Love Inspired Historical March 2014 Bundle: Winning Over the Wrangler\Wolf Creek Homecoming\A Bride for the Baron\The Guardian's Promise (15 page)

Mr. Duggan gave a faint laugh. “No doubt the food will be better than we deserve.”

She again offered him the plate.

He shifted, moaned. The blood drained from his face, leaving his skin even more yellow. He pulled the plate closer.

She stepped back to wait, and flicked her gaze to Brand. “I don't know who you are.” Every word dripped with anger, frustration and a thousand drops of pain, disappointment and shame.

He raised his eyes and lowered them again almost before she could see them. But she got a glimpse, long enough to note the indifference. He didn't even care. That was the bitterest thing of all.

“He's a Duggan.” The elder man pushed away the plate, the food barely touched. “I'm done.”

“Then I'll see to your dressing.” She removed the plate, setting it by the door, where Mercy watched, her eyes flashing with excitement.

Sybil lowered the gray blanket to reveal a wound in the man's left side. His belly was indeed badly swollen. The dressings Linette had placed there a short time ago were blood soaked. Sybil removed them gingerly. Blood oozed from the round hole. She quickly placed pads of clean dressing on it and kept her hand firmly pressed to the area.

But warm moisture soon reached her palm.

“It's not good, is it?” Mr. Duggan said.

Her face must have given away her distress.

When she didn't answer, he asked another question. “How long do you think I have?” He turned to his son. “Brand?”

For the first time since he'd thanked her for the food she'd brought, Brand spoke. “Pa, you're tough. A little gunshot ain't going to finish you.”

Pa's smile was regretful, knowing. “Boy, it ain't the bullet that will do me in. It's the rest.” He patted his distended stomach. “Like Cyrus says, we eat well 'nough. But still I lose weight. Haven't hardly got energy enough to spit.” He closed his eyes as if too weary to continue.

Brand had been eating his food, both hands holding the fork and going from plate to mouth. Now he shoved away the plate. “Pa, you should stop this life.”

“Son, this life is gonna stop me.”

Brand leaned forward, ignoring the others in the room. “Pa, repent for your sins. Make your peace with God.”

“You figure God would forgive an old outlaw like me?”

“God's no respecter of persons.”

Sybil observed the pair while pressing her hand to the wound in the hopes of stopping the bleeding. She didn't want to give Mr. Duggan hope. But she knew God offered hope and mercy and forgiveness. The knowledge twisted through her. Sometimes she didn't understand God's mercy. It was so undeserved.

Then her heart smote her. She might not be an outlaw, but she didn't deserve God's mercy any more than they.

Mr. Duggan shifted his gaze to her. “Is that right, miss? Do you think He'll forgive me after all I done?”

Sybil wanted to say he would burn in hell, but didn't God say He forgives all sins? Even the sinner on the cross beside Him? She had to answer Brand's father honestly despite her reluctance.

“Mr. Duggan, I believe God forgives. Didn't He say, ‘Father, forgive them?' about the men who killed him?” Now, why had she added that?

Mr. Duggan closed his eyes. “I'll think on it.”

“Pa!” Brand surged to his feet and leaned over the bed, bringing Slim crashing to his feet.

Brand darted a glance at the foreman, then concentrated on his father. “Pa, isn't that what you always told Ma? And then you continued on with your outlawing. Don't do it again.”

The older man shifted his gaze to Sybil. “Will God forgive my son, too?”

She allowed her gaze to rest on Brand, whose attention was riveted on his father, then she drew her attention back to his pa. “God is merciful.” More than she thought any of them deserved.

“You be sure and tell him.” The older man closed his eyes.

“Pa.” Brand shook him. “Don't keep putting it off.”

But the old man did not open his eyes.

“He's sleeping,” Sybil said.

Brand sank back in his chair, his hands hanging between his knees, his head bent. “He's getting weaker. I fear...” He didn't finish.

She applied a fresh dressing to the wound and pulled the blanket over Mr. Duggan, then gathered up the bandages and dishes and headed for the door. Mercy joined her as she left the room.

