Nigel's face went milk pale, and he stared at the ground.
Shaw felt a sudden puff of cold air along his spine. "What's wrong? What's Laird done now?" He muttered a foul oath. "Don't tell me he's gone and got hisself on the wrong side of the law?" He wasn't in jail, was he?
Bruce looked as though he'd taken a hard right to the jaw.
"Not Laird." Shaw took a step backward as the cold filtered into his gut. Laird was the lady's man—the handsomest, smoothest talking of the lot. Laird was always in some fix, but he always managed to get himself out—and he always landed on his feet. "Say it." Shaw's voice burred.
"Gone," Bruce answered hoarsely.
Shaw stiffened. "Gone where?"
"Dead," Ewen said. "Right after you left. We thought you musta heard... somehow."
Shaw swore again as pain twisted his bowels. "How?"
"Shot in the back," Nigel said.
Shaw sucked in a deep breath. "Laird was murdered?"
"With Campbell Raeburn's fancy rifle." Ewen's eyes narrowed. "Weren't no doubt who done it. Raeburn left the gun laying right there in the woods."
"Becca's father?" Shaw asked incredulously. Campbell was no friend to the MacCades, but he'd never been a violent man. "Why would he kill Laird? And if he did, why would he leave his rifle behind?"
Nigel's mouth hardened. "Guess you'd have to ask him that."
"Sheriff didn't have trouble believing he did it. Not with the bad blood between the Raeburns and the MacCades," Bruce said. "You know what a bad temper Laird had. He and Campbell got into a fracas at Pritchett's mill about a week before the shooting."
"Campbell was arrested and spent two months in the county jail," Nigel added. "He woulda hung for it, too. But he brought in a fancy lawyer from Saint Louis and stacked the jury with Methodists."
"I can't believe it," Shaw said. "You're certain he was guilty?"
"Guilty as sin." Bruce folded his arms and spat on the ground. "I oughta know. I was there when it happened."
"You saw Campbell shoot Laird?" Shaw demanded. Disbelief gnawed at his vitals. There had to be some mistake. Laird couldn't be dead—not Laird. He was the most alive person Shaw had ever known.
"No.... Not exactly." Bruce stumbled over his words. "The shot came from the woods, behind us. Laird went down. I caught sight of Campbell's gray horse in the trees. I couldn't see the shooter's face, but it was him. I know it was him, blast his soul."
Bruce's prominent Adam's apple bobbed under his taut, freckled throat. "I shoulda gone after him, then and there. But hell—Laird had a hole in his back you could drive a shoat through. I tried to stop the bleeding, but it weren't no use." He shook his head, and his pale eyes took on a haunted look. "He died right there in my arms."
Raw pain seared through Shaw. One way or another, he had to find out the truth. "All right," he said in a soft, deliberate cadence. "You boys take my stock on home. I'll be along directly." He thrust a boot into the stirrup and swung up onto the Appaloosa's back.
"Where you going?" Ewen asked. "Ma will expect you—"
"Tell her I'll be there directly." Shaw yanked the stallion's head around so hard that the animal half reared.
"I'm coming with you," Bruce said, swinging up on his own horse.
"No, you're not," Shaw replied brusquely. "This is something I've got to do alone."
Chapter 4
Rebecca glanced up at the sound of the dogs barking and the thud of horse's hooves on the dirt lane. Her father, who had been bent over hammering a nail into a loose board on the ferry dock, looked up as well. Noah pointed. Her younger brother loved visitors, and any break in a normal workday caused him to clap his hands and grin.
The far gate was closed, but the rider didn't hesitate. The big spotted horse took the three rails with room to spare. Rebecca stood frozen, heart thudding, as Shaw MacCade galloped through the farmyard straight toward them.
"Who the—" her father began. Then he, too, recognized the horseman. "That's Shaw," he said in disbelief. Scowling, he straightened, hammer in hand, as his enemy's son reined to a halt only yards away.
"Shaw," Noah echoed.
"Sit down and be still," Rebecca ordered her brother. She didn't know why Shaw had come back, but whatever his reason, it couldn't be good.
"Campbell Raeburn! I want to talk to you!" Shaw challenged.
