Beyond Betrayal (35 page)

But Delilah knew there was no way to fix this. No matter what she did, Samson would have to be told what she had done. And once he learned what kind of person she truly was, he would hate her. As he should. As she would were the shoe on the other foot.

"Heavens!" she hiccupped as she dried her tears. "I've done more crying in the last few days than in the last year."

"Sometimes it happens that way. That's why they say that bad things happen in threes.” Cora leaned back to study her with compassionate eyes. "Now why don't you tell me what this is all about. Sometimes it helps to talk about it even if that's the only thing that can be done."

Delilah hesitated. She was afraid, if she told her, that Cora would hate just as she now hated herself. Yet, she desperately wanted advice. Finally, she sighed. "You'll undoubtedly hate me," she said. "But. . . will you promise me that you absolutely will not tell another soul?"

"Of course, if that's what you want," Cora replied.

Delilah nodded and twisted the handkerchief in her hand. Now that she'd agreed to talk, she didn't know where to begin. Finally she sighed, and simply started talking. "I've been afraid of being alone with men, or getting too close to them for a number of years now. I won't go into the reasons why, but I'm sure you can guess. So when Matt didn't respect my widowhood as other men did, it terrified me."

Cora nodded understandingly without comment, and, after a bit, Delilah found it easier than she'd imagined to confide in this worldly woman who'd seen enough of life not to be shocked by anything she heard. She told her about her desperation to help Eve save her ranch. She told her about meeting Pike on the train and then later in the hotel restaurant. And she told her about recognizing Matt's face in the
WANTED
poster of Samson Towers.

"I think you can guess what follows, can't you?" Delilah asked. There was an acerbity to her tone that she couldn't help.

Cora studied her face for an instant. Her expression hadn't altered. "Maybe you'd better tell me," was all she said.

And so, Delilah told her what she'd done. She told her about returning to Red Rock only to be met along the road by Matt. She told her what Matt had told her about how he'd come to be a wanted man. And she told her about the realization that had come too late that she loved him. "Now," she said, "there's only one thing left to be done. I have to tell him what I've done and move on, out of his life and away from here. The only chance I have to save him now lays in telling him the truth."

Cora nodded and sighed. "Oh, Delilah. I can certainly understand why you're upset. It's one heck of a tangle, that's for certain. I wish you'd talked to me about the Cameron's situation sooner. I could have lent you the money you needed to help her, and then you could have worked it off here at the tables and it wouldn't have mattered if you had a few slow nights. But. . . well, that's all hindsight now.

"As for the other, I think you're right. The only thing you can do is to tell him. He has to at least have the opportunity to be prepared for that man. . . what's his name?” Cora rose and moved back around her desk to face Delilah.

"Paul Telford."

"Yes, he has to have the chance to prepare for Telford's arrival, if nothing else."

Delilah nodded and dabbed the last of the moisture from her eyelashes. "Thank you for listening Cora. I. . . I'm sorry."

Cora frowned. "I don't understand why you're telling me you're sorry. What are you sorry for?"

Delilah shrugged. "I don't know. For not being as good a person as I should be I guess."

Cora laughed. "Delilah, love, there isn't any one of us that's as good as we should be.” Then she sobered. "I won't say that what you've done isn't serious. It's a terrible thing that can hurt a good man.” She shrugged. "But we all make mistakes, love, and some of them are pretty bad ones. I don't think there's anyone that can sit in judgment of you except yourself and Matt."

"You don't hate me then?"

Cora shook her head. "Of course I don't hate you. I've done things that weren't exactly admirable either, you know. It's part of being human."

*   *   *

Samson couldn't stop looking at Delilah. Thank goodness the dining room was almost empty, so there weren't that many people present to witness just how much of a fool he could make of himself over her. But, damn, she was beautiful. Even as pale and tired as she was. Her lips didn't have their usual color and there were faint blue shadows beneath her eyes, but that only made her look more fragile. It made him want to hold her in his arms again, to protect her and take care of her. And that made him think of the direction his thoughts had taken in the last couple of days.

It had been more than two days since he'd last held and kissed her. Heck, it had been that long since they'd been able to have a decent conversation. He had wanted to go to her and comfort her after Tom's funeral, to give her a shoulder to lean on. But she had seemed too busy being the strong shoulder for her sister, and he hadn't felt he had the right to barge in on their grief, no matter how good his intentions. But, he wanted that right. He wanted it badly.

He hated the frustration of not knowing when he could hold her again. When he could kiss her and make love to her again. When they could simply talk again as they had that night. And he hated not having the right to care about where she went and with whom. And that was when the idea of marriage began to solidify in his mind.

Heck, she knew about his past and it hadn't really seemed to bother her much. Maybe, just maybe, she'd be willing to take the risk involved in marrying a man like him. Maybe she'd be willing to give them a chance.

He looked at her, and couldn't help wondering once again if, even now, she carried his child. The idea didn't terrify him as it had. In fact now it gave him a kind of tight excited feeling in his chest. He wanted Delilah for his wife, and he wanted her to bear his children. He wanted them to build a wonderful life together as a family. He wanted. . . oh, God, he wanted her to say
yes
when he asked her. But he needed to get a conversation going first. He couldn't just blurt out a question like that.

He took another sip of his coffee and looked at Delilah over the edge of the mug. She hadn't said much since they'd come in. She seemed a bit shy or something and, for the most part, had been avoiding his gaze. Now, she whispered something to the little dog she held on her lap while they awaited their meal, and then fiddled with the linen napkin on the table.

Samson cleared his throat. "I saw Eve head out this morning. How do you think she's doing?"

