Love Inspired Historical March 2014 Bundle: Winning Over the Wrangler\Wolf Creek Homecoming\A Bride for the Baron\The Guardian's Promise (18 page)

Sybil's hand rubbed up and down Brand's arm, soothing away the anger that usually accompanied the memory of those final normal days.

“Then the wheat crop got hit with hail. Lightning killed half the cows. A fire destroyed the hay crop. Pa couldn't make the payment that year and asked for leniency. He came home so angry. A new banker had come to town. He cared not for missed payments, no matter the reason. He gave Pa two weeks to come up with the money or the bank would take the farm. Pa said he'd get the money by hook or by crook. And he did. He robbed the bank that threatened to take the farm. Paid the entire amount of the loan. I think he meant for that to be the one and only time he turned to crime, but then we needed feed. Cyrus decided he needed a fancy riding horse. Pa thought Ma would enjoy a new buggy.” Brand shrugged, though he felt anything but indifference.

Sybil's hand tightened on his arm. “Let me guess. Your pa had discovered he didn't have to wait for things. He thought he'd discovered a ready source of funds.”

“'Fraid that's exactly what he thought. They were wanted men. Someone was killed in their third bank heist. After that, they were wanted dead or alive. I wasn't yet twelve and Ma took me and moved. We always tried to distance ourselves from the Duggan name.”

“Why didn't you go by a different name?”

“We did for years. Then someone noticed my likeness to members of the Duggan gang. So we moved on. After that I never bothered telling anyone my name. Made it easier.”

“Is Brand your real name?”

He smiled for the first time all day. “I have Cyrus to thank for that. When I was born, he wanted to know if Pa was going to brand me like they did the calves. Pa thought it so funny he said they'd settle for calling me Brand.”

She laughed. “That's sweet.” Her gaze held his, caring and searching, delving deep into his thoughts.

He tried to bank his emotions, but her probing went clear through his defenses. He blinked back the sting of tears. No way would he cry.

She reached up, touched the corner of each eye with her gloved hand. “I'm glad you have good memories to cherish.”

He caught her hand and pulled it to his chest, so lost in the depths of her gaze that his head spun. “I will prize this moment.”

She didn't blink. Didn't withdraw. “So will I,” she whispered. “The moment when I met the real Brand Duggan.”

He considered her words. Who was the real Brand Duggan? He wasn't sure he even knew. But one thing was for certain: he hoped reality included more times like this.

“Where do we go from here?” he asked, hoping she didn't think he meant to ask if they should go to the house.

She smiled so sweetly his throat constricted. “Wherever we want, I suppose. How about you finish filling in the grave. Say your final goodbye to a brother you loved, then we'll join the others for church.”

He nodded in agreement and filled in the hole, smoothing the dirt into a mound. He stood at the fresh grave, head bent, Sybil at his side. “Goodbye, Cyrus. I like to think of you in heaven, your sins forgiven. You did plenty of bad things, lots of them against me. You even hurt Sybil here, and whether or not she forgives you is up to her, but I'm forgiving you. I'm sorry you ruined your life. But that's over. Goodbye, my brother.” He was about to step back when Sybil caught his hand.

“Wait. I want to say something, too.” She stood by the fresh dirt, looking down as if speaking to Cyrus. “I vowed I would make you pay for how you treated me. But justice belongs to God. I forgive you. Rest in peace.”

She took Brand's hand again and led him down the hill to the cookhouse, where the church service was held.

He didn't realize until he stepped inside that he'd agreed to attend. By then it was too late.

Chapter Fifteen

S
he dropped his hand as they entered the cookhouse, but not before she felt him shudder, and guessed the cause. She might be wrong, but she believed it would be the first time he'd darkened the door of a building filled with others, especially for a Sunday service, in many years. How would it feel? Frightening, most certainly, but she hoped it also offered a breath of hope to a man used to being so alone no one even knew his whole name.

Several of the cowboys shuffled their feet as if uncertain how to react to a Duggan in their midst, attending a church service.

Brand hung back. He likely would have retreated except for her hand on his elbow, holding him firmly in place.

Bertie sprang to his feet. “Brand, I'm glad as can be to see you here. I told my wife I hoped you'd come. Darlin'?” He turned to Cookie. “This is Brand. Son, this is my wife. Everyone calls her Cookie and you no doubt know why, since you've tasted her cooking.”

Cookie swept forward, grabbed Brand's hand and pumped it up and down. “Glad to meet you. Come on in.” She practically dragged him forward to a bench, and he sat because he didn't have much choice.

Sybil perched beside him, her elbow pressed to his arm. Tension vibrated from him. His hands clamped his knees and he stared at Bertie, who had moved to the front of the assembly.

Cookie led the group in two familiar hymns. Sybil sang without considering the words. Her mind was on the man next to her. She had the feeling Brand might spring to his feet and dash from the room at any moment.

Then Bertie stood and smiled at him for several seconds until Brand visibly relaxed. Only then did Bertie begin to speak. “I could tell you many stories about sinners saved by grace. I expect most, if not all of you, could add stories. Perhaps your own. But today I want to tell you a different sort of story.”