"You're not welcome here, boy." Her father's weather-seamed face reddened in anger. "Not you or any other of your kind."
Fear prickled the nape of Rebecca's neck as she saw the rifle cradled in the crook of Shaw's arm. "Don't," she entreated him. "You shouldn't have come."
Behind her, Noah gave a groan of distress.
"Shhh," she soothed. "It's all right, Noah."
Ignoring both her and her brother, Shaw stared hard at her father.
By daylight, Rebecca was shocked to see how much Shaw had changed in four years—and how he was still the same. Wind and weather had chiseled his jawline, hollowed his cheeks, and tinted his skin a golden bronze. High cheekbones, a strong nose, and fierce brows accentuated his Cherokee ancestry. The beard that had helped disguise him on the ferry was gone, and her father was wrong to call him a boy. This was no boy, but a man, sinewy-lean, hard muscled, and broad shouldered.
Heat flashed under her skin, causing a sensation much like the kind she felt just before a thunderstorm. A faint thrumming vibrated in her head as invisible energy danced across the surface of her bare arms.
Shaw rose in his stirrups. "They tell me you shot my brother in the back!"
His voice was as cold as January frost, and Rebecca's chest clenched. "That's a lie." She threw herself in front of her father, attempting to protect him, but he shoved her aside.
"Stay out of this, girl," he warned. "Best you get to the house."
Her father's unaccustomed roughness frightened her almost as much as the threat in Shaw's eyes. She tightened her fingers into fists. "You have to listen to me! A jury found Poppa innocent. You can't—"
"Hush, girl." Brusquely, her father cut her off. "This is between Shaw and me."
"Go away!" Noah said.
Shaw's gaze never wavered from her father's face. The younger man's features were a steely mask, his eyes as hard and pitiless as glass. "Go on, Becca," he urged. "Take Noah and go back to the house."
"And leave you to shoot my father?" She shook her head. "This is crazy! Poppa didn't kill Laird."
Noah began to whimper.
Rebecca shook her head in disbelief. This couldn't be happening. Terror gave the bright spring morning a dreamlike quality. Colors and sounds intensified, and each movement seemed to unfold in slow motion. Shaw and his stallion stood out vividly against the azure backdrop of a cloudless sky. White foam sprayed from the horse's mouth, and she could smell the acrid sweat of animal, hear the faint click of the stallion's teeth against the steel bit.
Shaw MacCade seemed larger than life. His hat had fallen back and hung from his neck by a rawhide thong. His thick black hair was covered with a thin film of dust. His tanned upper features flowed into a clean-shaven, square chin and hard-edged jaw. The bridge of his nose, once as proud and straight as an Indian's, showed a thin, pale line where it had been broken and had healed with a slight ridge of scarring.
Shaw's walnut-brown eyes, so dark that they seemed pools of obsidian, were as disturbing as ever. But time had aged them—added wisdom and a haunting sorrow that Rebecca couldn't remember.
Her father's soft Carolina accent broke through her trance.
"You've no call to come to Angel Crossing and make threats," her father said. "I didn't murder your brother. But I don't suppose you care what I say. If you mean to kill me, I'd be obliged if you'd not do it in front of my children."
"Bruce claims he was with Laird when he was back-shot. He said he saw you—saw that gray horse of yours. He says that a bullet from your gun killed Laird."
Poppa didn't flinch, and Rebecca felt a surge of pride.
"I don't argue that,"
her father replied. "Somebody stole my rifle a few days before the shooting. Whoever did it probably killed Laird. But it wasn't me shot him, and it wasn't Quinn or my boys."
"Shaw, please," Rebecca pleaded. "Listen to reason. Bruce is either mistaken or lying. He has to be. You know my father's not a murderer."
Shaw exhaled slowly, and for the first time he seemed to notice her. His fierce, Cherokee eyes narrowed. "I hope you're right. But I mean to find out what happened to my brother. And when I do, I'll take my own justice."
