A Heart Divided (2 page)

At her response, the man hesitated, then pulled back.

Sarah stared up at him, startled.
Why did he stop? Has he guessed my inexperience and found me lacking?

Shame flooded her, a confused mix of humiliation for the passion she’d felt and for the ignominious failure of her quest. Caught up in the chaotic swell of emotions, she could do little more than stand there and watch as the cowboy’s fingers found the buttons of her blouse and began to fasten them.

“It’s time to end this lesson,” he said, his voice gone low and hoarse, “before I forget why I started it.”

A jumble of responses sprang to Sarah’s lips, then died as she looked up and saw his frowning features. Panic filled her.

I need to keep him distracted. But what else can I do? Oh, hurry, Papa! Hurry—

Almost as if in response to her silent plea, swift, stealthy footsteps, then a movement over the cowboy’s shoulder, caught Sarah’s attention. She froze.

Not so the tall man standing before her. He reacted instantly, shoving her aside then whirling around. As swiftly as he moved, though, he was still too late.

The wooden water bucket met him, slamming into the side of his head with enough force to knock most men out. He sank to his knees.

Immediately, Sarah’s two brothers were on him, striking at his head and shoulders as the cowboy struggled to rise. He half-turned, throwing off Noah, but Caleb grabbed a handful of dirt and tossed it into his face. Choking, his fists desperately rubbing at his eyes, the cowboy stumbled back to his knees.

Once more, Noah was on him, pinning the cowboy’s arms behind him then jerking him to his feet. Caleb, now joined by their father, lost not a moment. They began to pummel him.

In helpless horror, Sarah watched as the blows struck the cowboy’s face and sank deep into his belly. She heard the tormented grunts with each well-placed fist, shuddering at the sight of the blood-smeared mouth that had so lately caressed hers. Watched, heard, and stood there . . . until finally even the ties of family loyalty could no longer silence her protests.

“Stop it, Papa!” she screamed, flinging herself between the cowboy’s battered form and her father’s upraised arm. “You’re killing him!”

Chest heaving, he hesitated, his fist halting in midair. “Do you know who this is? It’s Cord Wainwright. Get out of the way, girl!”

She held her ground. “It doesn’t matter, Papa.” Her voice quavered as she fought the sickening churning in her gut. “Y-you’ve beaten him enough. We came here to rob the Wainwrights, not commit murder. Let him go.”

“She’s right, Papa,” Noah interjected just then. “We got what we came for. Let’s head on out.”

The seconds ticked by as Jacob Caldwell battled his mindless rage. Finally, the red haze seemed to clear. “Just as well,” he said. “Tie him up, boys.”

Sarah’s brothers roughly bound then dragged the limp form over to lie beside the hay wagon. The limp form of a man she now realized was not a common ranch hand but the Wainwright son born the very night her father had come to this ranch and demanded it back from the man he hated above all others.

Talk was, though, that Cord Wainwright had been gone from these parts for a long while, and that was why, Sarah suddenly realized, she hadn’t recognized him. But that really didn’t matter just now. What mattered was the uneasy premonition that, as much as she might wish it otherwise, this encounter wouldn’t be their last. And that, next time, she might not come out of it half as well.

Jacob coughed hard, the sound deep and wet, then turned to his daughter. “Are you all right, girl?” he asked, pulling off his flour sack disguise. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“N-no, Papa.” Sarah wrenched her gaze from Cord Wainwright to her pale, sweaty-faced father. “I-I’m fine.”

“Well, then, good. You did a good job. I’m proud of you.” He gestured toward a bulging flour sack lying by the barn door. “Like Noah said. We got what we came for, and more. Now it’s time to hightail it out of here. Come on.”

Reluctantly, Sarah allowed herself to be led away. She couldn’t help, though, but shoot a last glance over her shoulder. At the sight, her heart twisted and she immediately regretted her action.

The handsome younger son of Edmund Wainwright lay there in the dirt, bound and bleeding, an errant breeze stirring bits of hay about his motionless form.

Two weeks later, Cord Wainwright slammed his black Stetson onto his head and strode from Ashton’s Bank and Trust. He’d had about all he could take of the family business! Not only had Spencer Womack, their ranch foreman, been on his back for the past week about his suspicions that roaming bands of Utes were responsible for the occasional rustling of their cattle, but the bank president had just presented Cord with an ultimatum to pay off the loan for the prize bull his father had insisted they buy three months ago. An ultimatum that now, thanks to the recent robbery, the Wainwrights had no money with which to comply.

