Salvation in the Rancher's Arms(81)

He couldn’t think of a single way to convince Kirkpatrick to stop. The knowledge made him sick. And knowing he still had to tell Rachel the truth of who he was, what he’d done, didn’t make things any better.

The door behind him opened and closed. He glanced over his shoulder to find Freedom looking down from the top step, a load of laundry balanced on her hip. She nodded at his hands. “What’s that supposed to be?”

He turned what was left of the wood over in his hand. “A very sharp stick.”

Freedom made a clucking sound and walked past him, holding the laundry basket high so as not to hit him in the head with it. When she reached the large basin set up for washing, she set it down and turned to face him.

“Rachel done told me you plan on marryin’ her.”

“That’s right.” If she’d still have him.

“You worried it might be too soon after losin’ Mr. Sutter? ’Cause it ain’t,” she said, not waiting for him to answer. “Woman in these parts can’t be putting stock in propriety and the like. Survival holds more weight than manners. Ain’t no one gonna blame her if she up and marries fast after him bein’ buried.”

Caleb slid his knife back into the sheath at his waist. “I’m not worried about that.”

In truth he’d given it very little thought. Maybe he should have.

“Then what’s got you so tied into knots you been takin’ it out on that piddly little stick?”

“Anyone ever tell you its bad manners prying into someone else’s personal business?”

“Can’t imagine I’da listened if they had.”

He tested the sharp tip of the stick with the pad of his thumb. “I’ve got a past.”

She shrugged off his admission. “We all got a past, Mr. Beckett. I’s got one, Rachel’s got one. Even little Ethan’s got one. Everyone’s got a story to tell.”

“Maybe so.”

The question was, did anyone else’s story start with a peaceable game of poker and end with a cold-blooded murder?

“Well maybe now’d be a good time to be discussin’ that past with Miss Rachel,” Freedom said, nodding at the hills to the northwest. Caleb turned and saw Rachel in the distance walking toward the house. Her shoulders sloped inward as if the burden she carried was on the verge of defeating her. It killed him that he had to add to that.

He hesitated, the way a man would before being led to the gallows, putting off the inevitable for as long as possible. The green calico dress she wore caught in the breeze, pressing against her. It was one of his favorites, the color enhancing the dark brown of her eyes. Eyes he had become lost in, and, as it turned out, found himself in.

He didn’t want to give that up. It was cowardly of him, but the idea of losing her...well, he might as well drive the whittled stick straight through his heart and save her the trouble.

He wondered if Freedom would be so keen for him to reveal his past if she knew the truth. But she didn’t. No one did, save a handful of people present in Laramie when the late-night shooting took place. And as far as any of them knew, it was Sinjin Drake who’d done the killing. None of them had ever heard the name Caleb Beckett.

But it wouldn’t stay that way. Not with Sheriff Donovan poking around, refusing to let the thing lie. The sheriff knew Robert Sutter hadn’t been wearing his guns, a truth that continued to scrape across Caleb’s conscience every day and in his dreams each night.

How long would Donovan keep silent with what he knew? Caleb shook head.

They couldn’t start their life together on a foundation of lies. He needed to tell her.

He stood, brushing the curly pieces of wood from his trousers as she drew nearer.

“Guess maybe I’s be needed down in the smokehouse,” Freedom said. “Probably be there a good long time, too, jus’ in case you’s was wonderin’.”

Caleb nodded without taking his eyes off Rachel’s approaching form. When she reached him, she walked straight into his arms without stopping. He embraced her, turning his head to breathe in her scent and press his lips to her temple. Her skin was warm from the morning sun.

“Brody won’t come home.” The words muffled against his shoulder were painted thick with hurt. “Shamus told him he’s his father. Now Brody’s angry at me for keeping it a secret. Said I was trying to control him. I just wanted to protect him, that’s all.”

Caleb closed his eyes. That’s all he had been doing, too, but like Brody, he didn’t hold out much hope Rachel would see it that way.

“He’ll come around. Give him some coolin’ off time.” He pulled back, just enough to see her face. Her eyes were dry but rimmed with red. It was likely she’d cried half the way home, her brother’s rejection a raw wound that would take time to heal. “You were just trying to do what was best for him.”