What more could she ask?
Spirits greatly revived, she turned to the basket Mari packed in El Paso. The food had long since been eaten, and her clean clothes ran out a couple of days earlier. She pulled out their bedding and dropped it in bundles, not ready to tackle the sleeping arrangements.
In her distress she hadn’t recalled the numerous times she came to this cabin with the sole purpose of tempting and teasing her way into Trevor’s bed. Now her eyes strayed to the bunk in the corner, and an instant of longing lodged in her heart. But it was longing for what might have been, what never had been. What would never be. Everything was changed now.
Everyone was different. All she could hope for, the most she could work for was the most important thing of all—saving Hunter.
Nothing would ever be the same, but what did it matter—if they could save Hunter’s life?
Delving absently into the basket, her hands suddenly touched something infinitely soft and supple. A moment of supreme pleasure flashed over her, followed by recognition—her doeskin riding habit. Her heart jumped to her throat.
She lifted it from the basket. The sight of this, the symbol of all her plans, her best intentions, her spit-in-their-eye bravado, was the final straw. There would be no triumphant return home. There was no home to return to. This trip, made under the cover of darkness and secrecy, would be her last journey home. No, there would be no triumphant return, no spitting in the eye of dignitaries, no revenge—only regrets.
Tears streamed down her face, but she wasn’t aware of them until she saw wet circles drop onto the doeskin, spreading in the shadowed light like spilled ink. Despondency rose inside her in waves. She scrunched the garment in her fists and clutched it to her chest. Then she saw Trevor.
He stood in the doorway, holding a bucket of water. “Sweetest water this side of—” His eyes fastened on the garment in her hands. “So you brought your fancy pants,” he teased lightly.
“Mari packed them,” she whispered, half to herself, head down.
“Right thoughtful of her,” he said. Voice low, he stepped into the room, eyeing her with caution. She looked like one wrong word and she might fly apart like a sprung clock.
“Foolish,” she corrected. “Mari always did believe in fairy tales.”
“Oh?”
When she glanced his way, she found his eyes soft with desire. For what might have been, she thought—supremely sad. “I intended to wear this when we returned home,” she explained so he wouldn’t get the wrong impression.
They stood but an arm’s length apart. She stared down at the garment to keep from looking at him. “I wanted to be dressed appropriately to spit in the eyes of our enemies.” Tom Guest popped to mind. Tom Guest, friend or foe? Oh, he must be a friend.
Overcome by hopelessness, she lifted stricken eyes to Trevor’s. “I don’t even know who they are.” She saw Trevor’s composure crumble.
“Ah, Jace, don’t.” He stepped toward her. The desire in his eyes was still there, but now it was accompanied by concern and compassion. A sob caught in her throat.
She hurled the garment at him, stopping him in his tracks. It slapped him softly in the face and came to rest across one shoulder. He looked over it, his eyes on her.
She swirled away, burying her face in her hands. “What are we going to do?”
In one stride he reached her. He set aside the water and the soft clinging doeskin and took her in his arms. For a minute she stood, trembling against him. Then her arms shot around him.
Holding him, feeling his strength, absorbing it, she thought suddenly that Trevor might be the only person on this earth who could offer her a sense of real security. She snuggled closer, while hot tears soaked his shirt front.
“We’ll figure out how to save Hunter,” he said hoarsely. “Right now, Jace, nothing else matters.” He drew her back, thumbed tears from the corners of her eyes. “Nothing else can matter.”
She caught her bottom lip and bit down to still the tremors that rose from deep within her. “I know.”
“We’ll use that letter you took from Tom’s…”
Jacy’s despair returned. Faced with the problem at hand, she felt defenseless again. No security now. Not even in Trevor’s arms. “How can one letter save Hunter?” she asked bitterly. “You and Mari can believe in fairy tales if you want, but it won’t do Hunter any good.”
“Like I said earlier, we’ll look up this Abbie, whoever the hell she is. Then we’ll try to find some of the jurors and maybe that lawyer who made a stab at defending me.”