Long, ground-eating strides carried Cord to where his horse was tethered. In one lithe motion he mounted—and quickly remembered his bruised side when a sharp pain shot through him. He settled into the saddle with a wince, then gingerly reined the animal around and down Main Street.

He had argued with his father until he was blue in the face not to buy that bull. The demand to put the money Cord had given him in the bank had also fallen on deaf ears. Edmund Wainwright was as stubbornly old-fashioned as they came, and trusted no one’s judgment but his own. Unfortunately, that overpriced bull had yet to prove himself. And an old tin box hidden behind a bookcase in the study had, in retrospect, served as a poor substitute for an ironclad bank vault.

The bright green-and-blue-painted sign of McPherson’s Mercantile came into view up ahead on the corner of Main and River Street. Cord halted his horse there and dismounted, flinging the reins around the hitching post. As he stepped onto the boardwalk fronting the big building, a man, his arms loaded with packages, barreled from the general store and straight into Cord.

Shoved backward into the hitching post, he bounced hard off the wooden rail. Cord straightened and staggered up onto the boardwalk, clutching his side. Barely controlling the impulse to hit the man, he instead shot him a furious look.

“I-I’m sorry, mister,” the fellow stammered, quickly sidling away. “By golly, it was an accident, after all. You don’t have to look at me like you want to beat in my face.”

Cord stared long and hard at the man’s rapidly retreating form. Gradually, his anger cooled, and remorse filled him. He
had
overreacted, been on the verge of striking out over something as inconsequential as a careless blunder.

He shook his head. What was the matter with him? He’d long ago learned the importance of maintaining rigid control over his temper, respecting the fearsome power he had come to possess in his fists. Maybe the robbery—
and
the events surrounding it—was eating at him more than he cared to admit. This definitely didn’t seem to be his day.

The coolness of McPherson’s interior was a welcome relief from the unseasonable heat of early autumn. He removed his Stetson and, still rubbing his side, scanned the high-ceilinged room. The store’s tall shelves were packed with household wares, a fine selection of foodstuffs, and bolts of colorful cloth, its floor space jammed with large pickle, molasses, vinegar, and cracker barrels, bushel baskets of dried beans, and other various and sundry items. The proprietor and sole employee, Dougal McPherson, however, was nowhere to be found.

Cord walked over and laid his Stetson on the merchandise counter. “Dougal, you old coot, where in the blazes are you?” he shouted, irritation tingeing his voice.

Rustling sounds emanated from the back room. The slight, spry form of an elderly man hurried out. A thatch of snow-white hair and ruddy features set off a large nose in a kindly face. Bright blue eyes, touched with humor, met his.

“So, is this what ’tis come to, when a lad such as ye starts bawling at his elders? Well, I won’t have it!” the old Scotsman roared in mock indignation. He shook his bony fist at Cord. “Hie yerself from my store afore there’s fisticuffs, and ye come out the loser.”

“Hold on now.” Immediately, all the pent-up tension drained from Cord. He laughed, raising his hands as if to defend himself from the irate little storekeeper. “You’re not tricking me into a rematch. That last trouncing was enough to last me for a lifetime.”

“Och, and ’tis good to see all that fancy law schooling hasn’t dimmed yer memory,” Dougal muttered. “Ye might be a tad brawnier than ye were at sixteen, but the years haven’t dimmed my boxing skills a wit.”

He paused, a reluctant grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Now, tell me. What brought ye here? I haven’t seen ye in over two weeks.”

Cord sighed. “Bad news, I’m afraid. I need to start a credit account for any supplies we might need. And it’ll likely take a while to pay it off too.”

“I figured it’d come to that, once word got around ye’d been robbed. ’Tis not a problem. Pay me when ye can.”

Cord strode over to stare out the front window, shoving his hands deep into his denim pockets. “Actually, it is a problem.
My
problem. The longer it takes to pay off the debts my father has run up,” he muttered, “the longer I have to put my life on hold. With my two stepsisters gone now from the ranch, you know as well as I the only reason I even bothered to come home. And it was never solely to help out my father.”

“Yer father’s made a fine mess of things, and no mistake,” Dougal said. “There’s no easy way to make money, and those poor investments of his prove the truth of that. But dinna go so hard on him, lad. Meet him halfway, and ’tis sure ye’ll come to an understanding.”

