Elizabeth Lane (13 page)

Crouching low, she stretched an arm into the dark recess. The paper was there, crisp beneath her fingers as she drew it out into the lamplight.

It was a letter, she saw at once. A letter, written in a cultured but slightly unsteady feminine hand.

My dearest Sarah,

Donovan has told me everything. I cannot profess to understand all that happened in Richmond. I only know that it is my Christian duty to forgive you, and I
do so with open arms. The war is over. For me, at least, your goodness has wiped out any past wrongs.

Virgil wrote me about his “Lydia.” I confess that I have longed to meet the young woman who made my brother’s last days so happy. What a surprise to learn that I have known her all this time, as my own dear friend.

Know this, Sarah. Even though the whole town may turn against you, you have my pledge of undying friendship, support and gratitude. I owe you my life, and the life of my precious baby. Whatever you might have done in the past, and whatever may happen in the future, I will never turn my back on you.

With all my love, Varina

Sarah stared at the letter, emotions washing over her like the waves of a flood. No—Varina could not take this burden on herself. When Donovan left—as he surely would-Varina would be alone on the mountain, with four young children. She would need this town and the friendship of the people in it.

But Varina had made her choice. She had chosen with her heart. She had chosen with all the goodness and truth that was in her. And whatever happened, Sarah vowed, Varina Cole Sutton would not stand alone. Her needs would not go unmet. She would have one friend—a friend who would die, if need be, for her and her children.

Sarah read the letter again. Her hands began to tremble. The ink on the page splattered and blurred as, at long last, her tears began to fall.

D
onovan had picked up the long, open freight wagon at the livery stable before dawn. Now, at first light, he guided the plodding team down the main street of Miner’s Gulch, headed for the road to Central City.

The new day was no more than a promise, a pearly glow that silvered the snowcapped peaks to the east. Donovan drove slowly, savoring the silence. After the past week, the need to buy lumber for Varina’s new room had come as a heaven-sent deliverance. He could not have endured another day of the clamorous tension at the cabin.

Eudora Cahill, along with other women of her stripe, had been up the gulch almost every day, threatening, demanding, imploring Varina to change her mind about Sarah Parker. True to her nature, Varina had not budged an inch. Before long, Donovan feared, his sister would be as much a pariah as Sarah herself.

As for Sarah—Donovan risked an upward glance at her window as the wagon passed Satterlee’s store. The glass panes were dark, with no sign of life behind them.

He had not seen Sarah since that wild night when she had banished him from her quarters. But she was there, all right. Donovan knew because Varina still sent Annie and Katy trooping down the gulch every day to attend her school. The two little girls were Sarah’s only pupils.

Mud plopped from the hooves of the four big draft bays as the wagon creaked past the empty church. At least there’d been no violence against Sarah. In fact, Sarah’s punishment bore more of a resemblance to an Amish-style shunning than to anything else Donovan could think of. Except for the intractable Varina, most of the townspeople were behaving as if Sarah Parker did not exist.

And what did it matter? Donovan asked himself angrily. He had washed his hands of the woman for good. If she was fool enough to stay in Miner’s Gulch, so be it. He had not asked her to parade her past before the whole town, and he could not be responsible for the way people treated her.

All the same, Donovan could not quell a prickle of worry as he remembered his conversation with MacIntyre that morning. The hulking war veteran had met him at the livery stable to help hitch up the hired team and wagon. A ruddy-faced bear of a man, he appeared to have just gotten out of bed. His thinning, dishwater hair stood on end. Greasy leather suspenders held up his trousers over faded gray long johns.

Donovan had averted his eyes from the sleeve that dangled like an empty sock below the right shoulder. Still, he could not help being impressed by the way MacIntyre handled the horses and the heavy harness tack. His huge left hand was quick and dexterous, the arm as massive as an average man’s thigh.

MacIntyre had noticed Donovan watching him. “Don’t do too bad for a one-armed freak, now, do I?” he growled. “Imagine what I could be with two good ‘uns, like you got.”

Donovan had nodded slowly, thinking the better of a reply. He had no desire to set MacIntyre off. He only wanted to get the wagon hitched and be on his way.

“Lost more’n an arm at Shiloh,” MacIntyre had groused as he bent to tighten a bellyband. “Lost a cousin and my best friend, too. And when I finally got home, my bride
took one look at me an’ lit out with a stinkin’ whiskey drummer. Wanted a whole man, she said, not a cripple.”

“I’m sorry.” Donovan adjusted the fit of a padded collar around one horse’s powerful neck.

“Not that I blame her none. I ain’t too purty lookin’ without a shirt. Only woman’ll have me now is the likes of Smitty’s girls. But then, they’ll have any man what’s got the money. That Zoe, now, she ain’t too bad. Ever try her?”