“Gib Martin?”
“I forgot his name,” Trevor quipped, and she knew he was trying to lift her spirits. “Shows how much I thought of his services.”
She inhaled a deep, steadying breath. “If I could talk to Tom, I think I could get the truth.”
“Now, Jace…” He cocked his head, tipped her chin with two fingers and planted a kiss on her nose. She stood stock-still, feeling devoid of all emotion. Even sadness evaded her now. She felt empty. Beyond Trevor’s arms loomed a large, black void that had little to do with the lengthening night.
“Hey,” he said at length, “why don’t we eat some of this food, then spread out those sleeping bags and get a good night’s sleep? I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since I left prison. Tomorrow we’ll go into Gila Bend and see what kind of cogs we can throw in the wheels of justice.”
While he spoke, Trevor sat her down in a dusty chair and pulled the food closer to her side of the table, then busied himself making coffee. When he pulled up a keg beside her, she was staring through the table, hands clasped lightly in her lap.
“Here,” he handed her a leg of chicken. “Eat. Never know what tomorrow will bring.”
She glanced up, eyes vacant. Then surprised him by asking, “How will we find Abbie?”
Trevor chewed a minute, swallowed, his mind on other things. “Why didn’t you marry Junior?” He hadn’t known he was thinking about Junior Guest, but when the change of subject seemed to snap Jacy out of her trance, he figured it was just as well. He would talk about the devil in hell if it would help Jacy.
“You mean Tommy Guest?”
He took another bite of chicken, nodded, and was rewarded with a smile, halfhearted and weak, but a smile nonetheless. It gave him heart.
“Jealous?” she asked in a monotone, as though she read from a script written in the old days.
He grinned, held her gaze, and finally she grinned back. Damned if she wasn’t scrappy. Jacy Kimble wasn’t defeated. She might be out of steam, but by God, she would fight her way back. Then, at that moment, it struck him. The truth of the matter. Jacy Kimble wasn’t anything like his mother. Life would never defeat Jacy. Neither would any man. She might need his shoulder tonight, but she would probably be offering him hers tomorrow. Hell, a woman like Jace would make a man—
His brain whirled to a stop. What the hell was he thinking? He didn’t believe in—
It was her tears, he reasoned. Her tears got to him.
“Actually,” he began, nervous that she might guess what was in his mind, “I was being practical. Thought maybe, him being an old lover and all, he might introduce you to his father’s mistress.”
“Tommy Guest was never my lover.”
Her tone echoed disgust, which Trevor’s heart translated to pure, undiluted joy. He wondered how much showed on his face.
“Not that it would matter to you,” she added. That old flirty glint was almost back in her eyes. “You turned me down.”
Damned if he hadn’t. Right here in this room a couple of times. “Like I said before, it was the biggest mistake of my life. Doesn’t look too much like I’ll get another chance, either.” He held her gaze, suddenly earnest. “Even if I didn’t kill Ana Bowdrie.”
She actually grinned. “If you aren’t careful you’re going to convince me of that.”
His eyes probed, unafraid now that she might read what was in the deepest part of his heart. Her teasing wa
s superficial; deep inside she was still reeling from the losses she had discovered today.
“Convincing you I’m innocent is my main goal in life, Jace. Right after freeing Hunter.” For that’s what it would take. Before they had a chance at any kind of relationship, she had to believe in his innocence. And he would have to prove it. Not only to her, but to the world. A relationship with Jacy Kimble? What the hell was he thinking?
As though he had a one-track mind, his eyes strayed to the cot in the corner. His dreams wouldn’t come true tonight. He doubted they ever would. Now that he was out of prison, all those dreams were good for was disturbing his sleep.
Jumping to his feet, he clapped his hands in false enthusiasm. “What say we call it a night? You pack away the food while I make our beds.”
At her startled glance, he reassured her with, “You take the cot and that fresh bedding Mama Dee sent. I’ll throw a pallet over here.”
