Beyond Betrayal

by Christine Michels

  She strained her ears, listening for the scrape of a booted sole on gravel, or the rasp of clothing against stone. Nothing. Cautiously, breathing shallowly with gun at the ready, she began to move in the direction she thought he'd gone. Suddenly there was a scrape to her right. Delilah whirled, saw a man coming around a boulder scarcely ten feet away and fired instinctively. To her horror the bullet struck him in the forehead and she found herself staring into wide, disbelieving blue eyes as the man slowly crumbled to the ground. As though his gaze had somehow been locked upon her, his dead eyes continued to stare directly at her.

  Oh, Lord! She'd killed a man. Closing her eyes, she clutched her stomach to still its sudden rebellion, and then turned quickly away.

  "Did you get her, Canfield?" Telford demanded.

  Regaining her position at the boulder, Delilah looked down into the canyon. "Your man is dead, Telford," she shouted, not bothering to try to disguise her voice. Firmly shunting aside the picture of the dead man's face, she decided to turn his death to her advantage—if she could. "You've got two minutes to mount up and get out of here, without Mr. Towers, or you'll be joining Mr. Canfield.” She prayed they'd heed her threat because she wasn't at all sure she could kill again. Listening to their movements, glancing down every couple of seconds, she reloaded her weapons and waited.

  Two of the wounded men had dragged themselves over to their horses and appeared to be leaving. Telford was talking heatedly to the man supporting Samson. Then, he drew his pistol and aimed it at Samson's head.

  No! Without a second of hesitation, Delilah pointed the Winchester and fired.

  "Son-of-a-bitch!” The gun flew from Telford's grasp as he cradled his arm against his body.

  Knowing now that they planned on killing Samson, Delilah was through with giving them time. She kept firing. Kept the pressure on. Until. . . finally. . . Telford and the rest of his men ran for their horses.

  Samson stood swaying almost drunkenly on his feet. "This isn't over yet, Towers," Telford yelled. "You're a dead man."

  Then the men spurred their horses toward the canyon entrance. At the last moment, one of them turned, Winchester in hand, aiming at Samson. Again Delilah fired, and this time her target was too far away for her to check the shot. He flew out of his saddle while his horse continued on.

  Dead? She didn't know. And, with her concern for Samson crowding all other thought from her mind, at the moment she didn't care. As soon as his tormentors were out of sight, Samson sank slowly to his knees and then simply keeled over to lay on his side. Was he unconscious? She prayed not, for how would she get him out of this canyon if he was?

  Delilah didn't know how long it took her to work her way down from the ridge. She found the trail that Telford's man Canfield had used, but at times she had to lower herself gingerly from one ledge to another. In other instances she was able to scurry down narrow paths, sending small rocks and gravel crashing down ahead of her. No matter how quickly the descent was accomplished though, with worry and fear gnawing at her, it seemed like forever. Finally, she knelt at Samson's side.

  Delilah sucked in a breath. His face was a bloody mess of torn and bruised flesh. His nose looked broken. Both his eyes were swollen almost shut. There was a jagged cut along his neck, right over the jugular vein, deep but not fatal. It looked as though they'd been taunting him with the possibility of a quick death. Her gaze roamed lower, taking in his bruised and battered torso. A broken or dislocated finger on his left hand. A jagged cut through his denims that had drawn blood on his thigh. For a moment, overwhelmed by the extent of the maltreatment he'd suffered, Delilah could only stare. It would be a miracle if he didn't have any broken ribs. And he would almost certainly have a couple of cracked ones. How would he ride? How could she even hope to get him on a horse?

  And then, a groan from Samson spurred her to action. She had to stop the bleeding and then get him somewhere where she could tend him properly. Spying his discarded blue chambray shirt and black bandanna laying in a careless heap on the ground, she ran toward them. The shirt was already a tattered rag, so she certainly couldn't do it any more harm by ripping it into strips. Hastily, she tied one strip of cloth around his bleeding thigh, and another around the cut in his throat. Then, she examined his ribs. They needed to be supported enough for him to ride. If she tied a number of strips from the shirt together, surely that would do the trick. She was in the process of doing that when Samson groaned again. "Samson?"