Delilah lifted her eyes to meet his gaze briefly, and then allowed it to slide away again. "I think she'd doing much better than could have been expected. She'll be fine."

"That's good."

Delilah nodded. "Yes."

"We were able to return some of their cattle you know?"

"No, I didn't know.” She looked at his mouth this time, not meeting his eyes. "That's wonderful news."

He nodded and cleared his throat again. This wasn't working, and he didn't understand why. He didn't know if something was bothering Delilah, or if his own tension was to blame for the awkwardness he felt.

At that moment, the meal arrived and he was able to concentrate on something else. Delilah set Poopsy on the floor at her feet, and they began to eat. The silence stretched, and the tension grew.

Finally Samson couldn't stand it anymore. "Delilah—"

"Matt—"

Having both tried to speak at the same time, they broke off and stared at each other. Samson smiled. "Ladies first."

"Oh, no," Delilah said. "You go first. Please?"

Samson cleared his throat for the umpteenth time. "I. . . well, there is something I wanted to talk with you about."

"Yes?"

He looked around the dining room to ensure that there was no one within ear shot. "Well," he said in a low voice, "now that you know about me, I was wondering. . . That is, my past didn't seem to upset you that much, and I thought that maybe. . . Ah, heck, this is harder than I thought it would be."

She frowned slightly, obviously trying to perceive his meaning from what he
hadn't
said as yet. "Go on."

Samson took a deep breath. "Delilah," he said.

"Yes?"

"I was wondering if you would consider. . . That is, will you marry me?” There! He'd said it.

It took him an instant to realize that, rather than appearing happy as he had hoped she might, she looked stricken. She dropped her fork to her plate as though her fingers had suddenly lost their strength. Her eyes grew moist. And her throat worked. Finally, she gasped out, "You want to marry
me
?"

He frowned. What was so goldarned surprising about that? "Yeah. I do.” His tone was almost defensive.

"Oh, Matt!” Her lower lip trembled with emotion.

Obviously she wasn't happy about the idea. Samson swallowed his disappointment. "I know it's sudden," he managed to say. "But will you at least think about it?"

She stared at him with tears shimmering in her brilliant blue eyes, and nodded.

He exhaled in relief. Well that was something at least. "Good," he said, smiling. "Now what did
you
want to talk about?"

But at his words, her face crumbled. With a sob, she scooped her dog up in one hand and rushed from the dining room.

~~~*  *  *~~~

________________________

The man she'd fallen in love with wanted to marry her! Oh, how she wished she might have the opportunity to say yes. Life could be so cruel at times.

Delilah spent the evening alternately raging at the fates, plunged neck-deep in self-castigation, or weeping for a love lost before it had been found. By the time her anguish had dulled to a numb ache and she was able to focus on the need to be doing something more constructive, it was nearing midnight, and too late to do anything.

She dried her eyes for what she promised herself would be the last time for a good long while, and then took a seat at the little writing table in the corner of the room. Pulling the letter to Samson from the bottom of the small stack of paper, she lit the lamp and re-read what she'd written. Somehow, she had to find the words to complete it since her resolve to tell him in person had certainly come to naught.

After staring at the paper for endless minutes, she realized that there was no easy way to say what she had to say. No way to soften the blow. And so, she simply put pen to paper and began to write.

~~~

I guess for me to have any hope of you understanding my actions, you will first have to gain an understanding of me, of who I am and the fears and hopes that have shaped the course of my life for so long. So I suppose I must tell you an abbreviated version of my life story.

My mother, Morgana Tate, was a Southern lady whose fortunes were changed drastically by the Civil War, as so many peoples' were. My father, Garrett Sinclair, was born in the West to a pioneering family who had relatives in West Virginia. He became a bounty-hunter. I believe I told you his occupation at one time, though why I did, I don't recall. It's not usually something I tell people given the dislike so many people harbor for bounty hunters. My father was the exception in that trade, however, for he was a good man, neither cruel nor violent, and he treated everyone fairly.

Eve and I had a happy life with our parents, although early on it was a bit of an unsettled life as we moved from town to town. I think Daddy had a hard time with the concept of having roots. We, Eve and I and Mama, used to collect
WANTED
posters when we saw them so that Daddy could look them over. I guess that's why, even today, I pay more attention to such things than other ladies do. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Eventually, although Daddy continued to seek men for bounty to supplement the family income, we did settle down on a small farm in Nebraska.

Mama passed away when I was fifteen. She'd been getting progressively weaker for more than a year, and one day she just went to sleep and never woke again. A weak heart, the doctor said. Eve and I took over the running of the household, taking care of Daddy and, for the most part, running the farm as well. Daddy wasn't much use for a long time; Mama's death hit him pretty hard. He started getting drunk quite regularly which was something he'd never done before. I guess it was then that I realized that it was possible to love someone too much. For that reason, I didn't argue when Daddy arranged my betrothal to Trent Lider, a neighboring farm boy. I liked Trent, but didn't love him and, after watching Daddy suffer, I considered that a blessing.

~~~

Delilah wrote long into the night. By the time she'd finished the letter it was more than 10 pages long. She rose and went to the bed where she lay on her side and stared at the darkened rectangle of the window. She hoped that the letter would help Samson to understand her and perhaps, someday, to forgive her. But she was too exhausted to think about it anymore. The act of putting all those memories, good and bad, on paper to be read by the eyes of another, even someone as kind and gentle as Samson, was a draining and traumatic experience in itself. Especially for someone who rarely spoke of the past. Someone who tried, with an almost single-minded determination, to always look forward. Yet sharing her past with him was the least she could do after. . . No, she was tired of thinking about that.