“Oh, I understand him just fine,” Cord replied with a bitter laugh. “He’s hated me since the day I was born. All I want is to get the ranch squared away, then head back to New York where I belong. I can’t put my life or the law practice on hold forever. My partners have already been more than patient.”

“Ye won’t reconsider hanging up yer shingle in Ashton then?”

“There’s nothing here for me anymore. You know that. I just need to get that money back.” Cord ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “There’s no more where that came from. I’ve sunk everything I had into trying to save the ranch.”

“Och, dinna fear, lad. Sheriff Cooper will find those robbers. Everyone knows ’twas the Caldwell clan.”

“Maybe. But Gabe hasn’t had much luck so far. Seems the Caldwells, when they put their minds to it, can be a mite hard to track down. And it’s not like I got a good look at any of the men. They were all wearing flour sacks over their heads. The girl’s the only one I’d know if I saw her. She’s the key to the mystery.”

As he scanned the scene outside, he rubbed the still-tender spot on the side of his head where the bucket had slammed into it. What had she said when they’d been beating him, just before he passed out?

“Stop it, Papa . . . you’re killing him . . .”

Papa . . .

The girl had never been a new employee. And her accomplices had been her family. Dougal was likely right. Who had greater reason to hate them than the Caldwells?

Though he’d been gone for nearly eleven years, the animosity between the two families was just as evident upon his return as when he’d left. Too many unexplained things had been happening—cut barbed-wire fencing, burned line shacks, not to mention missing cattle. Occasional bands of Utes notwithstanding, odds were some of the problems also had to be the Caldwells’ doing.

Yes
, Cord resolved,
it has to be the Caldwells who robbed the ranch. But I need proof. And, if I’m ever to get back to New York, what with my father and most of the hands gone on the roundup for another week, it’s up to me to take matters into my own hands.

“Well, I dinna know any other lass in town with hair like ye described,” Dougal was saying. “’Tis the bonny Sarah Caldwell, or I’m—”

“Dougal, come here!”

At the urgency in Cord’s voice, the old Scot hurried quickly to his side. “What is it? What do ye see?”

“That boy over there.” Cord pointed toward a shabbily dressed lad crossing the street. “Who is he?”

Dougal studied him briefly, then shrugged. “Seems a mite familiar, but I can’t be certain from this angle. Some miner’s bairn, no doubt. New folk arrive every day. ’Tis hard keeping track of all the—”

Cord wheeled about and strode back to the counter. Grabbing up his Stetson, he shoved it on his head as he headed for the door.

“I don’t care what you say, McPherson,” he said, excitement threading his voice. “I’d know that face and form anywhere. It’s that girl—the one who helped rob us!”

2

Clutching the small cloth bag tightly to her, Sarah hurried from the pharmacist’s shop and back down the street to Doc Saunders’s office. Well aware her family would be implicated in the recent Wainwright robbery, she was apprehensive about venturing into town. Unfortunately, they’d had no choice. Danny was sick again and had to see the doctor. The last asthma attack had been bad,
real
bad, and now they were out of medicine.

She squelched a small twinge of guilt. The money, however illicitly gained, had come at a good time. Besides, everyone said the Wainwrights had more than they knew what to do with. It was past time she swallow some of that stubborn pride of hers. Past time she accept the fact the Wainwrights owed the Caldwells for all they’d taken from them.

Four unfair years in the penitentiary for the accidental shooting of the Wainwright boy had physically broken her father, making him unfit for any kind of hard labor. As a result, the major burden of keeping the family together had fallen on her mother’s shoulders. Eventually, that strain had sickened and killed her.

Sarah and her brothers had tried to carry on in her stead. But money was difficult to come by when you were forced to scrabble out an existence on a few meager acres of land that no one, not even the local Indians, wanted. No, she struggled to convince herself, the Wainwrights were just being forced to share a little of what they’d stolen from the Caldwells all those years ago. And now, thanks to them, they had enough to take care of Danny for a long, long time.

Her gaze cautiously scanned the crowd filling Main Street. Noah and Danny were waiting at Doc’s office. All she had to do was make it back. Then they’d just slip out of town as quietly as they came, no one the wiser.

Doc wouldn’t talk. He understood how hard it had been to scrape up money for Danny all these years. How often they’d had to skimp on everything, accept every menial job that came around, just to afford the medical bills.