Sybil had hoped for an excuse from Brand for his behavior, an explanation...something that made sense. She hadn't found it. Perhaps because there wasn't one.

Like his pa said, Brand was a Duggan. The man she'd thought she saw a few days ago was nothing but a figment of her overactive imagination.

Time to face reality and bring herself in line with the rules of conduct she'd lived by all her years.

Chapter Twelve

B
rand watched Sybil and Mercy leave the room, listening to Mercy's voice as they descended the stairs. He gave Slim a silent stare, then settled back in his chair.

It was the first time he'd been in a house in a very long time and it was a fine house. Pa lay on a real mattress, covered with real bedding. Likely he hadn't enjoyed such since before Ma died.

Nor had Brand enjoyed such since Ma's death. He'd been always on the run. Always hoping to stay ahead of Pa and Cyrus. Hoping no one would discover he was a Duggan.

But as Pa said to Sybil, he
was
a Duggan.

Although he'd gone along with the gang only to protect Sybil. He hadn't even held a gun during the attempted robbery. Not that he expected anyone to believe him.

There was only one more thing he wanted before he went to his short future—to see Pa accept God's forgiveness before he died.

Brand would also like to see Sybil believe his innocence. But he'd sacrificed that two days ago.

The patient stirred and Brand leaned forward to touch his arm. “Pa?” he whispered, ignoring eagle-eyed Slim's watchfulness.

Pa mumbled something Brand couldn't make out.

Brand watched his chest rise and fall, his own breathing matching the movement. So long as Pa drew breath he still had the opportunity to seek forgiveness.

Brand kept a careful vigil, waiting for him to waken.

And praying. That surprised him. His neglected, forgotten faith had been right there all the time. He only had to stop and listen to the call in his heart.

The rise and fall of Pa's chest marked off the passing minutes.

Despite his concentration, Brand knew the exact second Sybil stepped into the room. He felt her with every nerve ending that responded in eager welcome. It took every ounce of self-control to keep his gaze on his father.

She was alone, and Slim rose to accompany her to the bed, guarding her.

“The dressings will need changing again.”

Pa stirred as she lifted the covers. He opened his eyes.

Brand would not let Slim and his rifle, nor Sybil and her alluring presence, stop him. He leaned over his father. “Please, Pa, before it's too late.”

“Brand, stop fretting.” His thin hand patted Brand's. “I done made my peace with God. Like you said, He's forgiven me.”

Joy erupted in Brand's heart. He had to share this feeling with someone, and looked up into Sybil's eyes, not caring that she would likely not rejoice as deeply as he was. Why would she? Most people would think the Duggan gang deserved nothing but punishment.

Her mouth curved in a sweet smile.

His heart threatened to jolt from his chest. For one heartbeat, two, and then a thunderous third beat he let himself drown in that look. Then Pa grabbed his hand and mercifully brought him back to his senses.

“Son, I ain't long for this world. Promise me something.”

He wanted to argue that Pa would recover, but he couldn't. He'd seen how Linette had earlier applied a paste of something she said an Indian woman had given her, said it would stop bleeding in normal situations.

Pa's was obviously not normal, as his wound continued to bleed. “Anything.” If it was in his power to do.

“Promise me you'll tell Cyrus he can be forgiven, too.”

Surprised at the request, Brand jerked his gaze toward Sybil.

She shuddered. He felt her anger.

“Brand?” Pa sounded anxious, and Brand brought his gaze back to him.

“Yes, Pa. I promise.”

The old man sighed. Brand waited, but Pa had fallen asleep, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.

Brand allowed himself to lift his gaze to Sybil again. “Can God forgive my brother?”

She would not meet his eyes. “Of course.”

“Can you?”

She gathered up a basin full of soiled rags. “I don't know.” And she left the room.

He understood. Neither brother could expect forgiveness from her. Cyrus didn't merit it and wouldn't care.

Brand could never prove he deserved it, even though he cared so much that his throat was impossibly tight.

* * *

Sybil hurried to her room, grateful that Mercy had gone out and Linette was busy elsewhere. Sybil needed to be alone. She didn't want to forgive any of the Duggans. And it bothered her more than she cared to admit.

