Texas Heroes: Volume 1

by Jean Brashear

  The kid wasn’t at fault for his mother’s sins. And Mitch had promised. He didn’t renege on a promise. For the boy, not for her, he would do this.

  “Okay. Stay behind me and stay quiet unless you see something familiar. Don’t get in front of me, whatever you do, because you’ll trample the tracks I’m looking for. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy ducked his head, and Mitch could still see tears sparkle on his lashes.

  Gingerly, Mitch reached out one hand and laid it on the boy’s head, surprised by the softness of the golden hair. Immediately he pulled it back.

  “We’ll find her, son.”

  “Yes, sir.” Like a tiny soldier, the boy drew himself up straight. “I’ll be quiet.” He looked ahead to the way he’d pointed, and Mitch could almost see the resolve of the man the boy would become.

  How had a pampered, selfish woman produced this child?

  It didn’t matter. She was probably fine, just didn’t have the stamina to make the two-mile hike up the mountain. Instead, she’d sent this poor little guy for help. Mitch would find her, tell her what he thought of her, and send them on their way. Cy had given Mitch this cabin after he’d given up on his granddaughter caring whether he lived or died. Though home was a luxury Mitch never expected to know again, he would be damned if that woman would spend a single hour inside the only place that had welcomed him in the last twenty years.

  “Come on, son. Let’s get going.”

  It didn’t take long to spot the figure lying beneath a tree. Mother and child had gotten pretty close to the cabin. Still, a quarter of a mile through a dark, unfamiliar forest had to be scary for someone so small.

  “Mom!” The boy ran past him, dropping down beside her.

  Mitch followed.

  Like Sleeping Beauty, she lay there as if under a spell. Wisps of golden hair escaped from a long braid that would extend almost to her waist. He knelt beside her and felt for a pulse, the boy’s eyes following his every move.

  “Is she dead?”

  Strong and steady. “No. She’s not dead.” He felt her forehead and quickly pulled his fingers away. Damn. She was burning up with fever. He looked at the boy. “Did she say she was feeling bad?”

  “She said her throat hurt, so she couldn’t talk to me much. She had to stop a lot after we left the car.”

  The cabin lay two miles inside a designated wilderness area, on one of the few private tracts enclosed by government land. All motorized objects were prohibited—even bicycles were not allowed. There were no phones and no electric lines. The mountains were so rugged that cell phones weren’t reliable and two-way radios required a repeater, which only the ranger station had. The isolation had suited Cy just fine, and Mitch as well. But right now, he cursed the lack of resources. He could carry her two miles to his truck, but he doubted the boy could walk that far again and carrying both would be tricky. The nearest medical facility was eight hours away.

  Mitch swore silently. She looked exhausted and painfully thin. The boy’s own exhaustion was showing.

  Sore throat and fever—maybe it was just the flu. If she were anyone else, it would make sense to take her to the cabin and check her temperature before taking any more radical action.

  But she wasn’t anyone else. She was callous and uncaring and had let Cy die alone except for a man who was no blood relation.

  Mitch looked at the boy, saw his fear and fatigue. Then he looked back at the woman.

  Even like this, she was beautiful. Delicate, so small she could have been a child herself, her figure hidden beneath layers of clothing. A backpack cut into her shoulders, its bulk twisting her body to one side. Another one, smaller and brightly colored, lay beside her. He reached out to remove the big one, surprised at its heft.

  “You won’t hurt her, will you?” Like a tiny warrior, the boy moved closer to his mother.

  Mitch frowned. “Of course not.” Despite what she’d done to Cy, he would never hurt her. “She’s got a fever. When’s the last time she drank anything?”

  “This morning, I think.”

  “Did you carry any water?”

  “Just my lunchbox thermos.”

  “Your mom carry any?”

  He shook his head. “Her water bottle fell and broke, but she said she would drink some when we got to Grandpa Cy’s cabin. Do you know my Grandpa Cy?”