Besides
, Sarah reminded herself for the tenth time as she stepped off the boardwalk fronting the many shops and businesses,
in my boy’s disguise and with my face smudged and my hair tucked under this old hat of Caleb’s, no one’s paid me any attention
.
Even if Cord Wainwright were around, he’d never recognize me.

Weaving through the throngs of idly strolling townspeople, Sarah thought she’d go mad with the agonizingly slow progress. Ever since gold and then silver had been discovered in the surrounding mountains, prospectors passing through Ashton had dramatically increased the day-to-day population. Still, each minute she tarried only increased her chances of discovery. When she neared the sheriff’s office, she ducked her head and quickly began to cross to the other side of the street.

No sense tempting fate. Gabe Cooper had been well aware of her in the past year or so, ever since her girlish curves had “ripened,” as Papa liked to put it. Yes, she had to be careful. Disguise or no, Gabe just might pick her out.

“Git out of the way, you fool kid!”

Sarah glanced up. A freight wagon was bearing down full tilt upon her. Two lathered bays, their nostrils flaring red, dashed by as she leapt out of the way. A whiff of sweat-damp coats mixed with the pungent scent of horse drifted past. She glared after the wagon, then determinedly resumed her trek across the now dusty street.

There’s no time to spare on that callous lout. A few minutes more is all I need to reach Noah and Danny. Just a few minutes more and we’ll be headed from town and safe—

A hand grasped her arm, jerking her backward. Sarah whirled around, slamming into a hard, masculine body. Her hat tipped askew and fell. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders.

The cloth bag plummeted from her hand and slammed onto the ground. At the sound of breaking glass, horror filled her.

The medicine. Danny’s medicine.

As she stared down at the now crumpled bag lying at her captor’s feet, rage flared. The stupid, thoughtless man had ruined Danny’s medicine!

“Why you . . . you clumsy oaf!” she said in a sputter. “Do you realize how expensive this medicine—”

As she spoke, Sarah looked up past boots, blue denim pants, and a brown and green plaid cotton shirt to meet the flinty gaze of a pair of jet black eyes. Eyes that rested in an uncomfortably familiar face topped by a black Stetson. A face that smiled triumphantly, almost cruelly, down at her.

“So, we meet again, little lady,” Cord Wainwright said silkily. “And this time, you’re not getting away so easily.”

Long, strong fingers captured her other arm. She froze, mesmerized like that day at his ranch, her mind frantically searching for some way out of her predicament.

The black Stetson. For some inexplicable reason, her gaze riveted on his hat. It lent his already intimidating presence a foreboding air. And, seeing it, something within her snapped. The full implication of her situation hit Sarah with the force of a blow.

She kicked wildly at him. “Let me go!”

Her hard, leather-clad toe made lucky contact where the top of his own boot met flesh. He grunted in pain but, instead of releasing her, only gripped Sarah the tighter. She felt herself rise from the ground until their faces were on an equal level, the sheer strength of his arms suspending her in midair.

“Why is it that every time we meet, I end up getting hurt?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Well, no matter. The tables have finally turned.” He gave her a small shake. “Now, tell me. Where’s the money?”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She squirmed in his grasp until he finally lowered her back to the ground. “Release me this instant, or I’ll call for the sheriff.”

A contemptuous sneer curled Cord Wainwright’s lips. “I’m not thinking the sheriff is going to protect the likes of you.” He glanced over his shoulder. “In fact, let’s pay him a visit right now.”

Sarah dug in her heels as he began to drag her back across the street, but her stubborn resistance did little to impede their progress. “Let me go!” Her voice rose to an indignant shriek, and she struck out at him. “Take your filthy hands off me!”

“In a pig’s eye!” He stopped to capture a wildly flailing arm. “You’re going to jail where you belong!”

She glanced around at the crowd beginning to form. “Help me! Please, won’t anyone help me?”

At her impassioned plea, two burly miners stepped out to block their way.

“Is this fella hurting you, ma’am?” the younger of the two men asked, tipping his sweat-stained cap.

Sarah shot Cord Wainwright a quick look, and saw his eyes narrow and his jaw clench.
He isn’t going to let me go without a fight. On the other hand,
she thought,
he can’t very well take on two men at once and still hold on to me. And, with the crowd gathering around us, it might just be my only chance to make a quick getaway.