In an attempt to forget about the whole business, she pulled out her notebook, intending to write something imaginary that had nothing to do with outlaws and cowboys—a story for children that ended happily in victory. But her fingers went instead to the pages she'd written about Brand.

She should send the story away as it was. A nameless cowboy. Only he was more than that—less than that. A cowboy with a shameful name, a shameful life. She jammed the pages back into her drawer and flung herself facedown on her bed, burying her sobs in her pillow.

She deserved every bit of pain she would endure. All along she'd known she should avoid the man.

She and Linette, with Mercy's help, cared for Mr. Duggan the rest of the day and throughout the night, but he died as dawn broke over the horizon on Sunday morning.

Both Sybil and Linette were in the room when he breathed his last.

Brand hovered at his side, knowing the end would be soon.

Linette reached over and touched his shoulder. “He's gone. I'm sorry.”

Brand sank to the chair, his face drained of all color.

Eddie, who was guarding him, went to his side and squeezed his shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

For all he showed, Brand might not even have heard.

Sybil stood immobile. He'd lost his father and that had to hurt, even for an outlaw. It reminded her of her own pain and sense of loss and loneliness when her parents had died. Even her anger at Brand for his deception could not block out her concern.

She joined Eddie at Brand's side.

He lifted his head enough to see the hem of her dress. She waited, wanting more. So much more. All of which she could never have.

Slowly, his head came up until he met her eyes. She knew he tried to bank his emotions, but his eyes darkened until they were almost black. She sensed his difficulty in breathing. Her own throat constricted and her eyes stung with tears. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

He nodded, his eyes narrowing, his breathing deepening. “Thank you.” He turned to Linette and then Eddie. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Linette smiled. “It's what we do.”

The rancher cleared his throat. “We'll give you a moment to say goodbye to your father.”

Linette headed for the door. Sybil hesitated. There was so much more she wanted to say. But it was to the Brand of unknown name. Not Brand, one of the Duggan gang.

For just a moment she let herself believe he was still the former, and touched his shoulder as Eddie had. “You have my deepest sympathy.” And then, lest anyone misjudge her actions, she hurried after Linette.

Eddie stayed behind, his back to Brand and his father, out of respect for Brand's loss.

That afternoon they buried Morton Duggan in the little graveyard on top of the hill.

Jayne had questioned it. “He's a criminal. Should he be buried in the same ground as these good people?” Four graves of those who had died passing through the territory stood in the small plot.

“He's a sinner saved by grace,” Linette said in her decisive way. “Aren't the angels in heaven rejoicing? How can we be less than charitable?”

And so a little assembly accompanied the body to its final resting place. Most of the cowboys refused to attend on principle. Cookie and Bertie came. Jayne and Seth, Cassie and Roper joined the procession, as did Mercy and Sybil. Linette and Eddie led the way, with Brand following them.

Eddie spoke a few words over the open grave. Sybil was not the only one who wiped away a tear. Perhaps, like herself, they were recalling their own pain. Jayne had seen her fiancé shot dead before her eyes. Cassie had buried a husband and two infants. Sybil didn't know what loss the others remembered, but it seemed each had a share of pain. Her own seemed fresh in her mind—a mother and father who'd died within weeks of each other.

A best friend who had died way too young.

Despite who and what Brand was, she felt his sorrow as if it was her own.

He stood before the grave, head bowed, hat in his hands almost hiding the ropes that bound him. Seth had been appointed to carry a gun to guard him. Out of respect the others had come unarmed.

Eddie said amen. Each of them tossed in a handful of dirt then passed by Brand, uttering condolences. Sybil went last. She ached to be able to forgive his treachery and who he was. But how could she? Yet she must let him know she understood his sorrow. She'd tried earlier, but felt he was too shocked by his father's death to really hear her. “I'm sorry,” she said. Such inadequate words for all she felt. “I know what it's like to lose one's father.”

His gaze jerked to her, hard, glistening with tears, yet probing.

She jolted as his look rattled against the insides of her heart—an intruder, unwelcome, unsafe.

“Your father was a good man. Mine was an outlaw.” His voice grated. “It's not the same.”