  Mitch was too angry to discuss Cy right now. What was she thinking of, putting the boy in a vulnerable position like this? Couldn’t she tell she was sick? What if Mitch had been out guiding, as was normal this time of year? They both could have died out here.

  He made up his mind. The boy needed rest and food. “Come on, son. Let’s get you back to the cabin.”

  He picked her up easily, draping the backpack over his shoulder. “Can you carry that one or do you need me to do it?”

  The boy lifted the bright green and yellow pack and squared his shoulders again. “I can do it. Just make my mom better, please, mister.”

  For a woman who had shown little evidence of either character or heart, this little guy had enough for both of them. An odd tightness in his throat, Mitch merely nodded and led the way.

  Mitch laid her down on the bed in Cy’s room. So tiny. So fragile. So pale.

  “You sure she’s not dead?”

  Mitch frowned and turned, seeing the boy’s blue eyes swimming with tears.

  “Yes.” He had no experience with kids. “She’s just passed out.”

  “Is she gonna die?” The boy’s lower lip quivered again, but he stood straight and studied Mitch.

  A long-buried arrowhead surfaced. Mitch knew what it was like to watch a mother die. “No.” His jaw tightened. “She won’t die.”

  The boy moved a step closer to his mother, standing between her and Mitch. “Can you make her well?”

  What are you doing here? Mitch wanted to ask. Go away. Leave me alone. Your mother turned her back on your grandfather and let him die unwanted.

  But he was just a kid. Even if she was heartless, she was still his mother.

  “I think so. Listen—” He dropped to his heels. “What’s your name?”

  The boy hesitated. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers. Especially men.”

  A little late for that, but Mitch nodded seriously. “That’s good advice. But since your Grandpa Cy was my best friend, I guess that makes us not so much strangers.”

  The boy thought it over, then nodded but still didn’t answer.

  Mitch held out his hand. “My name is Mitch.”

  The boy darted a glance to his mother’s still form and then back. Finally, he placed his much-smaller hand in Mitch’s. “My name is Davey.” Then, as if remembering a lesson in manners, he added, “Pleased to meet you.”

  Mitch stifled a grin and shook the boy’s hand. “All right, Davey. First thing we have to do is bring down your mom’s fever.” He rose to his feet. “You can help me.”

  “Me?” Blue eyes goggled.

  “Yeah, you. Unless you’re too little.”

  “I’m not too little.” Davey’s chest puffed out from his sturdy little body. “I can help.”

  Mitch nodded. “Good. You stay right here so she’ll see you if she wakes up. I’m going to get a thermometer from my first aid pack.”

  When he returned, the boy was watching as though she might vanish if he didn’t. She’s not worth it, kid, he wanted to say. Instead he opened her mouth and put the thermometer under her tongue, then sat on the edge of the mattress and carefully held her slack jaw shut, glancing at his watch to time himself. “You ever run a fever?”

  Tousled blond hair bounced as the boy nodded.

  “What did she do?”

  His brow wrinkled. “She stuck a thermometer in my ear.”

  “Your ear?” What kind of mother was she? “Why not under your tongue?” Mitch could still recall having to hold one for what seemed forever, waiting for his mother to get a reading.

  “That’s the old way, Mom told me.”
r />   Mitch shook his head. Must be some new kind of thermometer. “What else did she do?”

  “She stuck me in a bathtub full of cold water once.” He smiled. “I screamed.”

  Mitch had to smile back. “I’ll bet.”

  Davey moved closer to his mother. “Mom,” he whispered earnestly. “Wake up.” In his voice, Mitch heard the cracking edge of desperation, but Davey stood between her and Mitch as if to guard her. Something about the boy’s fierceness touched Mitch.

  Not all mothers were angels, but he couldn’t tell such a little kid that his mother was a jerk. Worse than a jerk. She’d married some fat cat and turned her back on a damn fine man.

  A man who’d saved his life. If not for Cyrus Blackburn, Mitch Gallagher would be in jail—or dead. Cy had seen past the angry young man to the boy who had lost everything. Who’d been banished, accused and convicted without a trial. He’d had to watch his mother’s funeral from a distance and then leave Morning Star, Texas forever.