“Yes.” She nodded emphatically, gracing the two miners with what she hoped was an imploring smile. “Yes, he is. I hardly know him, and he’s trying to drag me off—”

“She robbed me and I’m taking her to the sheriff’s office,” Cord cut in just then. “Do either of you have a problem with that?”

The older of the two miners scowled. “Yeah, I’ve got a problem with it, mister. Dragging her around like that is no way to treat a lady.”

Cord Wainwright gave a harsh laugh. “Well, if she
were
a lady, I might have to agree with you. Considering the family she comes from, though, I heartily doubt that’s a concern.” Pulling Sarah along with him, he took a step forward. “So, do yourselves a favor and get out of my way.”

“I’d do as the lad suggests,” a voice, thick with a brogue, interjected just then.

Relief flooded Sarah. “Mr. McPherson!”

The little Scotsman elbowed his way to the front of the crowd. After barely acknowledging her, he drew up beside Cord and riveted his fierce gaze on the two miners.

“Stay out of this, laddies,” he said. “Cord here is the son of the owner of Castle Mountain Ranch, the biggest spread in these parts. And he means the lass no harm. Ye two, though, if ye keep pushing on him, will rue the day ye ever tried to interfere. Not only did I teach him everything I know about boxing, but he used to fight professionally to pay for all his fancy schooling. Trust me when I tell ye he’s not one ye wish to trifle with.”

The two miners looked to each other, then back at Cord.

“Well, if he really
is
just going to take her to the sheriff’s office . . .” the older man began.

“Beggin’ yore pardon, mister,” the younger miner added, stepping aside.

Exasperation filled Sarah.
Fine. Real fine. Isn’t anyone going to come to my aid?

Evidently not, she realized, as Cord Wainwright’s grip tightened once more around her arm. The crowd parted before them, and he again began to drag her forward. Again and again, she threw her full weight against the iron clasp of his hand, until her futile efforts finally left her weak and panting. To add to her humiliation, sporadic bursts of laughter now reached her ears.

Her face burning, knowing how ludicrous she must appear being pulled along like some recalcitrant child, it was all she could do to blink back the tears. She
had
to get away and warn Noah, but how?

Blessedly, her opportunity arrived when her captor paused in front of the sheriff’s office. Momentarily, his grip loosened as he shifted his hands in preparation for lifting her onto the boardwalk. In that split second, Sarah spun around and jabbed her elbow hard into his side.

Even to her surprise, he inhaled a sharp, shuddering breath, doubled over, and released her.

She didn’t look back, and sprinted through the crowded street. The dark shadows of an alleyway caught her eye. Sarah wheeled off in a new direction, running toward what she saw as her only chance of freedom.

The clapboard buildings loomed to engulf her. Anticipation of escape grew, burgeoning with each beat of her wildly pounding heart.

If only I can get out of sight, hide until he gives up searching for me
 . . .

The sound of heavy footsteps intruded into her frantic thoughts. Sarah quickened her pace, her legs pumping furiously. Light at the alley’s end beckoned to her like the gateway to heaven.

If only I can reach it, then dash into some door or around the corner . . .

Just ahead, she heard an upstairs window slide open. Out of nowhere a torrent of water cascaded down on her head. Startled, she stumbled, lost her footing, and fell as the ground beneath and before her turned slippery with the muck of soapsudsy water.

Wash water. The town laundry
 . . .

Sarah scrambled to her feet.

A hard body slammed into her, the force of the impact momentarily propelling them both forward. Then they fell, facedown in the mud, dirty, scummy water spraying around them to drench them head to toe.

A familiar, iron-thewed grip tightened around her waist. Sarah groaned.
It’s no use. I can’t get away from him no matter how hard I try.

She twisted to look at Cord Wainwright, only to meet bits of black onyx glittering back at her. Muddy water dripped from his dark hair, coursing in rivulets down the taut, angry planes of his face. Struck by the realization of how ludicrous she must also look, Sarah swallowed hard against the inane giggle that rose in her throat. In any other instance, this would almost seem funny. In any instance, that was, but now.

“Are you through with your games?” Cord Wainwright ground out. “I’ve had just about all I can take from you, so I suggest you think long and hard before trying anything else.”

Sarah’s lips tightened and she glanced away.
What’s the point in arguing?
she thought, fiercely tamping down a swell of despair.
There’ll be other chances. No matter what he may think, he’s only won the first skirmish, not the war.