They sat spellbound as he talked about how he had wandered far and been brought back by the prayers of a faithful mother. Then he closed with a prayer.

“Coffee and cinnamon buns coming right up,” Cookie said. She faced Brand. “I would be greatly pleased if you'd stay. In fact, I might be offended if you left.”

Eddie and several of the others laughed. “Best you don't offend her,” the rancher said.

“Please stay,” Sybil whispered. “Let people accept you as Brand Duggan.”

He flicked a look at her, then returned his gaze to Cookie. “I've had the pleasure of tasting your cinnamon buns, and I have to say I'm not prepared to pass up a chance to enjoy them again.”

She beamed at him.

Mercy sat across the table. Linette and Eddie joined them. Roper brought his family forward and introduced them, as did Ward.

“You'll figure them all out soon enough,” Sybil assured Brand.

The conversation turned to general things of mutual concern to those gathered in the cookhouse, and Brand sat back, listening. Sybil wondered how he felt about it all.

As people began to leave, Linette turned to him. “We have a big dinner up at the house. I'd like you to join us.”

Brand jerked to his feet. “That's most generous, but I've things to attend to.” He hurried for the door.

Sybil hustled after him, catching up as he reached the outdoors. Dawg rose to follow him. “Brand, why are you rushing away?” She knew he had nothing to attend to.

He simply shook his head for an answer.

She fell in step at his side. “Promise me you won't ride away this afternoon.”

He stopped, stared at her. “Why?”

She knew then that he'd planned to do so. “Because I'd like to talk to you some more.” She lowered her head at her boldness. “If you leave today you will still be running. Don't you need to stop running?”

“And do what?”

He sounded truly dumbfounded, as if it was all he knew and he couldn't think of an alternative. Finally, he nodded. “I'll hang around for the day.”

“Good. I'll come and visit you.”

“Suit yourself.” A grin tugged at his mouth before he strode away, and as he disappeared into the trees, she heard him whistling a little tune.

* * *

Brand stared at the fire as he ate cold beans right from the can. Dawg happily licked a second can clean.

Yes, he might have enjoyed a pleasant church service with Sybil at his side, but he needed time to think through this whole business. Who was he? A Duggan still. But what did that mean now? Could he make it mean what he wanted?

“Dawg, I plumb don't know what came over me. I went to church. Can you imagine that?”

Dawg didn't look up. He wasn't real good company.

Then Brand had agreed to hang about waiting for Sybil to visit. “It sure didn't take any persuading.” How long before she came? Or would she think better of it? “Why would a fine lady like Sybil come out here to visit me? A Duggan?”

Stop acting as if the Duggan gang is still a threat
.

Well, even if being a Duggan wasn't a problem, Brand was still just a cowboy with nothing to call his own except a dog, a horse, a saddle and a few items of clothing. Sybil was used to so much more.

He argued with himself for hours while the sun passed to midafternoon.

When Sybil never came, his thoughts went dark. She wasn't coming, he told himself. He knew she wouldn't. He wasn't disappointed. Much.

Only enough for him to jump to his feet and kick a cloud of dirt into the fire. Might just as well move on.

Dawg rose, whined and looked to the trees. Brand's heart took off at a full gallop. He slowly brought his head about, hoping it was her, and shielding his eyes under the brim of his hat lest she see his eagerness.

Against the sky-blue backdrop, Sybil stood there and smiled. She'd changed out of her black dress into something yellow as sunshine. Her head was uncovered, her hair pulled back like a golden crown around her head.

His tongue pressed to his teeth and refused to form a word.

“Hello,” she said.

When he continued to stare, she glanced about, saw the two empty bean cans and laughed, a merry sound that danced through the air.

“To think you could have enjoyed roast beef and two kinds of pie, plus all the trimmings and extras you could want. Linette and Eddie always put on a big spread on Sunday. Everyone is invited.” Her eyes returned to him, burning through his well-reasoned arguments like lightning.

“Maybe you'll come to dinner next Sunday.”

He forgot all about his decision to move on. “Maybe.”

“Eddie says he could use you on the ranch.”

“Uh-huh.” Brand seemed incapable of more than grunts and one-word replies.

“Do you have other plans?”

“For what?”

“For the winter...for the future.”

Had she added the last out of politeness or did she care?

He shook his head. Why would she? He looked at her mouth. Had one stolen kiss meant anything to her?

“Do you mind if I sit?” She indicated the butt end of a log.

“Sit. Sit.” He snatched off his hat, waited for her to settle and fluff her skirts around her. He abused the rim of his hat.

She smiled sweet enough to melt ice. “It would be easier to talk to you if you sat as well.”

He grabbed another hunk of log, placed it firmly and balanced on it.

“That's better.” She folded her hands primly. “I think it's time to get to know the real you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Who are you, Brand Duggan, when you aren't pretending you're nobody?”

Her question slammed into him and reverberated. “I am nobody. Have been for a long time.”

She leaned forward, her gaze intent, demanding. “You've never been nobody. Just running from what you feared you were.”

“I've never been afraid.” He tried to believe it, but remembered how his heart would leap when he thought Pa and Cyrus had found him. Like a few days ago, when he'd heard a quail call.

