Beyond Betrayal (36 page)

So tired. She'd just close her eyes for a minute and then take the letter down to the Sheriff's office and slide it beneath the door before she left at dawn.

*   *   *

Delilah's eyes shot open to a room filled with early morning sunlight. Ten o'clock! "Oh, my heavens!” For an instant she could only stare numbly at the clock as she realized that she'd missed her ride to Butte with Mr. Didsworth. "Blast!” She hadn't meant to fall asleep.

Well, there was no help for it. She'd simply have to ride Jackpot to Butte and sell him to a livery there. It was a good thing she'd decided to wait to return him to Mr. Metter until this morning.

She looked at the sealed envelope propped up against the lamp on the writing table. Slowly, hesitantly, she rose to retrieve it. It shrieked of cowardice. Faced with the light of a new day, she knew she had to tell Samson herself, or never again be able to face herself in a mirror.

It was Friday! There was no more time to delay.

Even as she performed her ablutions with indecorous haste, a sense of impending doom crowded into her mind and heart. As quickly as possible, Delilah changed out of her rumpled gown, tucked the letter she'd written into her reticule and left the hotel at a near run. But when she opened the weathered wooden door of the sheriff's office a few moments later, Samson wasn't in. With her instincts telling her that she had to find him quickly, she stared at Deputy Wilkes in dismay. "Where is Sheriff Chambers?" she asked breathlessly, heedless of courtesy and decorum.

"Calm down, ma'am," Deputy Wilkes said. "He's just gone over to Doc Hale's office for a moment to . . . ” He broke off as he realized that Delilah was already turning away. Then called after her, "Is it anything I can help with, ma'am?"

Delilah didn't waste time responding, but raced off down the street. She approached Doc Hale's just as Samson emerged and turned in the other direction. "Matt!" she called, halting him.

"Delilah.” He smiled in greeting. It was a slow, sexy smile that told her exactly how attractive he found her; and it hurt as though he'd taken a stabbing weapon to her heart, for she didn't deserve his smile.

"Matt, I need to talk to you."

Perceiving her urgency, his smile faded and he studied her face. "All right. I was just heading to an appointment with Mayor Jack. Why don't we meet for lunch?” He began crossing the street.

Racing along at his side, Delilah was shaking her head before he'd even finished speaking. "No! No, it can't wait! I've put it off too long already. There's no more time."

Samson frowned now. "No more time for what, Delilah?"

Delilah swallowed. How could she make him understand? In sudden inspiration, she reached into her reticule and extracted the letter she'd written. "Read this as soon as you get out of town," she said, handing it to him. "It's all explained in there."

"What is?” He stepped up onto the boardwalk in front of Lowden’s Mercantile. "And where am I going? Delilah, you're not making any sense."

She shook her head in frustration. "Matt, you have to leave town. Now! Immediately. The letter will explain why, but please. . . just go."

He halted and stood looking down at her, a frown of confusion between his brows. "Where is it you want me to go, Delilah? To the Devil's Fork? Has something happened there?"

"No, it's nothing like that. It's—"

"Towers!" a deep male voice shouted from behind her.

Delilah winced and closed her eyes. "It's Telford," she finished quietly, somehow knowing without turning that she was too late. But she didn't think Samson heard her. With his attention focused beyond her, he absently folded her letter and tucked it into the pocket of his denims before moving around her.

With a sense of unreality gripping her, Delilah turned. She had to step sideways to see, for Samson had shifted protectively in front of her. Then, as her gaze fastened on the street, Delilah gasped. Like the manifestation of a nightmare, six men on horseback leading two riderless horses came down the center of the street. Six pairs of stone-cold gunfighter's eyes fastened on Samson. Samson's gun hand twitched. The man in the lead must have noticed too, for he yelled, "Don't even think about it, Towers. Less'n you want innocent people to get hurt."

The men halted their horses and the leader dismounted to face Samson. He had a pair of matching pistols in tied-down holsters and the most glacial eyes Delilah had ever seen. "I'm here ta take you in, Towers," he said. "Do I need to draw my gun, or are you gonna come peaceable like?"

Samson just stared at him for a moment as though considering his options. "Who are you?"

"The name's Casey," the man said in reply to Samson's question. "John Casey. I'm ramrod at the Cross T in Wyomin'. You heard of it?"

