Betrayal

by Robin Lee Hatcher

  Looking back at Peter, he lifted the edge of the shirt. The wound continued to bleed. He applied pressure a second time. He’d seen a man die in the prison yard from a head wound. Other prisoners had stood around and watched the life flow right out of the kid without lifting a finger to help. Hugh didn’t want Peter to die the same way. Not if he could do something about it.

  “Jesus … God … Help.” It wasn’t much as prayers went, but it was the best he could do for now.

  Peter was a big man and all muscle. He hadn’t an ounce of fat on him. Unconscious, it would be dead weight too. Hugh couldn’t keep the shirt pressed to his forehead and carry him at the same time, but he couldn’t stay here and do nothing either. The horses were long gone. He would have to carry him. He had no other choice.

  “Hold on, Collins.”

  He lifted Peter’s head, sliding his bloodstained shirt beneath it. Then he used the sleeves to tie the fabric as tight as possible over the wound. Without added pressure, it didn’t do much to stop the flow of blood.

  He’d been right about the dead weight. Every muscle in Hugh’s body seemed to cry out in objection as he carried Peter across the field toward the farmhouse. More than once he stumbled, the ground uneven beneath his boots. Somehow he managed to stay upright and keep moving forward. He would have tried calling out again if he’d had any spare breath.

  After what seemed an eternity, he reached the corral next to the barn. He stopped and braced a shoulder against the fence. “Mrs. Collins!” Winded, his voice didn’t carry far. He glanced at Peter. The man’s face — where it wasn’t hidden by Hugh’s shirt or streaked with his own blood — was pale. Hugh pushed off the fence and pressed onward. Just as he reached the first step the front door opened, revealing Rose, the baby in her arms. Her eyes took in Hugh and Peter. And the blood.

  “Merciful God,” she breathed. “Bring him inside.” She led the way to the couple’s bedroom at the back of the house. There, Hugh placed Peter on the bed while Rose lay the infant in a nearby cradle. “What happened?” Rose knelt beside the bed and removed the shirt, revealing the wound.

  “I’m not sure. The chain broke free of the harness. It must’ve struck him in the head. Knocked him out cold.”

  She looked up. “He needs the doctor. My brother’s not back from town yet, and the girls —”

  “I’ll go for him.”

  “Thanks.” Her gaze returned to her husband. “You’ll find one of Peter’s shirts in the bureau. Second drawer.”

  Hugh turned, and as he did so, he saw several of the older daughters crowded into the doorway, looking toward the bed with fear in their eyes. He wanted to offer some words of comfort, but he didn’t know what to say.

  Julia wasn’t surprised by her melancholy mood, and she knew it had more to do with what she would do tomorrow than with memories of her mother or of Angus. But she didn’t want to think about that now, nor did she want Hugh to know she’d been crying. So she put away the keepsake box, dried her eyes, and washed her face. Then she went to the kitchen to prepare the evening meal.

  Supper was just about ready to set on the table when Bandit alerted her to Hugh’s return from the Collins farm. She hurried to the door with the intention of telling him to hurry so they could eat, but the sight of Hugh stopped her in her tracks. Shoulders stooped, eyes cast downward, he rode into the yard wearing a shirt that wasn’t the same he’d worn at the breakfast table that morning. By the size, she suspected it belonged to Peter. And was that dried blood on his cheek?

  “Hugh?” She stepped to the edge of the porch.

  He looked at her as he reined in.

  “What is it?” She moved down the steps. “What happened?”

  “There was an accident.” He dismounted slowly.

  It was dried blood on his cheek. Alarm sounded in her heart. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m unharmed. Peter got hurt.”

  “Peter. What happened? Is it bad?”

  “The doctor says he’ll be fine. It isn’t serious. He said head wounds don’t have to be bad to bleed a lot.”

  Head wounds? Julia opened her mouth to ask for more details, but the weariness she saw in his eyes made her swallow the words unspoken. Instead, she asked, “Have you eaten?”

  He shook his head.