Way over here, he thought. Far enough away that he couldn’t reach for her in his sleep.
In the long run, he slept well. Maybe it had something to do with being back in his old cabin. He knew it had a lot to do with Jacy being close by, unreachable, but close.
He did dream about her, but unlike he expected, he did not dream of making love to her. He dreamed of loving her. Falling in love with her. For he had, of course. In his dreams. And in his dreams that night she returned his love. He dreamed of her with Hunter’s children. Lordy how she protected those kids from him. No true mother could have been more concerned. Hiding little Carter from so much as a glimpse of him.
But when the little boy in his dream turned from Jacy’s skirts, it was not to question who Trevor was, but to call him by name. Papa. Papa! The child had Jacy’s blue eyes and flaxen hair and he called Trevor papa.
And on his small, child-sized forehead, he bore Trevor’s scar.
Damn! Trevor didn’t even know for certain how he got that scar. All he remembered was being thrashed on the head from behind. When he awakened sometime later, two deputies were dragging him out of Ana’s house. Blood dripped from his head.
The prosecution claimed that Ana Bowdrie had fought Trevor for her life, slashing him across the forehead with the brooch. That was only one of the prosecution’s claims which Trevor couldn’t remember ever happening.
But that scar was burned into his skin for life. A true brand. Suddenly his dream changed. He was in a branding pen, lying on his back. He smelled the acrid odor of singeing hair and hide. He looked up, tried to rise, but a boot stomped him in the gut, shoving him back to the corral dirt. A branding iron descended. He struggled to rise, to get away, but the boot stomped harder.
The iron came closer. It glowed red hot from the fire. An instant before it touched his forehead, he glimpsed flaxen hair and blue eyes and an accusing frown on Jacy’s lovely face.
He smelled the smoke before he felt the pain. It awakened him. He bolted up. Gasped for air. The cabin was full of thick billowing smoke. He started coughing but wasn’t immediately certain whether from the smoke or from the ghastly smell that accompanied it.
Then he saw Jacy. She stood before the fireplace feeding the flames.
“Damn, Jace, what the hell did you do, throw a skunk on the fire for breakfast?”
Why did she never learn? Why did she always expect the best? After five long years of experience and training in being cynical, why was she still the eternal optimist?
Jacy tossed on the small cot, scarcely aware of where she was, for her soul was in turmoil. She felt as though her heart were bruised and battered. But it beat on, painfully, while her head throbbed with every beat. Panic rose inside her. She flipped to her back and took deep breaths, trying to calm herself.
She should be grateful for the blessings granted this day. For finding Mama Dee. That lovely old woman, the only mother Jacy had ever known. Mama Dee had been such an important part of Jacy’s life—and would be again.
But she couldn’t keep her mind off the other discoveries—Tom Guest riding Colonel Bay, Oleta Guest’s furniture where her mother’s should have been. Even the name of the ranch had been changed. Her heart beat faster when the garish image of the new Circle G logo flashed to mind. Papa would never have displayed anything so garish.
Papa. That was the cruelest blow of all. Why had he lied to her? He surely had a good reason. She must remember that, not condemn him until she returned to Texas and heard his side of the story. No wonder he lost his mind. If he had shared his burden, it would have been lighter.
Her blessings, she chanted. Mama Dee was here, safe, and would return with them. And Trevor was looking more and more innocent with each revelation. A joy for sure.
A joy that was quickly replaced by terror. If Trevor was innocent, who killed Ana?
She tossed on the cot, anxiety rising. Hunter. Yes, she should be worrying about Hunter. Every other worry paled beside the danger Hunter was in. Tomorrow she and Trevor would go into Gila Bend.
And do what? What could they do? What would they find? Thoughts of tomorrow panicked her. What new revelations would tomorrow bring? What new disappointments? Horrors? If tomorrow weren’t any better than today—
Her homecoming had been nothing like she planned. For five years she had kept her spirits up and her family together with the promise of returning home and avenging themselves of the wrongs done them.