"There's no place in Missouri for that kind of mountain law," her father answered. "I was tried and found innocent by a jury. I'm just as anxious as you are to find out who shot Laird, but—"
Shaw shook his head. "No. You're not," he said. "You couldn't be. Laird was more than a brother to me; he was my friend." He slammed his rifle back into the saddle holster. "I wanted to hear you tell me face-to-face you hadn't done it."
"And now?" her father demanded.
"If you're innocent, you've no cause to fear me," Shaw said. "But if you did kill him, I warn you, you'd best go armed from now on. Because if I find out you're lying, I'll send you straight to hell."
Without another word, he turned the stallion's head and galloped back the way he had come. Shaken, Rebecca felt her knees too weak to hold her. She sank down on the dock, trying to catch her breath. She felt as though she had been running a long way—felt as if the familiar Missouri earth had suddenly tipped and swayed.
"Guess those stories about Shaw being dead were just tales," her father said. "Better if he was. It'll be hard to keep Quinn from going after him."
"No more," Rebecca said hoarsely. "Please, no more. What's done is done."
Scowling, her father gathered up his tools. "Easy to say, not so easy to live with. Your sister's shame weighs on you—on our whole family. Shaw ruined her. If he was half a man, he would have done right and given his boy a name."
"If you had done right, you would have let Eve stay here. Not driven her off like she was—"
"Hold your tongue, girl." Her father's face twisted into the grim expression he always wore whenever Eve's name was mentioned. "I'm still the head of this family, and you'll show respect. Your sister's trouble was of her own making. And so was her leaving."
"I'm not a girl, Poppa. I haven't been a girl in a long time."
"To me, you'll always be one. You've the look of your mother when she was a bride."
"Eve's Mama's child as well. She made a mistake, but she needs us more than—"
"'Thou shalt not commit adultery.'"
"The Bible tells us to forgive."
"You think it's easy for me to lose her? You think it didn't tear me apart? To raise a daughter and have her betray her family with a MacCade? To see her turn her back on the way she was raised?"
"Poppa, can't you make your peace with her? Ask her to come home?"
"Eve knows where to find me. Any day she repents of her sin, acknowledges her mistake in front of the church, and promises to live according to God's law, she's welcome to come home with her child. I'm not a monster. I don't blame the boy for who his father is or what his mother did."
"She's proud, Poppa. You hardly spoke to her in the year after Jamie was born. I guess she felt like she had to go—"
"Don't talk to me of proud," he admonished. "What about my pride, to see a girl of mine swell with a bastard child? I found a decent man willing to marry her and give the boy his name, but she wouldn't have him."
"She didn't want a husband you had to buy for her—a man who'd take a woman to wife for a piece of bottomland."
He shrugged. "Eve's choice. She's made her bed. She'll have to lie in it."
Still sick inside, Rebecca got to her feet. She wanted to weep for Eve, for Shaw and what they'd once had, for her father who'd lost so much and was too stubborn to reach out to his daughter and grandson.
"You knew Shaw was back," her father accused.
Rebecca nodded. "Last night he tried to cross the river."
"And you let him on the ferry."
She felt her cheeks grow hot. "I didn't recognize him at first. He was bearded, and it was dark. I wasn't expecting him." She met her father's disapproving gaze. "When I figured out who it was, I shoved him into the river, midstream."
... And could have drowned him.
Her father grunted. "You should have told me."
"I know." She swallowed, trying to ease the constriction in her throat. She loved her father but he could be so intractable, so unreasonable, when it came to the war between the Raeburns and the MacCades.
"You stay close to home. If Shaw's home with his hackles raised, we'd all best keep eyes on our backs. The MacCades are all bad, but Shaw's the worst of the lot. Live by the sword, die by it, the Bible says. And he's the spittin' image of his grandfather. He's got the devil's blood in him."
"Devil blood," Noah repeated.
"Shaw would never hurt me, Poppa."
"No?" His hard look bored through her. "That's probably what your sister thought."
Noah wiped his tear-stained face. "Bad man," he said. "Bad."
He's not bad, Rebecca wanted to say. He's a good man. But the truth was, she didn't know Shaw anymore. She'd seen his anger, heard his threats against her father. And what if she hadn't been here? If Drum or Welsh, or even hotheaded Uncle Quinn had been helping Poppa, the bitter words could easily have become bullets.
