reverend is such a good man. I don’t know what I would do without his help and support.
“‘February 10th. The first day home with the boys. I had no idea babies were so much work. I’ll write more later when I’m not so exhausted.’”
The entry was typical of the ones during the following year. A picture began to emerge of a young girl struggling to support and nurture three babies alone. To make ends meet she took in ironing in the evenings and on weekends, often working late into the night.
A few weeks before their first birthday Colleen began to mention that she wasn’t feeling well. By the end of February her boss at the day care center insisted that she see a doctor, in case she had something contagious. Then came the entry that stunned Zach and his brothers.
“‘March 5th. I have advanced ovarian cancer.’”
“Ah, hell,” Zach swore and raked a hand through his hair.
“Yeah,” J.T. agreed in a subdued tone. “After all she’d already been through, she sure didn’t deserve that.”
Swinging his legs over the side, Matt sat on the edge of the bed. “Funny. That possibility never occurred to me. I always assumed she gave me away because she didn’t want me.”
“Deep down, I think we all did,” Zach said quietly. “We were too young to understand anything else.”
Matt thought that over, then nodded and resumed reading.
“‘Dear Lord, what am I going to do? I can’t afford to be sick. My babies need me. On top of that, I have no idea how I’ll pay for the treatment, but without it I’ll surely die. What will become of the boys if that happens? Daddy won’t have them. Even if he would, I don’t want my boys to grow up under his iron-fisted rule or to bear the brunt of his hatred for their father. God help me. And them.
“‘March 6th. I started treatment today. Feel even worse. Nausea is awful.’”
For the next eight months the entries were about the treatment and the ghastly side effects. And her growing financial worries. Within weeks she could no longer work. It was all she could manage to take care of her three toddlers. Left with no alternative, she was forced to go on welfare.
Despite aggressive treatment, her condition continued to worsen, and in December, after nine months of struggle, Colleen accepted the inevitable and wrote of her decision to ask Reverend Clayton help her find homes for her sons.
“‘November 23rd. Reverend Clayton and Mr. Thomas, Aunt Clara’s attorney, are handling the adoptions. I would like to interview the prospective couples myself, but the family court judge will not allow it. Even though these are private adoptions he demands complete anonymity on both sides, and afterward the adoption records will be sealed.
“‘The reverend and Mr. Thomas have tried but they couldn’t find a family willing to take three two-year-olds so it appears the boys will have to go to different couples. Oh, how I hate to think of them being separated. They are not only losing me, but each other, as well. But what choice do I have?
“‘January 10th. Reverend Clayton has selected three couples. I trust his judgment and I’m sure they will all be wonderful parents, but I can’t quite bring myself to commit to them. It shreds my heart just to think about handing my babies over to strangers and never seeing them again. For the boys’ sake, though, I have to stop being selfish. They are typical rambunctious toddlers, and I’m so weak now and in so much pain that I can barely get out of bed some days. I worry that I’m not giving them proper care.
“‘January 15th. Well, I’ve done it. I’ve agreed to the adoptions and signed all the papers. Reverend Clayton had the medallion made and cut, like I asked him, and all the couples have agreed to give them to the boys when they are older. I just hope that someday it will help them find one another again.’”
Matt turned the page, scanned it, then flipped over several more before turning back. “Looks like there’s just one more entry. After that there are just blank pages.”
“Go ahead. Let’s hear it,” J.T. said.
“‘February 24th. Today was the worst day of my life. I gave my babies away. Two social workers came and took them. I cuddled and kissed them for the last time, and I think they knew something was wrong. As they were being carried out they screamed and cried and held their arms out to me, calling ‘Mommie! Mommie!’ It broke my heart. Dear Lord, it hurts. It hurts so much I don’t think I can bear it. I want to die. Without my babies I have nothing to live for. Please, God. Please. Let me die now. Please.’”
Matt exhaled a long sigh and slowly closed the journal. A heavy silence hung in the room.
Colleen Rafferty was dead. The rush of disappointment and grief took Zach by surprise. For Pete’s sake. He had no memories of her. Until he’d seen that photograph he hadn’t even known what she looked like. Why did it bother him so much to learn that she was dead?
“Well, that’s it. Now we know,” J.T. said finally.
Zach gave a little snort. “Yeah. Now we know. For all the good it did us.”
Chapter One
The horse snorted and danced in the narrow chute. His ears lay back flat to his head and his eyes rolled, showing white all around.
“Better watch ’im, Zach. This here’s one mean side-winder,” one of the handler’s cautioned.
Zach nodded, studying the furious bronc with satisfaction. Hellbent was a good draw. Zach knew if he could hang on for the count he’d finish in the money. Maybe even in first place.
Ignoring the canned music and the announcer’s deep baritone blaring from the speakers, the crowd cheering on the contestant in the ring, he kept a wary eye on the fractious animal and eased down from his perch on the side of the chute and into the saddle. Immediately he felt the horse’s muscles bunch. Squeezing his knees tighter, he wound the reins around his left hand.
“Up next in the chute, from Gold Fever, Colorado, is Zach Mahoney.”
A cheer went up, and Hellbent tried to rear, hammering the gate with his hooves.
“Zach is— Whoa! Watch out there, Zach. You got yourself a mean one today.”
Between them, Zach and the handlers subdued the horse, but he felt the animal quiver with rage and knew he was in for a wild ride. He tugged his Stetson down more snugly on his head. Wrapping the reins tighter around his gloved hand, he adjusted his position and paused to gather his focus. When he was ready, he raised his right hand.
The gate flew open and Hellbent leaped out into the arena, eleven hundred pounds of bucking, snorting fury, his massive body arching and twisting and spinning.
Zach’s hat went flying on the third buck. In rhythm with the violent movements, he raked his blunted spurs over the horse’s shoulders and kept his right hand high in the air while his upper body flopped back and forth in the saddle like a rag doll. Every time Hellbent’s front hooves hit the ground Zach felt the jarring impact shoot up his spine all the way to the top of his head.
The crowd in the stands became a blur as the horse spun and pitched and did everything in his power to dislodge him. Never had eight seconds seemed so long. Zach’s
