Love Inspired Historical March 2014 Bundle: Winning Over the Wrangler\Wolf Creek Homecoming\A Bride for the Baron\The Guardian's Promise (17 page)

He was roused by a shout outside. “It's the Mountie.”

“Looks like he got the men.”

“Nothing I like better'n to see two outlaws draped over the back of a horse.”

Draped? As in dead? Cyrus was dead? Shock coursed through Brand's body. Somewhere deep in his brain he'd secretly hoped Cyrus would tell the truth about why Brand had been involved in the robbery. Now that chance was gone. Though all along he'd told himself no one would believe one Duggan over the other.

He strained upward, hoping for a glimpse of the Mountie, trying to catch more words, but he couldn't get high enough to see over the sides of the pen, nor could he hear the men as they rushed past and out of his hearing. “Dawg, I sure wish you could go find out what's going on.”

Dawg stood at attention, listening to the commotion outside but choosing to stay at Brand's side.

Brand sank back, knowing he would have to wait until someone came to inform him. And wait he did, the minutes ticking by with maddening slowness.

It was Eddie who finally came. “The Mountie wants to see you.” He untied Brand from the post, leaving his hands bound. “Trust you won't try and run.”

Brand glanced about. “Would seem futile, seeing as every place I look there are people. 'Spect some of them would be happy enough to shoot another Duggan.”

Eddie didn't reply as he led him up the hill.

Brand paused inside the door of the big house, struck once again by the size and beauty of the place. It was the right setting for a girl like Sybil.

She stood inside the room to the left of the big entryway, her eyes watchful and still begging for the truth.

He managed a flicker of a smile that went no deeper than his lips. But he wanted to somehow assure her she needn't worry about him.

Then Eddie led him down the hall to another room. They stepped inside. The Mountie sat in a big leather chair, before an oak desk. Shelves full of books encircled the room, with chairs placed in three of the corners. Just right for reading. A little table provided a place for writing. He allowed himself one mental picture of Sybil sitting there, writing her stories, before he turned his full attention to Constable Allen.

“Guess you got the others.”

“I wouldn't be here if I hadn't,” the Mountie replied. “They both came back dead.” He indicated a chair in front of the desk, and Brand sat. “Sorry about your brother.”

Brand didn't answer for several seconds, still uncertain what he thought of Cyrus's death. Finally, he said the only thing that made sense. “I hoped for a chance to tell him he could find God's mercy. Guess it's too late for that.”

“Again, I'm sorry.”

Sorry
was a pitifully inadequate word, but he guessed there was no other.

“Cyrus had lots to say before he died.”

“Cyrus always was a talker. Ma used to say his tongue was loose on both ends.” Now why had he said that? As if anyone cared.

The Mountie chuckled. “I can see why she'd say that. He had some mighty interesting things to say.”

Brand held his counsel. Cyrus wasn't exactly the truth-telling sort, so he couldn't begin to guess what had been said.

“I think he was afraid you'd get off scot-free, so he warned us that you might concoct a story. Even told us what it was you'd say. I found that a little odd. How would he know the details of your story? I've been asking around. Putting the information together.”

“That a fact?” Whom had he been talking to and what information had he gathered?

“The facts are this. You were unarmed at the robbery. Miss Sybil says you never asked any questions that would gain you information of the sort needed for a robbery. Macpherson says you had been in the store only twice and both times hurried in and out. Eddie tells me you wouldn't even accept an invitation to the house. Seems odd if indeed you meant to rob him. Then Bertie comes to me and tells me that you were forced to go along with the robbery in order to protect Miss Bannerman. How am I doing so far?”

Brand couldn't put two words together. All those people had spoken in his defense?

The Mountie continued. “I have one question for you.” He waited for a nod from Brand. “Are you guilty or innocent?”

Brand considered his answer carefully. He had no desire to hang, but neither did he want to spend the rest of his life running from the Duggan name. “I was with the gang when they tried to rob Macpherson's store, but I did not wish to be.”

The Mountie smiled. “I'll take that as a plea of innocence.” He closed his notebook and nodded toward Eddie. “He can go free.”

The rancher untied his ropes and clapped Brand on the back. “I have to say, keeping you prisoner went against my judgment. I'm glad to see I was right in my estimation of you. Now come and join us for supper.”

Brand stood, rubbing his wrists and feeling as out of place as Dawg would have. “Might be best if I move on. I'm still a Duggan.”