She thought again of the riding habit, how she had saved it, planned to wear it, flaunting the Kimbles’ worth.
Well, the Kimbles no longer had any worth to flaunt, certainly no wealth. Which, if Hunter could be saved, wouldn’t matter. They would have each other. They would survive.
But nothing would ever be the same again. Nothing.
Anguish wrestled the deep-seated optimism that was all but dead in Jacy’s soul. Needled by anxiety, she finally arose and went to the fire. Restlessly she stirred up the coals and placed the coffeepot over them, all the while struggling to contain an overwhelming sense of doom that was quickly taking away all meaning of life, all reason for going on. She had to do something, gain control—
When she reached for one of the tin cups Trevor left on the table, she touched something of infinite softness, so soft it sent an instant shaft of pleasure to her heart, followed by recognition.
Doeskin. The riding habit she had planned to wear in triumph. Now there would be no triumphant return home. There was no home.
Control, she thought. She must gain control. Driven by a desperate need to calm her rapidly escalating panic, she snatched up the garment and flung it into the fire, ridding herself of this last vestige of what had been but would never be again. The action rallied her physical, if not her mental, faculties. Taking charge of her life always did that.
The solid covering of doeskin smothered the fire, so she poked at it, rearranged it, encouraged the flames, unmindful of anything or anyone else, until of a sudden she felt Trevor’s hands on her shoulders.
When he drew her back against his chest, turmoil swished out of her on a breath. The poker fell to the floor. She savored the feel of him, his strong supportive hands and solid chest.
“Damn, Jace.” His breath blew hot and gentle against the side of her face. “What’d you do, throw a skunk on the fire for breakfast?”
She lay back against him, letting his nonsensical words filter through her lifeless brain. When the poker clattered to the floor, he crossed his arms around her, binding her to his bare chest. She felt his heart throb in a comforting rhythm against her back.
After a while she realized he had turned her around, but she was so numb, his hands felt bizarre, like hands touching someone else’s skin. She felt him touch her face, too. Then he touched his lips to her face.
Kissing her, he scooped her in his arms and carried her outside. But she still felt weak, lifeless, and she nuzzled her face into his shoulder and was glad he was here.
He carried her down the back side of the crag into the palmetto-studded valley, although at first she was aware
only of the cool evening air, of Trevor’s soft skin against her face and the damp sleep-smell that emanated from him. Taken together they were the most comforting sensations she could remember.
“We’ll have to sleep out here the rest of the night,” he was saying. “That cabin’s way too smoky.” He deposited her on the ground beneath a cottonwood. Squatting on his heels, he peered at her through the filtered moonlight.
“Look at me, Jace.”
She opened her eyes.
“You okay?”
She inhaled deeply, drawing in his scent along with the cool, clean scent of the mountains. The scent of home.
No, not home. She had no home.
“Hey,” he whispered, pulling her to his chest, where she sobbed quietly. He didn’t talk, except to murmur nonsensical things that sounded like words she used to soothe little Carter, except infinitely more sensual.
Or was it being in his arms that was sensual? Snuggling against him.
She was grateful for his silence for what could he have said? He certainly couldn’t deny the truth—that everything she had hoped and longed for had been but hollow wishes. Empty dreams.
When a sense of calm began to return, she pulled back. How foolish she must have looked, burning that riding habit. What must he think? “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart. But I like it better when you holler and scream. That way I know you’re all right.”
“I’m all right.”
“Want to talk about it?”
She heaved a tremulous sigh. “I felt helpless,” she admitted, “like I had lost every stabilizing force in my life. Suddenly I realized how little control I had over anything, everything. I had to take control somehow.”
He nodded, solemnly, as though he understood the depths of her distress. “The hardest part about being in prison,” he told her, “was the loss of freedom. It was frightening, terrifying. You try not to think about it, but it’s always there in the back of your mind. Maybe the men who know they’ll be released in a year or two or ten feel differently. But those of us who were sent there forever…Waiting to die, knowing you will never be free again…it’s terrifying.”
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