  “Wash up and go inside. Supper’s ready. I’ll take care of your horse.”

  “No, I’ll —”

  “Please, Hugh. You look about ready to fall over.”

  He hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. “All right.”

  “Go ahead and eat. I’ll be in straightaway.”

  She waited until he’d followed her instructions; then she took his horse’s reins and led him toward the barn. Only as she began to loosen the cinch did she notice the dried sweat on the gelding’s coat. The horse had been ridden far and hard earlier in the day. She suspected Hugh had ridden to town for the doctor. More questions whirled in her mind as she brushed the horse, then saw that he was well-watered before she turned him loose in the paddock.

  When Julia went inside at last, she found Hugh at his usual place at the table. His plate had food on it, but he wasn’t eating. His head was bowed, his eyes closed. Resting? Praying? Watching him, she sank onto her own chair. After a short while longer, he looked up and met her gaze.

  “You’d better eat before everything is completely cold,” she said softly.

  He picked up his fork but didn’t use it. “I saw a man die from a head wound. I thought —” He broke off and shook his head.

  “Eat, Hugh. You can tell me about it later.”

  And as she watched him take a bite, she sent up a prayer of thanksgiving — first, that the doctor had said Peter would be fine, and second — which surprised her a little, how grateful she felt — that the blood she’d seen on Hugh’s cheek hadn’t been his own.

  THIRTEEN

  The next morning, Rose sat on a chair at her husband’s bedside while he visited with Julia and Hugh. Peter’s back was braced with pillows, and although his coloring was paler than normal and he winced in pain when he laughed, he seemed more himself.

  “Doc told me to stay in bed today and to take it easy the rest of the week.” Peter glanced at Rose. “I expect Rosie will make sure I do just that, even though I think it’s a lot of foolishness. I’ve got a bit of a headache. That’s all.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told.” Her gaze shifted from her husband to Hugh. “Lord knows what would’ve happened to him if you hadn’t been there to carry him in and then go for the doctor.” She’d said the same thing to him more than once, both yesterday before he’d returned to Sage-hen and this morning since he’d arrived with Julia.

  Hugh nodded, and Rose suspected he was growing uncomfortable with her profuse thanks. As if to confirm, he looked at Peter and said, “Maybe Mr. March and I could get the last of the stumps pulled while you’re laid up.”

  Rose saw an amused expression flit across her husband’s face and knew exactly what he was thinking. Roland was the last man on earth cut out to be a farmer — and would more than likely be useless when it came to stump removal.

  “It can wait until I’m up and about,” Peter answered.

  Hugh said, “I could manage it, now that you’ve shown me what to do. You just ask and I’ll be here.”

  As he spoke, Julia smiled at him.

  Oh, my stars and garters. Will you look at that? Rose knew in that moment that Roland didn’t have a prayer of winning Julia’s heart.

  After their return from the Collins farm, Julia waited until Hugh was mending some harness inside the barn. Then she slipped away without telling him where she was going, riding Teddy to the top of a knoll where a gnarled, misshapen tree shaded two small headstones. The headstones had only a few words written on them. The first read: Baby Girl, May 30, 1893. The second read: Baby Boy, February 4, 1896.

  Her melancholy mood had been forgotten yesterday with the news of Peter’s injury. It had been held at bay while they went to visit
him this morning. But the sorrow returned as she knelt on the ground and swept away some winter’s leaves that still lay upon the graves.

  Only two graves. Her third baby had been lost too soon to need a proper burial.

  She touched the headstone for her baby girl. If the child had lived, she would have turned six years old this day. Who would she have looked like? Would she have been a happy child? Would her father have treated her well, even though she’d been a girl instead of a boy?

  Julia had wanted to name a daughter for her mother. Angus had said no child of his would bear the name of a woman of ill-repute. When Julia tried to protest, he’d struck her across the mouth, causing her lip to bleed. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider baby names after that.

  How fragile life was. Peter could have been taken from them yesterday in an instant. Other lives, like her babies, never had a chance.