As though upon some kind of signal that Delilah had missed, two more of Telford's men dismounted and approached. Ignoring them, Samson nodded in response to Casey's question, "I've heard of it. So, where's Telford?"

Casey grinned, but not kindly. "Waiting for you. Now you wanna drop that gunbelt, or do we have ta do this the hard way?"

Samson's eyes assessed the street. Then, slowly he nodded and his hands moved to the buckle of his gunbelt.

"Matt, no!" Delilah put a hand on his arm. Somehow she had to put a stop to this. But how? Peripherally, she noted old man Potter rise from his chair and take off down the street as fast as his skinny old legs could carry him, but she was too worried about the drama unfolding before her to heed his action. Distantly, she heard the questioning murmurs of a crowd of nervous but interested onlookers who were gathering on the boardwalk behind her.

Samson shrugged off her restraining hand. "It's okay," he murmured without taking his eyes from the man who faced him. He let his gunbelt drop to the ground. Almost immediately, the two men who'd dismounted kicked Samson's gun aside and then grabbed him by the arms, roughly turning him around to secure his hands behind his back. Casey saw the badge on Samson's shirt and removed it. "You won't be needing this anymore," he said with a smirk as he threw the piece of metal to the ground. "Where's your horse?" he asked.

"At the livery."

Casey turned to a man who'd remained mounted. "Get his horse.” With a nod, the man turned his horse and rode off down the street.

"Give me a moment with the lady, will you, Casey?" Samson asked when he Casey turned back.

Casey considered him with a cold-eyed gaze, then smirked again. "Sure. Why not?"

Samson looked at her. The sadness in his charcoal-hued eyes was enough to make her heart bleed. Why, oh why, had she ever learned to read his eyes? "I guess I should have known better than to dream of a future," he said. Then, with a self-conscious glance over his shoulder at the men who remained close enough to hear every word, he added, "Thanks for. . . the time we had. It meant a lot. And if . . . ” His gaze fell and he seemed to look at her abdomen for a moment. "No. Never mind that. Just take care of yourself, Delilah. Will you do that?"

"Delilah?" Casey repeated, looking at her and moving forward before Delilah had a chance to respond. "Are you Delilah Sterne?"

She wanted nothing more than to deny her identity, but she saw by the confusion in Samson's eyes that it was already too late. "Yes," she murmured, not taking her eyes from Samson's.

"Well that do make matters a whole lot simpler. I was wonderin' how we were gonna find you. Mr. Telford wanted me to thank you personal-like for sendin' that telegram.” A horrible stillness came over Samson in that instant, like the heavy stillness before a ferocious prairie storm. Denial and disbelief flared to life in his eyes, replaced only a moment later by a terrible bleakness that cleaved her heart in two. "It's taken a long time for us to collar Towers, here," Casey went on. "And we might not'a ever done it without your help. Here's the rest of the reward Mr. Telford promised ya.” For the first time, Delilah took her eyes from Samson long enough to look at Casey. He was holding a thick brown envelope out to her.

Delilah shook her head. "I. . . I don't want it."

Casey's eyes widened. "Well now—"

"Take it!" the voice was Samson's but there was a quality in his tone that Delilah had never heard before. She looked at him and saw the turbulent storm of a myriad emotions raging in his eyes. The sorrowful acceptance of her betrayal. The accusation and hurt. The rage and hate. Disgust and loathing. "Take it!" he said again. "You'll need a stake for the next town. . . and the next poor sucker you find."

Oh, Lord, he thought she'd planned. . . everything.

"Take it," he growled in a tone that threatened violence if she didn't obey.

With tears of shame burning her eyes like acid, Delilah accepted the envelope. Then, refusing to allow herself the cowardice of avoiding Samson's eyes, she lifted her gaze to his once more.

"Good luck, Widow Sterne," he said. "Take care of yourself. But I guess that's what you're best at, isn't it?"

Delilah just looked at him, memorizing his features. She felt the loss of his gentleness and compassion and love like a physical blow, but it didn't matter. She deserved the pain. She deserved his hate. She deserved every unkind word he wanted to throw at her. "I know you won't believe this," she said, "but I'm sorry. More sorry than you'll ever know."

He nodded, but she could see he didn't believe her. "Just tell me one thing: Did you send that telegram before or after?"