  He’d learned not to feel. Not to need. But he owed Cy more than he could ever repay, and this woman had hurt Cy. Refused contact when the old man needed her most.

  The woman stirred and moaned. Mitch edged closer to her, making sure the thermometer stayed put for another fifteen seconds.

  “I wish I could find Grandpa Cy,” the boy whispered. “Mom said he could do anything. He’d make Mom wake up, I bet.”

  Unwelcome tightness crowded Mitch’s throat. Should he tell the boy? It wasn’t fair to leave him hoping, but what did you say to a little kid at a time like this?

  “Listen, Davey…” Mitch swore silently, wishing he were anywhere but here. Anyone would be better than him at doing this. He wasn’t a man with pretty words.

  Davey watched him solemnly, those big blue eyes looking so vulnerable. The kid had been stronger than he had any right to expect.

  He’d just have to keep him busy until his mother woke up, then it was her job to figure out how to tell him. “Let’s concentrate on getting your mother well for right now.”

  The little voice sank low, almost a whisper. “I don’t know how.” He looked away, as if the failure was his.

  What did he know about dealing with kids? “How old are you?”

  Blue eyes swam with despair. “Five.”

  Five years old. Mitch tried to remember being five. All he could recall was the first day his own grandpa Ben had helped a kid with clumsy fingers learn to bait a hook.

  And how it had felt to succeed.

  Okay. They’d start small. “Well, first you take hold of the thermometer and hand it to me.”

  “What if I break it?”

  “I don’t think you will. Do you?”

  The boy shot a sideways glance at the thin glass tube, then shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Then hand it to me and let’s see if we need to dunk your mom in cold water.”

  Through the boy’s fear, a tiny smile peeked. He handled the thermometer as if it were the finest china, then gave it to Mitch.

  Mitch eyeballed the reading. One hundred and two. Keeping his face carefully neutral, he looked back at Davey. He wouldn’t scare the boy, but he wouldn’t coddle him, either. “It’s pretty high, son, but nothing we can’t handle. You watch her and call out if she wakes up. I’m headed for the stream to get cold water.”

  “You’re really going to stick her in a tub of cold water?”

  Mitch almost smiled at the boy’s horror. “No, but I need to cool her down and we don’t have ice in the cabin. Up this high, the mountain streams are very cold, and I’ll use the water to sponge her down.”

  Davey looked dubious. “What if she screams?”

  Mitch glanced back on his way out the door. “At least she’ll be awake.”

  “Yes, sir.” To the boy’s credit, there was only a tiny tremble in his voice. He stood like a little sentinel, guarding his mother.

  Mitch shook his head and turned away, wondering if Davey’s mother knew that she didn’t deserve him.

  The flames licked at her face. Around her, they rose to taunt her. On the other side of the fire, Simon clutched a struggling Davey. “I told you not to involve the police. You’re a fool to defy me, Perrie. Mathesons always win.”

  Not this time. Oh please, not this time.

  Hot. So hot. She was going to die and he would hurt Davey.

  “No!” she screamed, but no sound erupted from her blistered throat. Desperately she summoned the strength to lift feet gone leaden, hands turned to stone—

  “Davey!”

  But he was gone. Vanished. She knew she would never see him again. He was her heart. He was everything—

  “Sh-h-h,” a deep rumble murmured. “Easy. Lie still.”

  Cool. The blessing of moisture slid over her skin. A strong arm slid beneath her back and lifted her.

  “Grandpa?” Perrie opened her eyes.

  Golden brown eyes turned to stone. A strong jaw flexed. “Drink this,” ordered a man she’d never seen before.

  “Who—” Her throat hurt so badly. She stiffened and tried to scramble away, but her limbs wouldn’t move. “Who are you? Davey—where is he? Where’s my son?”

  “He’s asleep. Drink this.”

  “I don’t believe you. I have to see—”

  The big body shifted. Past his broad shoulder, she saw a familiar blond head lying on a cot beside the wall. Her son was the picture of peace, snoring faintly. She gathered herself to go to him, but her body wouldn’t obey her.