  Why must it be that way?

  There had been times in her past when she’d questioned God without end, when she’d demanded answers to her whys. Why could Rose have children so easily? Why was Julia childless? Why were some wives cherished, as Peter cherished Rose? Why had Julia been despised by the man she’d married?

  Why is that pot for water and this pot for ashes?

  Yes, she still asked the occasional why, but she no longer demanded answers. She’d come to accept that it was the Potter’s right to decide how the vessels He formed were used.

  She took hold of some weeds growing near the headstone of her stillborn son and yanked them free. “What would you be like today?” she whispered, picturing a boy of three with pudgy legs, running around in the long grasses of the hillside, squealing his pleasure as only little children could.

  Julia sighed as she mentally clamped down on her imagination. After the loss of her son, the doctor had said she would never be able to bear children. His words had been confirmed when she’d miscarried later that same year.

  A sigh escaped her. She supposed, since she would never marry again, that her barrenness no longer mattered.

  I have much to be thankful for, Lord. She looked toward heaven. Keep me ever mindful of Your goodness and faithfulness. Forgive me when I fret and complain.

  She drew a deep breath and stood once again, then turned in a slow circle. From this knoll, she had a good view of much of Sage-hen Ranch. The fields where they grew hay. The grasslands where the cattle grazed. The simple log house and the sturdy outbuildings. The barn with its newly patched roof. The paddock and corrals for the horses.

  Yes, she had much to be thankful for. True, she had known sorrow here, but now this ranch was her sanctuary. She must remember that always.

  With another sigh, she walked to where Teddy grazed, took the reins in hand, mounted, and rode down the sloping hillside toward home.

  Hugh had heard Julia ride away from the barnyard. He’d left the harness on the work table and walked out of the barn, watching Julia as she rode to a distant knoll. He’d seen her dismount and kneel on the ground. He’d continued to watch until she remounted her horse and rode toward the house. Only then had he gone back to his work in the barn.

  Now, after supper, as the sun hung low in the western sky, Hugh arrived at that same knoll in the shadow of a twisted tree. What he found there were gravestones. Two of them. A baby girl and a baby boy, according to the markers. No names on them. Not even last names. But he knew without being told what that surname was — Grace. He only had to remember the look on Julia’s face as she’d held the Collins baby to understand. These were her children. Babies born too early to even receive names.

  Through many tribulations we enter the kingdom of God.

  He hadn’t been a believer long, but he’d already learned the truth of that verse. Trials came to the just and the unjust, same as the rains did. Still, Hugh would wish away this particular heartbreak for the beautiful widow who’d given him work and food and shelter She’d shown him nothing but kindness from the moment he’d ridden into the barnyard, even when she’d been leery of a stranger.

  He shouldn’t be here. This was a private, sacred place, and he was trespassing.

  He turned his horse and rode away but not in the direction of the barn. If he saw her now, he would say something it was better not to say. He would reveal that he knew something she didn’t want him to know. And so he rode east, toward the foothills and the copses of pines and birch and aspens. But he didn’t see the hills or the trees. His thoughts went back to Illinois, to the day he’d stood over another grave …

  A bitter taste coated Hugh’s tongue. He’d spent so many nights, lying on his bed, practicing what he would say to his father when he saw him again. He’d wanted to ask why his father had betrayed him. How could a man do that to his own son? He’d let hatred boil to the surface more times than he could count in the years he was incarcerated. Sometimes he’d thought that the hatred and the need for answers to his questions were the only way he could survive.

  But there would be no answers now. He wouldn’t be able to vent his fury. Sweeney Brennan was dead and buried. Had been long before his son finished serving time in prison. Time that should have been Sweeney’s to serve.

  Hugh didn’t know who’d paid for the old man to be buried or the simple headstone etched with his name with the date of his death. It had to have been an act of charity, for Hugh’s father never had been able to hang onto money for long.

  Now what?

  Where was he to go from here? All that awaited him in Chicago was a life of crime. He could tell a quality pearl necklace from dipped. He could easily distinguish between an expensive stone and cut glass. But what use were those skills to a man who wanted to stay out of prison?

