by Linda Ford
Brand clenched his knife and fork so hard they must surely leave permanent impressions in his palm. “I expect he told you he didn’t care anything for God.”
“At first he did, then he asked if God could indeed forgive an outlaw. Much as I wanted to say otherwise, because I sometimes prefer a human form of justice—a man gets what he deserves for the life he’s led—I had to say God accepts everyone who comes to Him in faith, seeking forgiveness.”
Sybil watched Brand. Hope dawned in his eyes.
The Mountie continued. “I can’t be a hundred percent certain, but I believe Cyrus asked for that forgiveness before he drew his last breath.”
Brand’s lungs emptied in a long sigh. “I am relieved to hear that. Thank you.”
“Then it’s agreed,” Linette said. “You’ll bury him next to his father.”
“It’s most generous of you,” Brand said.
“Nonsense.” Linette’s mouth drew a firm line. “Even if Constable Allen hadn’t given us this bit of assurance the offer would stand. I don’t believe in living by man-imposed rules.”
“Do you want to wait until tomorrow?” Eddie asked.
Brand again got that distant, half-disinterested look in his eyes as he glanced at the window. “Guess we should. It’s already dark out. I’ll dig the grave myself.”
Eddie considered him a moment, then nodded. “I’ll get you a shovel.” He rose, signaling the meal was over, and Brand and the Mountie followed him outside.
Linette excused herself to put Grady to bed.
Mercy bounced to her feet. “How romantic.”
Sybil turned to her as she gathered up the dishes and carried them to the washbasin. “I fail to see how knowing your family is a bunch of outlaws is the least bit romantic.” Had Eddie stayed with Brand? she wondered. Or was he alone in the dark digging a hole for his brother’s body?
Eddie and Constable Allen came through the door and went to the library, answering her question. They’d left him alone.
As she moved about the kitchen, she paused to glance out the window. A faint glow of a lantern shone from the little plot. She rubbed at her breastbone. A man should not be alone when dealing with his brother’s death.
Mercy came to her side. “Why don’t you join him?”
“I don’t know if he’d welcome it.” Her heart ached for his aloneness in the midst of his loss. Every so often the light dimmed as if a scoop of dirt had been tossed past it.
“I’ll come with you if you want.”
Sybil shook her head. She didn’t want Mercy to be with her. “I’m sure he’s okay.”
Her friend grabbed her arm and shook her a little. “If you don’t go out there, I will. The poor man has lost his father and brother. He’s been accused of being part of the gang when he wasn’t. Don’t you think he deserves a little sympathy?”
“He deserves it, but will he welcome it?”
Linette returned to the kitchen. “What are you two arguing about?”
Mercy flung about to face her. “I think Sybil should go up there and keep Brand company, but she doesn’t think it’s appropriate.”
Linette joined them at the window. “I thought Eddie should have stayed with him, but he said Brand asked to be left alone. I guess we need to give him space if that’s what he wants.”
They watched in silence for a bit.
“Eddie insisted he spend the night in the bunkhouse. Says with Cal gone no one will give Brand a hard time.”
Sybil tried to picture Brand in a bunk, with the others nearby. “Did he agree?”
“Said he’d think on it.”
Which meant he’d ignore the invitation and find a place on his own.
The distant light grew brighter. Sybil could make out Brand’s shadowy shape as he headed back toward the house. She grabbed her shawl. “I’m going to speak to him.” She slipped out the door.
“Feel free to use the chairs by the back step,” Linette called, as if knowing she wanted to be alone with him.
Sybil caught up to him in a few moments. He’d slung the shovel over his shoulder. His footsteps were weary, heavy. Digging a hole was hard work. Losing a father and brother was even harder.
She fell in at his side. Neither of them spoke. Dawg whined a greeting and she patted his head.
She couldn’t say what the silence meant for Brand, but she felt no need for words. She only wanted to be with him. Let him know he wasn’t alone.
“Sit and visit a spell.” She indicated the chairs along the wall.
He sank down, dropped the shovel to the ground and stared at it, his hands hanging between his knees. Dawg pressed close to his legs, though Brand didn’t seem to notice.
The silence lengthened, but Sybil still could not speak until he sucked in a deep breath and sat up straight. “That’s the last of my family.”
She squeezed his hand. He seemed not to notice that, either.
“At least he managed to establish your innocence before he died.”
“I always hoped both he and Pa would stop their outlawing, even though I knew if they did they would hang.”
“Such a waste of both lives. How did your mother cope?”
Brand leaned his head back against the wall. “She prayed every day that they would repent. She tried to stay away from them just as I have. It meant always being ready to leave. Hoping no one would associate us with the Duggan gang.”
“Her prayers were answered.”
He stared at her. “I guess they were.” He sounded both surprised and unconvinced.
“I hear Eddie invited you to stay in the bunkhouse.”
“It was kind of him.”
“But you aren’t going to do it, are you?”
Brand shook his head. “I don’t think everyone would welcome me. I’m still a Duggan....”