  A frown puckered his brows as he tried to focus on her through eyes that were mere slits in swollen tissue. Then, he licked his parched and swollen lips. "Delilah?" he asked in a voice rusty with pain.

  "Yes. I'm here. I'm going to help you."

  He tried to shake his head, and then winced. "Go away."

  His words hurt, but she refused to accept them. "I'll go away when you're better, if that's what you want. But right now you need me. Can you sit up? I need to bind your ribs."

  Slowly, laboriously, leaning heavily on his right arm, Samson pushed himself into a sitting position. Without looking at him, without meeting the expression glaring from his swollen eyes, Delilah accomplished her task, binding his ribs tightly and then knotting the strips of cloth together to prevent their loosening. "There," she said. "Now, I have to get you somewhere where I can take care of you. Do you know anyplace?"

  Turning sideways, he tried to rise. She quickly moved to help him. Once again, he rebuffed her, so she stood back and let him make the attempt on his own. He didn't make it. Falling back with a curse, he stared up at her. The next time she extended her arm, he didn't refuse it though she knew it galled him to accept her aid.

  "Is there some place we can go while you heal?" she asked again.

  He nodded, slowly, painfully. "Yeah. There's an old miner's cabin," he gasped as though every word, every breath was agonizing, "about three miles West of here. Did you see. . . a rock that looked a bit like a hat sitting on top of a hill?"

  Delilah thought back. "Yes. I think so."

  He nodded slightly. "The cabin is right below that rock."

  "I'll find it," Delilah promised. "Can you ride."

  "I'll damn well ride out of here," he muttered. "Goliath?"

  Delilah nodded. "He's here. So are three other horses they left behind.” She didn't bother pointing out that two of these were the horses to which they'd had Samson tied. The third was probably Canfield's horse. He wouldn't be needing it anymore. Since each horse was carrying a small amount of supplies or a bedroll, Delilah intended to take the beasts with them.

  As though he'd heard his name, Goliath came clopping over; he was still saddled and bridled. The wild look in his eyes and the nervous rippling of his hide made it obvious that the big horse was spooked. He nudged Samson's arm gently and Samson grabbed his bridle, patting the big horse's neck reassuringly before working his way painfully back to the stirrup.

  "Do you need help?" Delilah asked.

  He shook his head. "I think I know how to get on a horse by myself," he returned coldly, deliberately misunderstanding her.

  Nodding but keeping a watchful eye on him, Delilah turned to the task of stringing the other horses together. All of them remained saddled and bridled so Telford had doubtlessly planned to move on before making camp this evening. When she noted that Samson had managed, by pure force of will, to pull himself into the saddle, she mounted the smaller of the three horses and came along side Goliath.

  "We have to stop just outside the canyon for a moment," she said to Samson. "I need to get Jackpot and my supplies."

  Refusing to acknowledge her words in any way, Samson merely peered straight ahead through slitted eyes. His body was hunched and tilted in a way that made it obvious that he was in terrible pain, probably from the ribs on his left side. But since there was little she could do for him without her supplies and she wanted to get him to safety and shelter before his body stiffened up or he lost consciousness, Delilah moved out.

  By the time they came into sight
of the cabin, it was almost completely dark. Samson had been hanging on the edge of consciousness for some time, and a while back, and Delilah had been forced to take Goliath's reins to lead him. Yet somehow, even as injured as he was, Samson had managed to stay in the saddle. Now, spying the small dark cabin, Delilah chafed at the passage of time, wanting nothing more than to urge the horses forward at a quicker pace, but knowing that, for Samson's sake, she could not. Finally, though, they reached it, and Delilah leapt from Jackpot's back.

  The cabin was constructed of logs. It had a sagging front porch with a protective roof. A coal oil lantern and a metal box of wooden matches hung next to the door. Delilah quickly lit the lantern and opened the door. A musty smell greeted her, but she ignored it. A hasty inspection revealed a single large bed, a wood stove, an old table, and three wooden chairs that had obviously seen better days. It would do just fine.