  God, how I hated him.

  With sheer force of will, Hugh dragged his thoughts back from that grave in Illinois, back from the bitter memories that had haunted him for too many years.

  God. He looked up as he reined his horse to a stop. I’ve hated my father so long. Do I hate him still?

  He didn’t hear a voice, but he knew the answer anyway. Yes, there were remnants of hate still lingering in his heart. And as surely as iron bars, hate would keep him imprisoned. If he wanted to be truly free, he would have to forgive Sweeney Brennan. Forgive it all.

  “Help me, Lord. I can’t do this alone.”

  FOURTEEN

  Since neither Hugh nor Julia were experts with a rope, the branding of the calves took at least three times as long as it would have with experienced cowpokes in charge.

  It was late on Wednesday afternoon, and Julia was weary beyond description. Sweat under her arms and along her spine caused her blouse to cling to her skin. Too much time in the saddle had made her backside numb. The muscles in her arms burned from the strain of wrestling with calves, some that weighed more than she did.

  With an eye on the lowering sun, she took the iron from the fire and walked to where Hugh held down a calf. She paused, drew a breath to steady herself — oh, how she hated the smell of burning hair and flesh — and pressed downward on the hot iron. A few seconds later, the squalling calf was back on its feet and racing toward its mother.

  Hugh stood. “You look about ready to topple over. Maybe we should finish up tomorrow.”

  “I’m all right.” She wiped her forearm across her forehead. “There’s not that many more to do. I’d just as soon be done with it today.”

  “Whatever you say.” He strode to his horse and stepped into the saddle. But before he could go in search of the next calf, his gaze lifted beyond her and he pulled back on the reins.

  Julia turned. A man rode toward them, coming from the direction of the house. She frowned. Now what? She’d gone all winter without having as many guests as had ridden into her barnyard in the past few weeks. She shaded her eyes, trying to see who this visitor must be. A moment later, she recognized him. Sheriff Noonan. What on earth could bring him out this far from town? It couldn’t be good.

  “Mrs. Grace,” he greeted her.

  “Sheriff.�
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  Lance Noonan’s gaze moved to the cattle. “Busy branding, I see.”

  “Yes. I plan to drive some of the herd down to the Double T soon.”

  He looked at her again. “You seem to have managed all right over the winter.”

  “Did the best I could.”

  He removed his hat and slid the brim in circles between his fingers. He appeared unsettled, and although Julia couldn’t claim to know the man well, it did seem out of character for him.

  “Is there something you needed, Sheriff?”

  “I … uh … it’s been made my unhappy job to inform folks out this way that the county land board’s voted to raise taxes.”

  Alarm leapt in her chest. “How much more?”

  “Some have doubled, I was told.”

  Her heart plummeted. “Doubled?”

  She turned her head, her eyes going to Hugh where he sat waiting on horseback. He must have seen the panic in her face, for he immediately nudged his horse and rode toward her. Strange, but having him near helped quiet the fear in her heart. She turned back to the sheriff.

  He didn’t seem surprised to see Hugh, which meant others in town had been talking about her new hired hand. No surprise there. Gossip rode a fast horse. “Sheriff Noonan, this is Hugh Brennan. Mr. Brennan, this is Sheriff Noonan from Pine Creek.”

  Hugh dipped his chin in greeting but said nothing.

  “Glad to meet you, Mr. Brennan.” To Julia he said, “I’d best be headed back to town. It’s getting late.”

  “Thanks for bringing the news.”

  He set his hat on his head again. “Wish it wasn’t more bad news, Mrs. Grace.” He remounted his horse, then bid farewell and rode out.

  “Bad news?” Hugh asked after a long silence.

  “Very bad.” Double the taxes. The momentary peace vanished and fear came rushing back. She swung into the saddle. “We’ll finish the branding tomorrow.” Then she cantered Teddy toward the house, her heartbeat racing faster than the horse’s hooves.