that might do to a helpless woman with a child. Until he was out of sight, she would be wise to watch his every move.
“Who’s that man, Mama?” Laura had let Robbie out of his room a few minutes earlier. Now he was standing on tiptoe beside her, peering over the sill.
“Nobody,” she said. “Just a saddle tramp who needs a meal. At least this one’s willing to work for it.”
“Can I go outside and swing now?” the boy asked. “You said I could if I cleaned up my room.”
Laura hesitated, torn, as always, between the need to protect her son and the awareness that even a small boy needed some freedom. Every time Robbie left her sight she was sick with worry. But the last thing she wanted was to raise him to be a timid, fearful man.
“Please,” Robbie begged. “Just for a little while.”
Laura sighed. “All right. But stay close to the swing. Don’t go near the creek, and leave that man alone, do you hear?”
“Yes, Mama.” He skipped across the kitchen and out the back door, letting the screen slam behind him. Laura watched him through the window as he ran toward the swing. Such a beautiful, open, trusting little boy. So like his father.
But her husband had been too trusting, she reminded herself. In the end, Mark’s faith in the goodness of his fellowmen had killed him and very nearly destroyed her.
In those black days after his murder, only the thought of their unborn child had kept her alive and fighting. Now Robbie was her life—her whole life. She would die, or kill, to keep him safe.
The sight of Caleb McCurdy’s gun belt, coiled like a rattlesnake on the seat of the rocking chair, reminded Laura of the bargain she’d made. Slicing off four slabs of brown bread, she made sandwiches, layering them with meat from the grouse she’d shot in the foothills and with lettuce from her garden. When she was finished, she wrapped the sandwiches in a clean piece of flour sack, knotted the corners and left them on the porch next to the gun belt. As an afterthought, she filled a tin cup with cold water from the kitchen pump. He’d been working hard, and the early summer sun was hot.
Locking the front door behind her, she went back to the kitchen window and looked outside. Caleb McCurdy had the hinges in place and was testing the gate, moving it back and forth to make sure it swung smoothly. Soon he’d be returning to the porch for his meal. It was time she got Robbie back into the house.
She hurried through the kitchen, out the screen door and onto the stoop to call him.
Her heart froze.
The swing dangled empty on its long ropes. Her son was nowhere in sight.
Caleb was gathering up the leftover nails when Laura burst around the corner of the house. Her face was white. “Robbie—my boy!” she gasped. “Where is he?”
“He was on the swing the last time I looked over that way. He can’t be far.” Caleb dropped the nails and the hammer next to the gatepost. It was the nature of little boys to run off and explore. They did it all the time. But the expression of stark fear in Laura’s eyes went beyond motherly concern. Did she suspect him of doing something to her child? Was she afraid he’d snatched the boy to lure her outside?
But why brood about it? After what his family had done to her, Laura had every reason to be fearful and suspicious.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll help you look for him.”
They sprinted back toward the tree, where the boy had last been seen. Laura called her son’s name while Caleb checked the creek, which flowed high with runoff from the melting snow in the mountains. There was no sign of the boy in the water, nor were there any fresh tracks along the bank.
“Have you looked in the springhouse?” he asked her. Laura shook her head. “I always keep it locked. He wouldn’t be able to get in.”
A glance toward the springhouse confirmed her words. The door hasp wore a forbidding steel padlock. Caleb understood Laura’s need to keep her son away from the horror of that place. But there was nothing he could say about it. Even in his silence, he had already begun to lie to her.
The sooner he rode away from here, the better it would be for them both.
While Laura searched the willows, Caleb studied the bare earth around the huge, gnarled cottonwood that supported the swing. His Comanche mother, who’d died when he was twelve, had taught him all there was to know about tracking. But he could see no small, fresh footprints leading away from the base of the tree. Where could a little boy go without leaving a trail?
And then, suddenly, he knew.
Speaking softly, he beckoned to Laura. “Come and stand right here. Wait till I’m out of sight. Then look up into the tree and call to him.”
With wondering eyes, she stepped onto the spot where he’d stood. Caleb moved back under the eave of the springhouse. He wanted to make sure the boy wasn’t too frightened to show himself.
“Robbie?” Laura looked up into the branches above her head. Relief, shadowed with exasperation, swept across her face. “Robert Mark Shafton, what on earth are you doing up there?”
A joyous giggle rang out from ten feet above her head. “I climbed up here, Mama. All by myself!”
Laura’s voice shook. “You had me scared half to death! I’ve been calling and calling. Why on earth didn’t you answer me?”
“I was playing hide-and-seek! You were supposed to find me!”
“Well, pardon me, Master Shafton, I didn’t know this was supposed to be a game.” Laura stood glaring up at her son, her hands on her hips. Caleb watched her from the corner of the springhouse. Five years ago, Laura Shafton had been a shy, enchanting young bride. Tragedy and motherhood had brought out her inner strength. She was magnificent, he thought.
Too bad he couldn’t risk telling her so.
“You get down from there, Robbie,” she said. “Carefully, now, so you won’t fall.”
“Are you going to spank me?” Robbie straddled a sloping limb, clinging to his perch like a treed cat. He was a beautiful child, with his mother’s eyes and his father’s golden coloring.
“No, I’m not going to spank you,” Laura said firmly. “But you’ll be spending some time in your room, young man. We’ll talk about it when you get down.”
The boy inched backward down the limb, but he couldn’t see where he was going. His small feet groped for purchase. He was clearly in trouble.
Laura gasped. “Wait, Robbie! Don’t try to move!” But the child was already slipping off the limb.
Caleb sprinted out from the shelter of the springhouse and started up the tree. “Hang on, I’ll get you!” he shouted, scrambling up the knotted trunk. But he was already too late.
He heard Laura’s scream as Robbie lost his grip and plummeted downward in a shower of twigs and leaves. She sprang for him, trying to break his fall, but as she reached out, she lost her balance and stumbled. The boy fell through her fingertips, struck the ground with a sickening thud and lay still.