“Nonsense. If you leave without giving us a chance to prove we believe you're innocent, you'll forever wonder whether or not we do. You want to carry that with you down the trail?”

“I guess not.”

“Then come along.” And before Brand could think of a reason to refuse, he found himself drawn into a big kitchen, warm with the feel of family and love, full of the smells of good home-cooked food and the smiling faces of those who lived in the house.

He stared at Sybil. He couldn't help himself. She'd spoken on his behalf. Overwhelmed by how things had changed for the better, he lowered his gaze to the floor. “I'm grateful for—” He couldn't even say what it was, so didn't finish.

Linette sprang forward. “I never did believe you were part of the gang. Now sit here.” She indicated a chair at the table, and he sat.

Everyone suddenly found chairs and settled into them. Constable Allen sat beside him, Grady beyond that. Linette and Eddie at each end of the big wooden table, Mercy and Sybil across from each other. All Brand had to do was lift his eyes and he connected with Sybil's steady blue ones. He expected his were full of shock, since he hadn't yet processed the events of the past hour. Hers brimmed with triumph.

If only he could guess what that meant. Was she happy she'd put some of the pieces together even without the Mountie's help?

Was she happy Brand wasn't going to hang?

He ducked his head. His heart raced with impossible possibilities.

Chapter Fourteen

S
ybil could hardly sit through the meal. It went on and on as Eddie and Linette shared all the details of what the Mountie had discovered.

As for Mercy...well, her friend said over and over, “I can't believe you have all the adventures, while I can't find one no matter how hard I look.”

Sybil only wanted the meal to end. As soon as it did she would find an opportunity to speak to Brand alone.

Constable Allen broke into the conversation and asked Brand, “Would you like to see your brother?”

“I'd appreciate it.”

Eddie and Linette shared one of those secret communicative looks, then the rancher spoke. “Do you want to bury him next to your father?”

Brand did his best to hide his emotions, but Sybil felt his surprise and gratitude just as she'd felt it throughout the meal. It would appear that carrying the Duggan name had brought him nothing but regrets. Well, now he could change that.

“He was an outlaw.” Brand's words were strained. “And as far as I know, he never repented.”

The Mountie cleared his throat. “I don't think any of us are able to judge that matter. Cyrus did not die right away. I spoke to him once he could no longer talk nonstop. I told him he could make his peace with God.”

Brand clenched his knife and fork so hard they must surely leave permanent impressions in his palm. “I expect he told you he didn't care anything for God.”

“At first he did, then he asked if God could indeed forgive an outlaw. Much as I wanted to say otherwise, because I sometimes prefer a human form of justice—a man gets what he deserves for the life he's led—I had to say God accepts everyone who comes to Him in faith, seeking forgiveness.”

Sybil watched Brand. Hope dawned in his eyes.

The Mountie continued. “I can't be a hundred percent certain, but I believe Cyrus asked for that forgiveness before he drew his last breath.”

Brand's lungs emptied in a long sigh. “I am relieved to hear that. Thank you.”

“Then it's agreed,” Linette said. “You'll bury him next to his father.”

“It's most generous of you,” Brand said.

“Nonsense.” Linette's mouth drew a firm line. “Even if Constable Allen hadn't given us this bit of assurance the offer would stand. I don't believe in living by man-imposed rules.”

“Do you want to wait until tomorrow?” Eddie asked.

Brand again got that distant, half-disinterested look in his eyes as he glanced at the window. “Guess we should. It's already dark out. I'll dig the grave myself.”

Eddie considered him a moment, then nodded. “I'll get you a shovel.” He rose, signaling the meal was over, and Brand and the Mountie followed him outside.

Linette excused herself to put Grady to bed.

Mercy bounced to her feet. “How romantic.”

Sybil turned to her as she gathered up the dishes and carried them to the washbasin. “I fail to see how knowing your family is a bunch of outlaws is the least bit romantic.” Had Eddie stayed with Brand? she wondered. Or was he alone in the dark digging a hole for his brother's body?

Eddie and Constable Allen came through the door and went to the library, answering her question. They'd left him alone.

As she moved about the kitchen, she paused to glance out the window. A faint glow of a lantern shone from the little plot. She rubbed at her breastbone. A man should not be alone when dealing with his brother's death.

Mercy came to her side. “Why don't you join him?”

“I don't know if he'd welcome it.” Her heart ached for his aloneness in the midst of his loss. Every so often the light dimmed as if a scoop of dirt had been tossed past it.

“I'll come with you if you want.”

