get far. Before he got his boots on and made it out the door, there was the trudge of footsteps on the stairs. Dr. Burns filled the doorway as he shouldered past Ty and the deputy to get to the bed.

  "What happened?" he asked, setting his doctor's satchel aside and bending over Cam.

  "Cam got shot going after Wes Seaver and his brother Jake," Sheriff Cook reported from where he was easing off Cam's boots.

  "And did he get them?" the doctor asked, peeling back the bandages and prodding Cam's wound.