Delilah didn't have to ask what he meant. Before or after he'd confided in her? Before or after they'd made love? Before or after the single night that had changed the course of their relationship?

"Before," she replied in a whisper. "I could not have done it after.” Peripherally, she was aware of a man arriving with Samson's horse, Goliath, in tow.

Samson nodded, but was not given the opportunity to say anything, as Casey gripped his arm to turn him. "Okay that's enough jawin'. We gotta get movin'."

They pushed Samson roughly toward his horse, and the sight of him being taken out of her life, the thought of what he had yet to face, hurt her more than if those rough hands had been upon her. "I'll hire a lawyer," she called after him. "I'll meet you in Cedar Crossing and see that you get a fair trial."

Samson turned back to her then, just for an instant. "You still don't understand, do you Delilah? There's not going to be any trial. I'll never see Cedar Cro—" he grunted then as Casey slammed a fist into his stomach.

"Stop it!" Delilah shouted instinctively, her voice ringing out with a power and volume that would never belong in a ladies' parlor. Six pairs of eyes fastened on her and, although none reflected the surprise they felt, the rapidity of the movement itself suggested some astonishment. "Mr. Casey—"

"Yes, ma'am?"

Delilah noted that the other men were forcing Samson to mount, but she needed all of her attention on Mr. Casey. "I intend to meet Mr. Towers in Cedar Crossing. If he does not arrive, I will hold you personally responsible, sir. Do I make myself clear?” Her tone was low, icy smooth and sugar-free for the first time in a very long time.

He smirked. "You gonna call me out, are you?"

"Hardly, sir. I don't intend to give you that much warning."

Casey's smirk slowly faded as he stared at her with a gaze that might have cowed someone with less to lose. Delilah returned it stare for stare. "You wouldn' be threatin' to shoot me in the back now, would ya, ma'am?"

Delilah's eyes widened and the dulcet slightly Southern lilt returned to her voice as she said, "Mr. Casey! I am a lady who respects the law. As should you."

Casey stared at her a moment more as though trying to figure her out. Then, with a shake of his head, he dismissed her and mounted. Delilah sensed that he'd dismissed her warning. How could she ensure that Samson's prediction did not come true?

"Hey there! What's goin' on now?" a voice yelled as booted heels clomped along the boardwalk in hasty approach. It was Deputy Wilkes, with old man Potter trailing in his wake.

"This ain't none of your affair, Deputy. Just mind your own business an' you might live to see another day," Casey warned.

Wilkes came to a halt and stepped off the boardwalk to grab Casey's horse's reins. "Well, now, as the law in Red Rock, I figure pretty much anything that goes on here is my business, so I think you got some explainin' to do."

Casey looked as though he'd like nothing better than to simply shoot Wilkes like he might an annoying critter, but after a moment's consideration he said, "That man," he stabbed a thumb over his shoulder in Samson's direction, "is Samson Towers. He's wanted in Wyoming."

"W'all, heck, I know that.” Delilah saw Samson start slightly at that information. "Doesn't change the fact that he's a damn good sheriff an' a good man to boot. Way I figure it, that prob'ly means he's not guilty of what they say."

Casey's eyes narrowed. "I'm takin' him in."

Wilkes looked past Casey at Samson, but Delilah couldn't see his expression. Samson simply shook his head. At that, Wilkes shook his head as though in disagreement, then took a deep breath, spat in the dust and released the reins of Casey's horse. Looking up at Samson once more, he said, "I hope to see you again, Matt."

Samson nodded. "It was good workin' with you, Carl."

As she watched Samson ride out of town surrounded by six cold, hard men Delilah felt terror lodge in her belly. With shock numbing her thought processes, she turned blindly away and stumbled over Samson's gun. Bending to pick it up, she wrapped the belt around the holster and tucked the weapon beneath her arm. It was the only thing of Samson's that she had. Paralyzed by disbelief and a continuing sense of unreality, she lightly stroked the cold metal of the pistol grip. Then, lifting her gaze, she stared numbly at the people still clustered nearby. Old man Potter was looking at her as though she was some sort of insect. Deputy Wilkes eyes were colder than she'd ever seen them. Mrs. Williamson was looking at her as though she'd like to have her burned at the stake. In fact, only Miss Cora standing in the doorway of the Lucky Strike looked at her with anything approaching compassion.