  Leaving the lamp hanging on a nail stuck into one of the porch roof supports, she returned to Samson's side. "Samson?” She had to call him twice more before he roused. "We're here. Can you get into the cabin?"

  After getting Samson into the house—where Poopsy took up residence beside him on the old bed, refusing to budge from his side—Delilah hastily unloaded all the supplies from the horses. Then she led the animals around to a lean-to attached to the side of the cabin where she unsaddled them and got them settled in. Thank heavens the lean-to had had some hay stores in it because Delilah hadn't the time to waste seeking food for them. And there was enough rain water in the bottom of an old trough to keep the beasts content for a time. Later, once Samson was cared for, she'd worry about filling it with fresh water for them.

  With the horses cared for, Delilah took a pail from the cabin and sought out the well. It was the old windlass type—no pump—and she quickly lowered the old wooden bucket into the shadowy depths. Please God, don't let it be dry, she murmured. After endless seconds, she was gratified to hear a splash.

  Back in the cabin, she was about to start the stove in preparation for heating the water when she discovered one other thing she needed: wood. The wood box next to the stove was almost empty. Blast! Why was nothing ever easy?

  Since Samson had sunk into unconsciousness anyway, Delilah took the lantern and hastily looked around the cabin for a wood pile. But the darkness had become so absolute that it was difficult to see any distance, even with the lantern. She was just about to conclude that the wood stores must have been used and not replenished by the cabin's last tenant, when she spied a small pile in the shadow of the lean-to.

  "Thank you, Lord," Delilah murmured. Setting the lantern down, she scooped up as much wood as she could carry and hurried back into the cabin.

  For the next week, Delilah cared for Samson almost continually, helping him take care of his most basic and intimate needs, while he drifted in and out of consciousness. She hovered constantly on the edge of exhaustion herself, refusing to allow herself to contemplate anything but the next task that needed doing. Driving herself to exhaustion so that she couldn't think, couldn't contemplate the magnitude of her error. Finally by the end of that week, Samson began to rouse himself. Though after his first twenty-four hours of consciousness, she almost began to wish he could have stayed unconscious throughout his entire convalescence. The man was rude, ungrateful, uncooperative, and resentful. And with nothing but time on his hands to think, his resentment grew.

  "I guess I shoulda paid more attention to the biblical connotations of linking our names, after all," he said suddenly.

  Delilah looked up from where she sat before the stove altering a man's shirt she'd found in one of the bedrolls to fit Samson's imposing size. The swelling on his face had gone down though the flesh remained discolored. He stared at her now with eyes that were as hard as flint. Delilah merely nodded, too tired to argue. "I suppose you should have," she agreed quietly. "Do you want some soup?"

  He scowled. "I'm sick of soup. I want something with some substance. What are you trying to do? Starve me to death?"

  Delilah ignored his question. "If you think you can keep it down, I can fry some bacon. And I found some tins of beans. I can open a couple of tins."

  "I just got finished telling you I'm starving, woman. Of course, I can keep it down."

  Feeling unaccountably near tears, Delilah nodded and rose, turning to the task. She was just tired, she assured herself. That's why his anger hurt so. If she’d been feeling better, she would tell him what an ungrateful lout he was. Then she sighed. No, she wouldn't because she deserved his anger. She deserved every unkind word he flung her way. After all, he'd almost been killed because of her.

  While the food was cooking, Delilah turned to the task of dressing his injuries and checking his ribs, as had become her habit. He stared at her resentfully the whole time, chilling her with the expression in his eyes. Swallowing nervously, Delilah did her best to ignore his anger—but it wasn't easy. She was alone in a mountain cabin with a man big enough to break her in two like a matchstick. A man who was fast regaining his strength, but not the gentle temperament that had held it in check. A man who had reason to hate her.

  She drew a deep breath. "Do you need to use the chamber pot?"

  As though the question was the last straw in the list of indignities that had been forced upon him, his hand shot up to grip her throat, tightly but not painfully. "You know," he said almost conversationally, "I could wring your neck for what you've done."

  Delilah's gaze locked on his. "I am yours to do with what you will. If my death will ease the misery I've caused you, then by all means, kill me. I won't fight you."