“There is no reason to be afraid. So tell me about yourself.”

He stared. What on earth did she mean?

Her eyes flickered as if she heard his silent question. “Things like your dreams and hopes. What would people say about you if you ever let them get to know you?”

He shook his head. “There are no answers to those questions.” There was one way to stop this interrogation. “What are
your
dreams and hopes?”

She drew back, shifted her gaze and considered her answer. “I guess I hope for a life of safety and security.”

He waited, never taking his attention from her, knowing her answer only scratched the surface.

She smoothed her skirt and sighed. “I've always wanted to please my parents.”

“They're gone. Shouldn't you do what is right for you without wondering what they would think? Seems to me that would make them proud.”

Her eyes widened, filled with protest.

In this far already, he might as well go all the way. “You should listen to your own advice, Miss Sybil Bannerman. If you weren't concerned with what others would say, what would you do?”

She swallowed hard, her gaze riveted on his face. “I would try and publish my stories in my own name.”

“Then do it.”

“It's not that easy.”

“Are you afraid of the risks?” Wasn't
he?
“This is the West. Things can be different.” His words accused him. “You can make them different.” Did he truly believe it? If he did, wouldn't he act on the knowledge?

Her head snapped up. “That's exactly what I've been trying to tell you. You can make people look at the Duggan name differently.”

They stared at each other, her eyes blazing with challenge.

He figured his did, as well. Then the humor of the situation hit him and he laughed. “A Mexican standoff.”

Her eyes widened. “What's that?”

“It usually means two gunfighters confront each other and there is no way either can win because they are evenly matched. But it can also refer to something like this, when neither party is willing to back down.”

She laughed. “I expect you know a lot of cowboy stories.”

He shrugged. Of course he knew a few.

“Have you ever seen a Mexican standoff where guns weren't involved?”

Grinning at the memory that sprang to mind, he said, “I once heard of one between two men on horses. Seems they both headed down a narrow alleyway at the same time, coming from opposite ends. There wasn't room for the horses to pass and neither would give in and back his horse out. They spent most of the day there until a Mountie came along and made them both back up and use a different route.”

She laughed, the sound dancing across the strings of his heart. “What do you call a horse like the one Cal found for you? The one Eddie had forbidden anyone to ride.”

“That's easy. An outlaw. He obeys no rules. Accepts no authority.”

“Oh, I like that.” She smiled as if pleased with his explanation. She studied him intently. “You said you spent last winter in a cabin? Is that how you've spent—what is it? Six winters since your mother died?”

A thousand memories, ten thousand hopes and dreams and twice as many disappointments ambushed him, leaving his lungs too tight to do their job. Outlaw lungs. Then his breath eased with a whistle and he was able to speak.

“It was December when Ma died. She'd already made plans for Christmas. She worked extra hard planning a special day. I worked, too, by cleaning out the livery barn every afternoon. Ma did laundry, took in mending and cleaned houses.

“We hadn't seen Pa and his gang in a long time. Ma said maybe they'd decided to leave us alone. I hoped it was so.” He broke off and tried to slow his thoughts. “I don't know why I'm telling you this. I've put it out of my mind.”

She held his gaze in a velvet grasp that made it impossible to pull away. “You've tried to forget it but you haven't. What happened to your ma?”

“Pa.” One word, but it said everything he felt. “Pa and Cyrus showed up. They brought gifts. A blue taffeta dress for Ma. You should have seen her eyes light up. For me, they brought a brand-new pair of alligator boots and a leather belt. I guess my eyes lit up, too.

“But Ma put the dress back in the paper and handed it to Pa. She said she couldn't benefit from ill-gotten gains. I handed back the boots and the belt, too, though it hurt me a lot to do so.” Brand paused, lost in his memories of that time. “I didn't think life could get any worse. But it did.” Hearing the regret and maybe a bit of misery in his voice, he held up his hand. “Not that I'm whining. I've had a good enough life.” For a Duggan.

Sybil made a disbelieving sound. Her mouth pulled down.

He didn't want sympathy. So he went on with his story. “Pa and Cyrus stormed out. A little later a neighbor rushed over to say the general store had been robbed. Many of the Christmas presents ordered by the townsfolk had been stolen or broken, and the store owner shot.”

Sybil touched his hand, squeezed it. “It was your pa's gang?”

“Of course. Guess he figured to make Ma pay for refusing his gifts.”

“That's dreadful.”

Brand quirked his eyebrows, hoping she would read the gesture as agreement rather than the pain and shame it indicated. “That's what I've been trying to tell you. The Duggan gang was awful.”

A few moments of silence passed, filled with regret and shock, before he continued. “Ma knew it was them. We packed up and escaped into the dark, with no place to go on a bitter cold night. We made camp toward morning, hiding in a stand of fir trees. Ma didn't want me to start a fire, but she was so cold I ignored her. She insisted we move on, but she was weak and grew weaker. Three days later, she could barely walk. An old couple found us and took us to their farm. She died December twentieth. They helped me dig a grave in the frozen ground and we buried her there.”

“Oh, Brand. How awful.”