His fatalism made Sybil want to shake him. “The Duggan gang are dead. Isn’t it time you stopped living like you’re part of them?”
“I’m not. I don’t. I never thought that.”
“I think you do. They will never be a threat to you again, but they still have a hold over you. When will you stop looking over your shoulder to see if they’ve found you? When will you stop expecting others to see you as one of the Duggan gang?” She’d said far more than she should, and none of the things she’d wanted to say, but her insides burned with unnamed emotions. She rose to her feet and strode toward the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The others were gone and she slipped to her room and sank to the edge of her bed. What was wrong with her? She’d never been outspoken in her life and yet she couldn’t seem to stop speaking her mind around Brand.
Maybe Proverbs would help her regain control. Sybil reached for her Bible and notebook. Just below, hidden by a scarf, were the pages she’d written about Brand. She pulled them out and glanced over the words, then dipped her pen in ink and wrote.
Cowboy had a name...that of a notorious outlaw gang. All his life he’d tried to distance himself from them. He’d run, he’d remained aloof from others.
She stopped there. How long would it take for him to stop living like a man on the run? Would he ever?
* * *
Despite Eddie’s generous invitation, Brand took his horse and his bedroll and returned to the campsite he’d used before. Dawg turned about three times before he settled down and instantly fell asleep.
Brand knew sleep would not come as easily for him, if indeed it came at all.
Sybil had suggested he needed to stop seeing himself as part of the Duggan gang. He’d never been one of them...except in name. But she was right about one thing. It would take a long time for him to feel free of them.
Tomorrow he’d bury Cyrus, and then he’d move on before—
He wouldn’t run from them this time. When it was time to leave, he’d just leave. Sybil’s concerned face came to mind. Her laugh. Her courage in facing Cal...and him. Maybe he wouldn’t be in a hurry to leave. But then he thought of Eddie and Linette’s house, a beautiful home full of lovely things. Why, the staircase itself had more wood in it than most of the houses he’d lived in. He looked about. The only wood in his current home burned in the fire. Sybil belonged in a house like that, married to a rich landowner.
The night closed in around him and he shivered. The first snowfall would come in the mountains anytime. He’d soon have to find a place to spend the winter.
What better place than Eden Valley Ranch?
But did he have any reason to stay? Would Sybil want him to? Or was he mistaking kindness for something more, looking for hope when there was none?
The questions lingered in his mind through the night.
Next morning, Brand returned to the ranch, Dawg patiently at his side. He asked Bertie to say the final words over Cyrus, and then led the way up the hill. Cyrus’s body was wrapped in a gray woolen blanket and draped over the same horse the Mountie had brought him in on. Likely most of the assembled figured it was all the outlaw deserved. Cyrus would have been the first to say it was the kind of burial he wanted.
At the hole he’d dug, Brand stopped. Constable Allen and Eddie helped him lower the body into the grave.
People gathered to one side. He glanced at them. Sybil stood front and center in a black dress and bonnet, as if in mourning.
The idea jolted through him. The only time she’d met Cyrus he’d given her no reason to mourn his death.
Brand met her gaze, felt her blue eyes bore through him, challenging him. What did she want from him? What did she expect?
Bertie cleared his throat and Brand brought his focus back to the reason for being there.
“This is not a happy occasion for us, but it’s especially sad for Brand. He’s buried his father and his brother in two days. There are no words to erase the sorrow he must feel.”
Brand began to wish he hadn’t asked Bertie to speak. The man had a way of probing at pain with his words. Pain that Brand would just as soon ignore. He did his best to block out the rest of what Bertie said until the final “amen.”
Again those present passed by, tossed a handful of dirt into the yawning hole and spoke condolences. He mumbled appropriate responses, though he couldn’t have told anyone what he said.
Then he stood alone at the grave, Dawg at his side.
Time to fill in the hole. He turned to grab the shovel that someone had placed nearby...and came face-to-face with Sybil.
“I thought everyone had gone.”
“I couldn’t leave you alone with...” She nodded at the shovel in his hand. “It doesn’t seem right.”
“I’ve been alone a long time. Every Christmas. Every beautiful spring day. Every time I rode through a town or worked at a new place. Dawg here has been about my only companion.” Now why had he said all that? As if he cared. As if he wished it could be different.
“Didn’t you ever wish it could be different?”
What? She could read his mind? “Not much point in wishing for stars. Might as well be content with candles.” He threw in three shovelfuls of dirt.
She leaned back on her heels and watched. Seems she didn’t intend to leave.
He paused to listen as she spoke.
“On the other hand, why would you stick to a flickering candle if someone offered you a handful of stars?”
He stared at her. Did she mean it as it sounded? “Are you offering stars?”
“Would you prefer to hang on to your candle?”
“Do you see a candle in my hand?” He returned to throwing dirt over Cyrus’s body, trying to think of it as only filling in a hole, not saying goodbye forever to his brother.
Brand stopped and backed away from the hole. He leaned on the shovel, trying to control the way his breathing came in choked sounds. “We used to be best of friends.” His words grated from a dusty throat.