Sybil shook her head. She didn't want Mercy to be with her. “I'm sure he's okay.”

Her friend grabbed her arm and shook her a little. “If you don't go out there, I will. The poor man has lost his father and brother. He's been accused of being part of the gang when he wasn't. Don't you think he deserves a little sympathy?”

“He deserves it, but will he welcome it?”

Linette returned to the kitchen. “What are you two arguing about?”

Mercy flung about to face her. “I think Sybil should go up there and keep Brand company, but she doesn't think it's appropriate.”

Linette joined them at the window. “I thought Eddie should have stayed with him, but he said Brand asked to be left alone. I guess we need to give him space if that's what he wants.”

They watched in silence for a bit.

“Eddie insisted he spend the night in the bunkhouse. Says with Cal gone no one will give Brand a hard time.”

Sybil tried to picture Brand in a bunk, with the others nearby. “Did he agree?”

“Said he'd think on it.”

Which meant he'd ignore the invitation and find a place on his own.

The distant light grew brighter. Sybil could make out Brand's shadowy shape as he headed back toward the house. She grabbed her shawl. “I'm going to speak to him.” She slipped out the door.

“Feel free to use the chairs by the back step,” Linette called, as if knowing she wanted to be alone with him.

Sybil caught up to him in a few moments. He'd slung the shovel over his shoulder. His footsteps were weary, heavy. Digging a hole was hard work. Losing a father and brother was even harder.

She fell in at his side. Neither of them spoke. Dawg whined a greeting and she patted his head.

She couldn't say what the silence meant for Brand, but she felt no need for words. She only wanted to be with him. Let him know he wasn't alone.

“Sit and visit a spell.” She indicated the chairs along the wall.

He sank down, dropped the shovel to the ground and stared at it, his hands hanging between his knees. Dawg pressed close to his legs, though Brand didn't seem to notice.

The silence lengthened, but Sybil still could not speak until he sucked in a deep breath and sat up straight. “That's the last of my family.”

She squeezed his hand. He seemed not to notice that, either.

“At least he managed to establish your innocence before he died.”

“I always hoped both he and Pa would stop their outlawing, even though I knew if they did they would hang.”

“Such a waste of both lives. How did your mother cope?”

Brand leaned his head back against the wall. “She prayed every day that they would repent. She tried to stay away from them just as I have. It meant always being ready to leave. Hoping no one would associate us with the Duggan gang.”

“Her prayers were answered.”

He stared at her. “I guess they were.” He sounded both surprised and unconvinced.

“I hear Eddie invited you to stay in the bunkhouse.”

“It was kind of him.”

“But you aren't going to do it, are you?”

Brand shook his head. “I don't think everyone would welcome me. I'm still a Duggan....”

His fatalism made Sybil want to shake him. “The Duggan gang are dead. Isn't it time you stopped living like you're part of them?”

“I'm not. I don't. I never thought that.”

“I think you do. They will never be a threat to you again, but they still have a hold over you. When will you stop looking over your shoulder to see if they've found you? When will you stop expecting others to see you as one of the Duggan gang?” She'd said far more than she should, and none of the things she'd wanted to say, but her insides burned with unnamed emotions. She rose to her feet and strode toward the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

The others were gone and she slipped to her room and sank to the edge of her bed. What was wrong with her? She'd never been outspoken in her life and yet she couldn't seem to stop speaking her mind around Brand.

Maybe Proverbs would help her regain control. Sybil reached for her Bible and notebook. Just below, hidden by a scarf, were the pages she'd written about Brand. She pulled them out and glanced over the words, then dipped her pen in ink and wrote.

Cowboy had a name...that of a notorious outlaw gang. All his life he'd tried to distance himself from them. He'd run, he'd remained aloof from others.

She stopped there. How long would it take for him to stop living like a man on the run? Would he ever?

* * *

Despite Eddie's generous invitation, Brand took his horse and his bedroll and returned to the campsite he'd used before. Dawg turned about three times before he settled down and instantly fell asleep.

Brand knew sleep would not come as easily for him, if indeed it came at all.

Sybil had suggested he needed to stop seeing himself as part of the Duggan gang. He'd never been one of them...except in name. But she was right about one thing. It would take a long time for him to feel free of them.

Tomorrow he'd bury Cyrus, and then he'd move on before—

He was doing it again. Running from a now nonexistent danger. Perhaps the sense of impending doom would never leave him.