  “Take it easy. He’s just asleep. Nothing’s wrong.”

  Head spinning, she closed her eyes and fought the tears, her fingers tightening on an arm that felt like granite.

  She shifted her gaze back to the man who held her. Across a rugged, handsome face framed by shaggy dark hair, distrust and dislike warred with a tiny flicker of sympathy.

  “He stayed awake a long time to protect you, but he finally went out like a light.”

  “How long have I been asleep? What time is it?”

  “A little after two. Now drink this.” Any sympathy had vanished.

  “What is it?”

  “Same thing I’ve forced down your throat for hours. Aspirin crushed in water. You’ve got a hell of a fever.”

  It hurt to swallow, but she downed the whole thing, then lay back, exhausted. She peered around the room that was lit by a single kerosene lantern.

  Her breath caught. She knew this room.

  Her gaze flew to his. “Who are you? What have you done with my grandfather?”

  He didn’t hide his contempt. “What do you care? Why did you come now? Here to pick the carcass clean?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut. This had to be a nightmare. But when she opened them, the same hard eyes met hers. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play innocent. You didn’t care enough to call or write, much less come see an old man who loved you, not even when he was dying. Don’t expect a welcome mat now.”

  “He’s…” Perrie couldn’t make herself say the words. For more than two thousand miles, her only thought had been that her grandfather would help her save her son from Simon, the monster who was Davey’s father.

  “Cy is dead.” The stranger glared. “And I want you out of this cabin the second you’re able. There’s no place for you here.” His rock-hard jaw flexed, those eyes boring into her as though he could turn her to stone.

  She couldn’t even cry, so deep was the despair she felt. “How did he—”

  His eyes flashed as if he couldn’t bear the very sight of her.

  She fell silent, too dizzy and weary, every bone in her body aching. But she had to ask one last thing. “Davey—please. Please don’t hurt him. I’ll take care of him—” She struggled with the covers, thinking she must get to her son, protect him from this man who hated her for some reason she couldn’t understand. But she couldn’t seem to untangle herself. Her muscles had turned to water.

  “The boy is fine.” Hard brown eyes turned curiousl
y gentle for one brief second. “He’s a great kid. I won’t let anything happen to him.” Then his gaze focused on her again, and the gentleness vanished. “Go back to sleep,” he dismissed her curtly and headed for the door.

  Perrie wanted to explain. Wanted to understand. Wanted out of here, away from that man.

  Then the dream flickered, and she remembered.

  She had nowhere else to go.

  Davey was all that mattered. The silent man had tucked him into a cot and set his shoes neatly beneath it. Her son’s face bore a look of innocent trust, not fear. But how could she trust a total stranger?

  She couldn’t think, couldn’t scrape away the mist that fogged her mind. Even now, sleep claimed her, pinning her helplessly to the bed.

  Grandpa was dead. Her ex-husband had threatened to take Davey away where she would never find him if she breathed a word about his crimes.

  And a tall, forbidding stranger wanted her out of the refuge she’d dreamed of during all the years of Simon’s prison.

  Perrie fought to stay awake, to remain alert for any sound her son might make. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she would figure out the answers.

  But even as she fought, sleep crept into her muzzy thoughts on silent cat feet…and claimed her.

  “Mister,” the whisper tickled his ear.

  Mitch opened his eyes to see frantic blue ones.

  “I can’t find the bathroom.” Davey was bouncing on his toes, holding himself.

  “Unh—” Mitch groaned and sat up. “Go out on the porch.”

  “What?” Blue eyes goggled. “The bathroom’s on the porch?” He was shifting from one foot to the other.

  “You ever pee outside?”

  If he weren’t feeling the effects of the night’s frequent interruptions, he’d laugh at the kid’s expression. Heaving himself up from the bed, he stood.

  “You don’t got any pajamas on.”

  Mitch reached for his jeans and slipped them on over the briefs he didn’t usually wear to bed. “Nobody invited you in my room.”