  A flicker of surprise crept through his eyes, and then was gone. He stared at her for a long moment and then, with a grimace of disgust, dropped his hand to his side. "Go," he said. "Just get away from me. I'm going out to the outhouse."

  "I don't think—" Delilah started to argue that he wasn't ready, but she wasn't allowed to finish.

  "Don't think," he snapped. "Leave me alone.” He watched her as she walked to the stove and began turning the bacon in the pan. God, he hated her. He hated her for betraying him and throwing his love for her back in his face. He hated her for caring for him so tirelessly—as though that could possibly make a difference now. And he hated her for looking so fragile and beautiful despite the faint blue shadows beneath her eyes.

  Ignore her, he admonished himself. Then slowly, cautiously, he pushed himself to a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was weaker than he'd imagined, he realized, as his arms shook with fatigue. Then, looking down at his legs, he realized he was damn near naked. "Where are my pants?"

  "Hanging over the end of the bed. I was going to wash them and mend them, but I haven't gotten around to it yet."

  "Don't bother," he muttered as he carefully worked his way a few inches toward the foot of the bed so that he could reach the trousers. One leg was torn and crusted with blood, but he donned them anyway and then, after a glance to ensure Delilah was turned away, he slowly stood to fasten them. His legs trembled alarmingly and he looked around for something to use as a crutch or a cane. He'd be damned if he'd accept her help any more than was absolutely necessary. "Bring me that broom, will you?"

  Delilah considered him for a second, as though contemplating arguing and then, with a resigned shake of her head, did his bidding. Without a word, Samson accepted the broom and, using it as a cane, began to make his way toward the door.

  "The outhouse is to your right and around the corner," Delilah said and then added, "Just in case you're interested."

  Samson scowled. He wished he knew who the devil Delilah Sterne was behind her ever-changing facade. Was she a lady who happened to gamble? Or a gambler who knew how to pretend she was a lady? Was she a lady sharpshooter who'd become a temptress and betrayer of men? Or a temptress who'd learned how to shoot? And who was this tireless nursemaid who'd suddenly appeared? Was Delilah none of them? Or all of them?

  It took Samson quite some time to work his w
ay to the outhouse, and when he finally arrived he discovered he certainly didn't have the strength to stand any longer. Sitting there, alone for the first time in days with his trousers bunched around his ankles, Samson sourly contemplated life as he tried to regain his breath and enough strength to make it back to the house. It was as he was pulling up his trousers that Samson heard the crackle of paper in his pocket. Frowning, he reached in and extracted a thick wad of paper.

  Delilah's blasted letter! He was about to throw the missive into the outhouse hole when something suddenly stayed him. He remembered the questions he'd just had about her. Might her letter answer some of them? He wasn't about to forgive her, but it might not hurt to see what she'd had to say.

  Sitting back down, he leaned against the plank wall, pulled the letter from the envelope, and unfolded it. Angling the missive to catch the light coming through the door, he began to read:

  ~~~

  Dearest Matt,

  What I have to tell you is extremely difficult, and I know you shall never forgive my betrayal which is why I haven't the courage to face you

  ~~~

  Anger clouded his vision for a moment, but he forced himself to read on. And then, gradually, he found himself caught up in her story despite himself.

  ~~~

  I am not truly a widow, as I think you may have guessed or at least suspected. I merely borrowed the persona in order to make my way in life on my own terms. I stole the name from a man who stole something very precious from me. But I've jumped ahead in my story again.

  When my father began to awaken from his prolonged state of mourning, in order to support us, he returned to the occupation he knew best: bounty hunting. As you must know, bounty hunters make enemies, and my father was no exception in that. One day, when I was seventeen and Eve but fifteen, and Daddy was away tracking a killer, we received an unexpected caller going by the name of Jacob Sterne. Sterne had learned that Daddy was responsible for taking his younger brother in to face a hangman's noose, and heedless of his brother's guilt or innocence, he wanted revenge. When Sterne discovered that Daddy wasn't home and that neither Evie nor I could tell him where to find him, he decided to get his revenge in another way. A way that would bring Daddy to him.