Abruptly, the ringing of the signal bell on the far side of the river sounded. "Somebody's fixing to cross," her father said. "Can you and Noah take the ferry to get them?"
"I'll do it," she said. "Noah's upset. He's not safe on the river when he's nervous." She smiled up reassuringly at her childlike brother. "You go and help Grandma. Didn't she ask you to help her with her flower garden this morning?"
Noah's anxious look turned to a grin, and he nodded. "All right," her father said. "I want to tell the boys to start carrying a rifle with them. No telling what trouble Shaw will stir up, now that he's back."
* * *
Heaviness settled over Rebecca's spirit as she began to move the ferry across the silver-gray expanse of river. Now that the immediate danger was past, her anger at Shaw simmered to the boiling point. How did he have the nerve to come here after what he'd done to the Raeburns?
This might be Missouri and not the Carolina mountains, but honor meant everything to her father and her uncle. Men had died for far less than fathering a child and abandoning the mother. And whatever Eve's guilt, she'd more than paid the price of her mistake.
Moisture welled in Rebecca's eyes as she thought of her sister and her boy living in Saint Louis, far from friends and family. It was so unfair! Eve deserved so much more out of life than laboring six days a week in a laundry, and she missed her terribly. With all the boys in the family, it had been natural for the two of them to form an alliance, to share secrets and tell each other their troubles.
She sighed. She hadn't seen Eve or Jamie since they'd left home just after Jamie's first birthday. She and Eve exchanged letters, but it wasn't the same as talking face to face, as having Eve and Jamie here to put her arms around.
The only secret she'd ever kept from Eve was Shaw MacCade. She'd never told her sister about their childhood meetings. If she had, Eve would have gone straight to Poppa and told on her. And later, when they'd gotten older and the friendship she and Shaw had shared changed to something more... Telling Eve that she was in love with a MacCade would have been akin to suicide.
Loving Shaw the way she had and having him betray her with her own sister was a bitter potion. It would be easy to say that he'd broken her heart. But her heart wasn't broken-—just walled off with hard Missouri stone.
Maybe I'm like Poppa, she mused. Maybe I can't forgive any more than he can. She'd hoped that once the jury found Poppa not guilty, tensions would ease and she could somehow convince him to forgive Eve. But now, with Shaw's return, the slightest spark could start a wildfire that might destroy them all.
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* * *
As he rode for home, Shaw couldn't get Becca out of his mind. He'd been dead wrong when he'd thought that the years would have dried her out and made an old maid of her. She was anything but.
Becca had been little more than a girl when he'd ridden west, but now she'd blossomed into a woman, with a woman's curves and a mouth made for kissing. Her cheeks had thinned so that they matched her delicate pointed chin, making her look more vulnerable. Becca's skin was fair and flawless, and those snapping, gray Raeburn eyes framed in thick, dark lashes were more gut-wrenching than ever.
Becca's hair had been mostly hidden under a wide-brimmed hat, but loose tendrils of gleaming russet-brown had curled around her heart-shaped face. She'd always been tall, even as a child. Now, he could imagine those long, lean legs beneath her calf-length skirt, and the thought made his mouth go dry and his loins tighten.
Her waist was small and neat; he could have nearly encircled it with his hands. But her hips and breasts... There was nothing boyish about them. She was as lush and welcoming as a spring pasture.
He kept remembering the fear on her face when he'd confronted her father. He regretted that she'd had to hear the words that passed between him and Campbell. Becca's pitching him off the ferry had nothing to do with Laird's murder, and it wasn't fair to her to put her in the middle.
But that was where they'd always been, the two of them. From the time they were young 'uns, the feud between the Raeburns and the MacCades had caused them heartache.
He recalled that afternoon when he'd come across Becca walking home from school. Pap had already yanked him out and put him to a man's work, but he couldn't have been more than fourteen. He hadn't wanted to end his formal education with the eighth grade, but no one had asked him.
If Shaw closed his eyes, he could see eleven-year-old Becca, all big eyes and pigtails, stockings torn at the knees and sagging, and dress torn from playing ball with the boys.
The Taming of Shaw MacCade Page 4