She patted his arm. “He was your father. It's the same.”

She left. Why did she say that? It didn't make sense and yet it was the truth, and somehow, she knew he needed to hear it.

Bertie went to Eddie. “Boss, he needs to be alone with his grief and loss.”

“It's not a privilege I can give him.”

“Give me the gun. I'll guard him but respect his need for privacy.”

Eddie considered the request, then nodded to Seth, who handed the rifle to Bertie. Bertie sat on a rock a few feet away.

Brand watched the proceedings without a flicker of expression.

“Ignore me,” Bertie said. “I won't bother you unless you try and escape.”

Sybil joined the others as they returned to the house. She lingered at the back door, watching Brand standing over his father's grave. Dawg lay at his feet, his head on his paws, watching his master.

Mercy came to her side. “I guess you can't help feeling sorry for him even though they are outlaws.”

Sybil didn't answer. She could never forgive him for being an outlaw and for hiding his identity from her. Nor would she listen to her conscience, which said she must forgive if she wished to be forgiven. Any more than she'd listen to the part of her brain that said he hadn't forced her to enjoy his company the few days he was at the ranch under false pretenses.

She turned away and put her efforts into helping Linette. Her body was usefully occupied. Too bad her heart wouldn't be diverted.

* * *

Brand stared at the hole before him. His father lay in the cold ground. He shivered. The grave would soon be covered with dirt and then a layer of snow. But Pa wasn't there. He was in heaven with Ma.

Brand wasn't sure how to deal with the sorrow that clawed at his insides. How often had he wished both Pa and Cyrus would not bother him anymore? But not like this. Death was too final.

He sighed and shifted his gaze toward the house. Was that Sybil in the shadows? Then the figure was gone. She'd expressed her regrets. Said she understood that he mourned his pa. He wished he could think she cared, that it was more than politeness, but he didn't dare allow such a thought.

He was more than grateful for the kindness shown his pa. That had to be all he could think of. Eddie had informed him he could wait in the barn for the Mountie's return. It was no more than Brand expected. He only wished the Mountie would hurry up so he could leave this place. He fought a constant fight against the sweet memories of the past few days.

“I'm done,” he said to Bertie.

Bertie led him past the house, Dawg walking at his side. Brand forced himself not to look at the windows for a glimpse of Sybil. He had enough memories to carry him through his future, which would be short and end abruptly.

They went to the pen he and Dawg had recently shared. He averted his eyes from the place where Sybil had sat, her back to the rough wood as she visited with him and touched him. Silently, he submitted to being tied securely to a sturdy corner post.

“Surely hate to do this, son, but I got me orders.”

“Don't worry. It's what I expect.”

Bertie finished and squatted in front of him, eye to eye. “Linette says your pa made his peace with God before his death. Glad to hear that. What about you? Are you prepared to meet your maker?”

The man's gentle concern melted Brand's frozen heart and he smiled. “I am indeed. My ma was a strong believer and taught me to be the same, though truth be told, I let my faith slip for many years.”

“I, too, had a believing ma and I wandered far from God for a time. My mother's prayers brought me back. Seems your ma's prayers have done the same. Do you care to send her a letter informing her of your pa's death?”

“My ma's dead, though she would have been pleased to hear of his change of heart.”

“Son, I have to ask you, what led you into a path of crime?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Care to tell me?”

“I wouldn't expect you to believe me.”

“I'd believe you if it was true.” Bertie held his gaze, demanding truth and confession.

Brand swallowed hard. If only he'd had a man like this for a father. The thought unleashed his usual reserve and loosened his tongue. “It was my brother who kidnapped Miss Sybil. He threatened...” Brand shuddered as he recalled Cyrus's ugly talk. “He said he'd do awful things unless I helped him. I figured if I went along she might be rescued.” No point in mentioning Pa's promise. No one would believe Brand had trusted the word of an outlaw.

Bertie didn't even blink. “I see. Have you told Eddie this? Or the Mountie?”

“What difference would it make? I was involved in the robbery of the store. I'm a Duggan.” And that said it all as far as people were concerned. It always had.