He wouldn't run from
them
this time. When it was time to leave, he'd just leave. Sybil's concerned face came to mind. Her laugh. Her courage in facing Cal...and him. Maybe he wouldn't be in a hurry to leave. But then he thought of Eddie and Linette's house, a beautiful home full of lovely things. Why, the staircase itself had more wood in it than most of the houses he'd lived in. He looked about. The only wood in his current
home
burned in the fire. Sybil belonged in a house like that, married to a rich landowner.

The night closed in around him and he shivered. The first snowfall would come in the mountains anytime. He'd soon have to find a place to spend the winter.

What better place than Eden Valley Ranch?

But did he have any reason to stay? Would Sybil want him to? Or was he mistaking kindness for something more, looking for hope when there was none?

The questions lingered in his mind through the night.

Next morning, Brand returned to the ranch, Dawg patiently at his side. He asked Bertie to say the final words over Cyrus, and then led the way up the hill. Cyrus's body was wrapped in a gray woolen blanket and draped over the same horse the Mountie had brought him in on. Likely most of the assembled figured it was all the outlaw deserved. Cyrus would have been the first to say it was the kind of burial he wanted.

At the hole he'd dug, Brand stopped. Constable Allen and Eddie helped him lower the body into the grave.

People gathered to one side. He glanced at them. Sybil stood front and center in a black dress and bonnet, as if in mourning.

The idea jolted through him. The only time she'd met Cyrus he'd given her no reason to mourn his death.

Brand met her gaze, felt her blue eyes bore through him, challenging him. What did she want from him? What did she expect?

Bertie cleared his throat and Brand brought his focus back to the reason for being there.

“This is not a happy occasion for us, but it's especially sad for Brand. He's buried his father and his brother in two days. There are no words to erase the sorrow he must feel.”

Brand began to wish he hadn't asked Bertie to speak. The man had a way of probing at pain with his words. Pain that Brand would just as soon ignore. He did his best to block out the rest of what Bertie said until the final “amen.”

Again those present passed by, tossed a handful of dirt into the yawning hole and spoke condolences. He mumbled appropriate responses, though he couldn't have told anyone what he said.

Then he stood alone at the grave, Dawg at his side.

Time to fill in the hole. He turned to grab the shovel that someone had placed nearby...and came face-to-face with Sybil.

“I thought everyone had gone.”

“I couldn't leave you alone with...” She nodded at the shovel in his hand. “It doesn't seem right.”

“I've been alone a long time. Every Christmas. Every beautiful spring day. Every time I rode through a town or worked at a new place. Dawg here has been about my only companion.” Now why had he said all that? As if he cared. As if he wished it could be different.

“Didn't you ever wish it could be different?”

What? She could read his mind? “Not much point in wishing for stars. Might as well be content with candles.” He threw in three shovelfuls of dirt.

She leaned back on her heels and watched. Seems she didn't intend to leave.

He paused to listen as she spoke.

“On the other hand, why would you stick to a flickering candle if someone offered you a handful of stars?”

He stared at her. Did she mean it as it sounded? “Are you offering stars?”

“Would you prefer to hang on to your candle?”

“Do you see a candle in my hand?” He returned to throwing dirt over Cyrus's body, trying to think of it as only filling in a hole, not saying goodbye forever to his brother.

Brand stopped and backed away from the hole. He leaned on the shovel, trying to control the way his breathing came in choked sounds. “We used to be best of friends.” His words grated from a dusty throat.

Sybil moved to his side and rested her black-gloved hand on his forearm, warm and gentle. “I always wished I had a brother or sister.”

“He taught me how to chop wood, how to build a fire, how to cook a meal over a campfire. He made me run hard to keep up with him. Challenged me to take chances beyond my years, rather than let him think I was afraid.” Brand couldn't go on. This was the Cyrus he remembered and missed. Not the angry, hurtful man of later years.

“That's how you should remember him.”

Again, she had read his mind, voiced his thoughts. How did she do that?

Brand swiped his arm across his face, hoping she would think he wiped away sweat rather than the tear that escaped the corner of his eye. For a moment it was impossible to speak. Then the words came out slowly, haltingly. “Pa and Cyrus weren't always outlaws. Not until...” He let himself remember those strain-filled days for the first time in years. “Pa bought a little farm. He was so proud of it. We had every sort of animal. I loved them all. And Pa never said no to me bringing another one home.” Brand paused, gathering together his memories, sorting through them, trying to understand. “He'd had to borrow to buy the place. We lived there for four years and Pa was so proud that he always made the payments on time. ‘No banker will ever take the farm,' he used to brag.”