“Can’t say as I have.” Donovan mounted the wagon seat, anxious to be on his way. MacIntyre made a final check of the harness, then turned to squint up at Donovan, the flare of the lantern making a devilish mask of his bewhiskered face. “’Course the real whore, now, is that ‘un livin’ over the store—that high-an’-mighty Miss Sarah, as she calls herself. Woman like that don’t belong in a town with decent folk. I say she oughta be tarred an’ feathered an’ rid out on a rail! An’ if you don’t agree with me, Cole, you ain’t no son o’ the South!”

Donovan had shot him a brief scowl as he caught up the reins. “No son of the South would wish that kind of harm on any woman. Give Sarah Parker a little time, MacIntyre. She’ll leave on her own. You’ll see.”

MacIntyre had muttered something under his breath and spat in the mud. “Far as I’m concerned, her time’s about run out. I say, people in this town oughta git together and do somethin’!”

“Talk to me about it when I get back from Central City.” Impatient to be off, Donovan had brought the reins down hard on the withers of the huge bays. The wagon had jerked and rolled out of the livery stable yard, leaving MacIntyre standing in the mud, vilifying Sarah’s name to the fading stars.

Remembering the scene now, Donovan forced himself to shrug off a foreboding chill. MacIntyre was all talk, he reassured himself. As for the rest of the people in Miner’s Gulch, they seemed like a decent lot, certainly not the kind
to harm a helpless female. Sarah would be safe enough until he got back into town tomorrow night.

Not that Donovan really gave a damn. He had washed his hands of Sarah Parker. She had brought her present trouble down on her own head. Whatever happened to the woman now was no longer his concern.

No longer his concern.
Donovan hoisted the words like a banner in his mind, ignoring the heat that flooded his body when he remembered the feel of her through the gauzy nightdress—the silky, molten sensuality that, even now, jellied his legs with desire.

Blast it, he’d been out of his mind that night, a panting, lust-drunk maniac with his brain in his crotch! As for his calling her Lydia—Donovan reddened at the remembered humiliation, his face flushing hot in the cool dawn air. In that single instant, he had betrayed everything—his brother, his principles, his own sense of integrity. He had thrown it all away.

Seething with agitation, he steered the team around Pete Ainsworth, who had collapsed drunk in the road outside Smitty’s. Donovan had had a bellyful of this town, he told himself. It was as if the cursed place had poisoned him. In all his life, he had never felt more befuddled, less sure of himself.

Sarah had almost told him she loved him.

But no, that wasn’t right. She didn’t love him now. She had loved him—or could have loved him—in that other life, as a woman who no longer existed.

No longer existed…except that when he had taken her in his arms, it had been Lydia who had returned his kiss, Lydia whose body had molded so passionately to his. And in his muddled state, he had all but committed the ultimate betrayal.

Donovan was still asking himself why. Liquor might have given him an excuse, but he hadn’t touched a drop that night. Rain chilled and exhausted, he had climbed Sarah’s
back stairs seeking answers about Virgil. But he had not found answers. He had only found more questions.

Sarah was not his concern, he reminded himself again, this time more forcefully. He could not afford to make her his concern, not when their every encounter left him more exposed and vulnerable. Donovan resolved to put her out of his mind for the duration of this trip. Maybe that would give him a head start on putting her out of his mind for good.

The main street buildings were thinning out now. He passed the hovels that sprawled along the creek bottom, and the gingerbread-trimmed Cahill house that perched atop a bluff and had its own well, or so he’d been told. A bitter smile flickered across Donovan’s face as he remembered Eudora’s imperious demands and Varina’s calm refusals. Eudora Cahill might be the town’s self-styled social leader, but Varina Cole Sutton, poor though she might be, was also a force to be reckoned with.

Dear, stubborn, impossible Varina, who was more true to herself than anyone he had ever known.

Donovan’s shoulders slumped as he realized how tense things had become between himself and his sister over the past few days. Varina clearly considered him one with the enemy camp. He knew she kept in touch with Sarah through the girls, but the nature of their communications was secret. Donovan had never known Varina to keep anything from him in her life. He was surprised at how much it hurt.

For the sake of peace, however, he had tried to stay out of her way. Thanks to Lanny Hanks, the able young carpenter Sarah had recommended, the new room on the cabin was rising fast, so fast that the two of them had already worked themselves out of the mill-sawed lumber they’d salvaged from Charlie’s mine.

Donovan had leapt at the excuse to go and buy more. He planned to stay the night in Central City, pick up the lumber
in the morning and arrive back in Miner’s Gulch before dark.

The first ray of sunlight slanted between the peaks, setting off an explosion of bird songs. The sky was clear, promising fine, warm weather. Donovan’s spirits lifted as a blue jay sassed him from the limb of an overhanging pine.