Sybil moved to his side and rested her black-gloved hand on his forearm, warm and gentle. “I always wished I had a brother or sister.”
“He taught me how to chop wood, how to build a fire, how to cook a meal over a campfire. He made me run hard to keep up with him. Challenged me to take chances beyond my years, rather than let him think I was afraid.” Brand couldn’t go on. This was the Cyrus he remembered and missed. Not the angry, hurtful man of later years.
“That’s how you should remember him.”
Again, she had read his mind, voiced his thoughts. How did she do that?
Brand swiped his arm across his face, hoping she would think he wiped away sweat rather than the tear that escaped the corner of his eye. For a moment it was impossible to speak. Then the words came out slowly, haltingly. “Pa and Cyrus weren’t always outlaws. Not until...” He let himself remember those strain-filled days for the first time in years. “Pa bought a little farm. He was so proud of it. We had every sort of animal. I loved them all. And Pa never said no to me bringing another one home.” Brand paused, gathering together his memories, sorting through them, trying to understand. “He’d had to borrow to buy the place. We lived there for four years and Pa was so proud that he always made the payments on time. ‘No banker will ever take the farm,’ he used to brag.”
Sybil’s hand rubbed up and down Brand’s arm, soothing away the anger that usually accompanied the memory of those final normal days.
“Then the wheat crop got hit with hail. Lightning killed half the cows. A fire destroyed the hay crop. Pa couldn’t make the payment that year and asked for leniency. He came home so angry. A new banker had come to town. He cared not for missed payments, no matter the reason. He gave Pa two weeks to come up with the money or the bank would take the farm. Pa said he’d get the money by hook or by crook. And he did. He robbed the bank that threatened to take the farm. Paid the entire amount of the loan. I think he meant for that to be the one and only time he turned to crime, but then we needed feed. Cyrus decided he needed a fancy riding horse. Pa thought Ma would enjoy a new buggy.” Brand shrugged, though he felt anything but indifference.
Sybil’s hand tightened on his arm. “Let me guess. Your pa had discovered he didn’t have to wait for things. He thought he’d discovered a ready source of funds.”
“’Fraid that’s exactly what he thought. They were wanted men. Someone was killed in their third bank heist. After that, they were wanted dead or alive. I wasn’t yet twelve and Ma took me and moved. We always tried to distance ourselves from the Duggan name.”
“Why didn’t you go by a different name?”
“We did for years. Then someone noticed my likeness to members of the Duggan gang. So we moved on. After that I never bothered telling anyone my name. Made it easier.”
“Is Brand your real name?”
He smiled for the first time all day. “I have Cyrus to thank for that. When I was born, he wanted to know if Pa was going to brand me like they did the calves. Pa thought it so funny he said they’d settle for calling me Brand.”
She laughed. “That’s sweet.” Her gaze held his, caring and searching, delving deep into his thoughts.
He tried to bank his emotions, but her probing went clear through his defenses. He blinked back the sting of tears. No way would he cry.
She reached up, touched the corner of each eye with her gloved hand. “I’m glad you have good memories to cherish.”
He caught her hand and pulled it to his chest, so lost in the depths of her gaze that his head spun. “I will prize this moment.”
She didn’t blink. Didn’t withdraw. “So will
I,” she whispered. “The moment when I met the real Brand Duggan.”
He considered her words. Who was the real Brand Duggan? He wasn’t sure he even knew. But one thing was for certain: he hoped reality included more times like this.
“Where do we go from here?” he asked, hoping she didn’t think he meant to ask if they should go to the house.
She smiled so sweetly his throat constricted. “Wherever we want, I suppose. How about you finish filling in the grave. Say your final goodbye to a brother you loved, then we’ll join the others for church.”
He nodded in agreement and filled in the hole, smoothing the dirt into a mound. He stood at the fresh grave, head bent, Sybil at his side. “Goodbye, Cyrus. I like to think of you in heaven, your sins forgiven. You did plenty of bad things, lots of them against me. You even hurt Sybil here, and whether or not she forgives you is up to her, but I’m forgiving you. I’m sorry you ruined your life. But that’s over. Goodbye, my brother.” He was about to step back when Sybil caught his hand.
“Wait. I want to say something, too.” She stood by the fresh dirt, looking down as if speaking to Cyrus. “I vowed I would make you pay for how you treated me. But justice belongs to God. I forgive you. Rest in peace.”
She took Brand’s hand again and led him down the hill to the cookhouse, where the church service was held.
He didn’t realize until he stepped inside that he’d agreed to attend. By then it was too late.
Chapter Fifteen
She dropped his hand as they entered the cookhouse, but not before she felt him shudder, and guessed the cause. She might be wrong, but she believed it would be the first time he’d darkened the door of a building filled with others, especially for a Sunday service, in many years. How would it feel? Frightening, most certainly, but she hoped it also offered a breath of hope to a man used to being so alone no one even knew his whole name.
Several of the cowboys shuffled their feet as if uncertain how to react to a Duggan in their midst, attending a church service.