into the open, he followed the tangled border out of the foothills and onto the grassy flatland. His gut clenched as he spotted the ranch in the distance. The memories that swept over him were so black and bitter that he was tempted to turn the horse and gallop off in a different direction. Setting his teeth, he forced himself to keep moving ahead.
He could see the gate now, and the corral where he and his brothers had tied their mounts while they ate the meal Laura had prepared. Mark Shafton’s dam was still intact, as was the springhouse, spared over the years from the danger of flooding. But the whole place had a forlorn look to it. The windmill was missing two slats and the corral gate hung crooked on one broken hinge. Two dun horses and a milk cow drowsed in the corral.
The small adobe house was closed and quiet. The only sign of human life about the place was the batch of washing that fluttered from the clothesline in the side yard. Caleb rode in through the gate, dismounted and looped the bay’s reins over the corral fence. He could see now that the clothes on the line consisted of little shirts and overalls, stockings, underwear and nightgowns. He could see the swing hanging from the limb of the big cottonwood that shaded the springhouse. Caleb didn’t want to think about the springhouse and what had happened there. But the idea of children living here, running and playing in the bright sunlight gave a small lift to his spirits.
Taking a deep breath, he strode up the path, crossed the shaded porch and rapped lightly on the door.
“Go into your bedroom, Robbie,” Laura whispered to her son. “Latch the door. Don’t open it until I knock three times and say the password.”
Robbie, who’d been headed outside to play, obeyed without question. He knew better than to argue with his mother when a stranger came to the house.
Laura waited until she heard the metallic click of the latch. Only then did she take the double-barreled shotgun from its rack above the bookshelf and thumb back both hammers.
The rap on the door came again, more insistently this time. Laura’s heart, already racing, broke into a gallop. “Who’s there?” she called.
“Caleb McCurdy’s the name. I didn’t mean to scare you, ma’am. Just wanted to ask a question or two, then, if you want me to leave, I’ll be on my way.”
McCurdy. Laura groped for some memory of the name and came up empty. There was something familiar about the voice that filtered through the heavy wooden door, but without a face to go with it…
Bracing the gun stock against her hip, she opened the door a few cautious inches. “What do you want?” she demanded.
The man who filled the narrow opening was tall and lean, with straight, black hair and a battered face. A closer look revealed jutting cheekbones, obsidian eyes and skin that was burnished to the hue and texture of saddle leather. He was dressed for the trail in unfaded clothes that looked recently bought, but what struck Laura at once was his expression. He was staring at her as if he’d seen a ghost.
His throat moved. Then he closed his mouth tightly, as if he’d thought the better of what he’d been about to say. For an instant his gaze lingered on the ugly scar that zigzagged down the left side of her face. Then he averted his eyes, as most people did when they met her.
Laura jabbed the shotgun’s twin barrels toward him. “Well, then, speak your piece, Mr. McCurdy, or be on your way. Strangers aren’t welcome around here.”
Caleb filled his eyes with her defiant face. Lord, she hadn’t recognized him. Otherwise, by now, he’d have a belly full of buckshot. After what had happened five years ago, he could understand why she greeted callers with a gun. She was likely terrified. What he couldn’t understand was why she’d stayed in a place with so many tragic memories. Surely she had kinfolk back east who would have welcomed her home.
Her large gray eyes studied him cautiously. It made sense, now, that she wouldn’t know him. His real name would mean nothing to her. And he was no longer the bashful teenager who’d adored her across the kitchen table. Five years had put height and muscle on him, and prison had altered his features. A fight with the prison bully had broken his nose. An accident with falling rocks had split his lip and laid a puckered scar across his left eyebrow. Even his eyes had long since lost their look of innocence.
Laura had changed, too. The knife wound on her face had healed badly, leaving a jagged white streak from her temple to the corner of her mouth. Her hair was pulled harshly back and twisted into a tight knot. But it was her dove-colored eyes that struck him to the heart. They were an animal’s eyes, wounded and mistrustful.
They had done this to her, he and his brothers. And Caleb knew that, in his own blundering way, he was as much to blame as Zeke and Noah. He had tried to rescue her and failed. Worse, his interference had opened the way to Mark Shafton’s death.
“I’m waiting,” she said. “You’ve got ten seconds to tell me what you want before I blast you off my porch!”
Caleb scrambled for words, saying the first thing that came to mind. “Your corral gate needs mending. I’ll do it in exchange for a meal.”
She hesitated, her eyes coming to rest on the pistol that hung at his hip. Impulsively, he unfastened the gun belt and held it toward her. “Take this for safekeeping if you’re worried about me,” he said. “Believe me, I’d never hurt you or take anything I hadn’t earned.”
She recoiled slightly, more from him than from the pistol, Caleb suspected. “Lay the gun on the porch,” she said. “You’ll find some tools in the shed. When you finish mending the gate, your food and your weapon will be waiting on the front step. You can take them and go.”
Caleb nodded and turned away, aching for her. Even with the scar, Laura was a beautiful woman. With the ranch as a dowry, she could have had dozens of suitors fighting for her hand. But fear, it seemed, had made her a recluse. He could not imagine such a woman letting any man near her.
The fluttering clothes on the line caught his eye again. He remembered now that she’d told Zeke she was pregnant. Her child would be a little more than four years old, a boy, judging from the pint-sized shirts and overalls. Laura would have her hands full, raising a son alone.
Was there any way he could help her? Not likely, Caleb told himself as he walked toward the shed. He’d be a fool to stay within shotgun range for long. A look, a word, anything could trigger Laura’s memory and her finger. Worse, if she recognized him and sent word to the sheriff, he could end up in prison again, this time as an accessory to murder.
And if he did stay, what could he do for her? Tell her lies? Hurt her again? Caleb sighed as he unlatched the door of the toolshed. He had learned all he’d set out to learn. Laura’s life was far from perfect, but she was surviving as best she could. The wisest thing he could do now was ride away and leave her alone. And he would—as soon as he mended the corral gate.
Laura peered past the frame of the window, watching as the man named McCurdy rehung the sagging gate. He moved with a quiet sureness, one shoulder bracing the timbers while he hammered the nail that held the iron hinge in place. She had tried to do the job herself a few weeks ago but had lacked the strength to hold up the heavy gate while she worked with her hands. Caleb McCurdy made the task look easy.
Her fingers brushed the scar that trailed like spilled tallow down the side of her face. Who was Caleb McCurdy, she wondered, and why had he come this way? Laura was curious, but starting a conversation would only encourage him to stay longer. She’d agreed to his offer out of the necessity to get the gate repaired. But all she really wanted was to be left alone.
He