He would enjoy the journey, he resolved. He would explore Central City, buy himself a bath and a good dinner, and maybe play some seven-card draw if there was a decent game to be found. For the next forty-eight hours, he would do his best to forget there had ever been such a person as Lydia Taggart.

Maybe then, he might even be able to forget Sarah Parker.

Toward afternoon, the sky began to darken. Sarah stood at the window of her schoolroom, watching the clouds roll in over the peaks. She was glad she’d sent Annie and Katy home early. As long as they didn’t dawdle, the two little girls would make it up the gulch well ahead of the storm.

She was more worried about Donovan.

She had watched him drive past at dawn, shrinking back from the glass, heart pounding, as he raised his eyes. What if he had seen her? What if she had stood there in full view and met his gaze with her own? Would it have made any difference?

Sarah toyed with the question, then swiftly dashed her own hopes. This was no time to be foolish.

Turning wearily away from the window, she began rubbing the sums from the smudged blackboard. Even the most fleeting contact between Donovan and herself would cause more pain than she ever wanted to feel again in her life. She had to keep away from him. Her own survival depended on it.

Annie had confirmed that her uncle was on his way to Central City. The girls, in fact, kept their teacher fully apprised of the goings-on at Varina’s cabin. She knew that
Varina’s loyalty was costing Donovan’s sister the friendship of almost every woman in the gulch. Sarah had even sent a letter by way of Annie, begging Varina to change her stand before it was too late. But Varina remained, stubbornly, her steadfast friend.

Drawn to the window again, Sarah stared out at the darkening sky. Under the best conditions, the ten-hour wagon ride to Central City was punishing. When rain turned the powder-fine dust to slimy mud, it could be treacherous, as well, especially where the road edged deep ravines. Donovan had left town at dawn, but the storm could catch him miles from his destination, with the most dangerous part of the road ahead.

Restless beyond endurance, she threw herself into tidying the already neat classroom, scrubbing the board, sweeping up the chalk dust, arranging the benches into perfect geometric rows. From outside, a rumble of thunder shook the windowpanes. The image of Donovan in the open wagon, on the slippery road, flashed like lightning through her mind.

He would be all right, Sarah reassured herself. Donovan had survived war and prison camp, not to mention three years as a Kansas lawman. He was strong enough to withstand a storm, and smart enough to seek shelter if the going got too hard.

But what if something
did
go wrong?

How would Varina manage? How would her children, who clearly adored their big, brusque uncle, ever survive his loss?

Sarah walked to the window again, parted the curtains and stared at the sky through the rain-splattered glass. Varina and her children were Donovan’s only living kin. Their relationship had been close when he’d first arrived in Miner’s Gulch—Sarah knew that much from listening to the girls. But her own presence here had put them in conflict, brother against sister. Blood against blood.

Sarah laid her forehead against the cool glass and closed her eyes. Did she have the right to set a family at odds for the sake of her own wishes? Did her desire to stay in Miner’s Gulch justify alienating Varina from her friends and neighbors?

Wandering away from the window, she sank dejectedly onto a bench. It was no good, she realized. For Varina’s sake, and for her children’s sake, she had no choice except to leave this town as soon as possible.

Thunder filled her ears as the storm burst full force over Miner’s Gulch. She would stay until the storm passed and the road dried, Sarah resolved. She would stay until Donovan returned to watch over Varina and her little ones. Then she would pack her trunk, hire a rig and go.

A bitter smile flickered across Sarah’s lips as the irony struck her. She had vowed to stay in Miner’s Gulch at any cost. In her determination, she had stood up to Donovan’s wrath. She had stood up to the ill will of the whole town.

But she could not stand against Varina’s impassioned friendship.

Six miles short of Central City, the wagon skidded on a mud-slimed downhill curve. Donovan swore as the rear end fishtailed like a whore’s bustle and slid off the main track, to crash against a hog-size boulder. The sickening crunch he heard could only be the sound of a splintered wheel.

Donovan climbed down from the seat, rain streaming off his hat and making rivers down his oilskin poncho. His language purpled the air, especially when he discovered that MacIntyre had neglected to attach a spare wheel to the wagon box.

All afternoon, he’d been dreaming of a hot bath, a sumptuous meal and a warm, dry bed. But he could not leave the horses to stand all night in the icy rain. Either he would have to unhitch the entire team and drive it the rest of the way, or ride one horse bareback into town, pick up a new wheel and come back for the whole rig. Right now,
with rain chilling him to the bone, neither idea had much appeal.

Donovan was standing by the roadside, muttering under his breath and weighing his choices, when a buckboard with a two-horse team pulled out of a side road and came splashing toward him through the mud. Donovan’s first impulse was to reach for the loaded rifle he’d stowed under the seat. But no, it was all right. The driver was hailing him now, his manner open and friendly.