To Catch a Wolf (52 page)

son quarreled bitterly, and Morgan departed with many harsh words and an even

greater despair.

"Many months later he returned and found his father again. But Aaron Holt had

changed. He had fallen prey to men who make their living from cheating and theft, and

they had left him—" Ulysses paused. "I beg your pardon, ladies, but what I am about to

relate is not for delicate ears. You may wish to leave the room before I continue.”

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No one stirred. Morgan heard the faint shuffle of slippered feet, the rush of breath from

a hundred throats, the creaking of corsets as women shifted for a better view of him. He

heard the steady beat of Athena's heart and felt her warmth along his side. But

Ulysses's voice had become a drone, a meaningless jumble of words that had no power

to describe what had happened on that terrible day in the Colorado mountains.

It had been sunny, an unusually warm late spring afternoon. But Morgan scarcely felt

the sun and balmy breezes, nor noticed the riot of wildflowers growing fat and lush on

the hillsides and in the meadows.

All he could see was Aaron Holt—not the hearty, stubborn man he had left in such

anger, but a wasted, hollow-eyed invalid who was more of a stranger to Morgan now

than he had ever been. He lay against a boulder at the heart of his claim, stinking in

soiled clothes and lying in his own waste.

Morgan knew that he was dying.

"They tried to jump my claim," Aaron Holt said, his voice like a rusty hinge. "The thieving

bastards. I fought 'em. Didn't

" He coughed, and the motion jarred his gangrenous leg.

It was a miracle that he could speak at all. Morgan could smell the poison, the swift

rotting of flesh. The smell of death—lingering, painful death.

"They were scared enough not to come back," Aaron whispered. "But

they left me

with a memento." He gestured at his seeping left leg, deep bronze and purple with

infection, no longer recognizable as living tissue. The original wound had been lost in

the swelling.

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Aaron was skeletal from lack of food, half-delirious with fever. The first thing Morgan

had done was bring him water and try to make him eat the jerky and day-old bread he'd

brought, but his father had pushed it aside untouched.

"I'll find a doctor," Morgan said, half-afraid that Aaron Holt would not be alive when he

returned. But his father laughed, a sound more dreadful than weeping, until tears ran

down his cheeks.

"I'm dying," he said. "Can't eat, can't sleep. My leg is rotting. No doctor can save me

now." He shook his head at Morgan's mute denial. "I wouldn't go to town

when there

was some chance for me. Now all I can do is—" He stopped, and he looked at Morgan

with such desperation that Morgan's eyes filled with tears. "I know I haven't

been

much of a father to you, boy. I know you hate me. I reckon you don't owe me any favors.

But now I've got to ask you one." He drew in a deep breath and let it out again with a

rattling wheeze. "I hurt, boy. Can't take it no more. Don't have the strength to end it

myself. You got to do it for me.”

Morgan heard the words, but it took him several minutes to understand. End it. His

father wanted him to end his misery, and there was only one way to do that.

"I've

got a gun, hidden under those rocks," Aaron said. "All it takes

is one bullet,

boy.”

"No." Morgan stepped back, stumbled on a stone, caught his balance again. "I won't do

it.”

"You got to. You got to, boy. I'll be dying another week, and I can't

" He coughed again

and sank back against the boulder. "I'm beggin' you. Please—”

After that Aaron Holt was quiet for a time, exhausted by his efforts to talk. Morgan tried

to make him drink, but his father refused every attempt to help. That evening, Morgan

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made a fire and covered his father with all the blankets he could find. During the long

night, Aaron dreamed. He wept and shouted and screamed in agony, and Morgan could

smell the rot spread, inch by inch, eating Aaron's body from within.

By dawn, Aaron could barely move. It was as if he had used up all the life left within

him

all but the pain. Every breath he took was a struggle. He screamed when Morgan

touched his leg to adjust it under the blankets.

There was no hope for Aaron Holt. Morgan knew it. He had become familiar with death

in the past several years of searching. He had seen it take many forms, but none so

horrible as this.

"You

want revenge," his father panted, opening one red-rimmed eye. "You want to

see me die slow, don't you?”

Morgan hung his head, the emotion so choked up inside him that he thought he would

strangle on it. "I don't hate you, Pa.”

"Then help me!" Aaron moaned. "Have mercy. Mercy.”

The sun rose higher, promising another warm day. It traced all the tendons and veins

standing out in Aaron Holt's neck and hands. Nothing in its caress could comfort

Morgan's father, now or ever.

Morgan got up. He walked to the pile of rocks where Aaron had concealed his revolver,

and shoved the stones aside. The gun felt heavy and awkward in his hand. He had

never carried one; he didn't need it, being what he was.

But Aaron Holt was human.

"Bless you, boy," he whispered. "God

bless you.”

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With the gun loose at his side, Morgan stood over his father and stared up the hillside

where rows of evergreens marched upward to the sky. "Is there anything you want me

to tell Mother and Cassidy?”

His father only closed his eyes. "The head," he croaked. "That's the fastest way. I

won't

feel it. No more pain. Blessed

peace.”

Morgan hated him then, more than he had ever done. He lifted the gun and thought of

all the times he had dreamed of facing Aaron Holt and making him wish he were dead.

Aaron Holt wished he was dead. That was all. He had nothing to give, no amends to

make, no regrets. Only one last demand from the son he had abandoned.

"Please," he whispered. "Damn you. Damn you.”

The sun wheeled madly overhead. Morgan's hand began to tremble. He made a fist.

The trembling stopped.

"Now. Do it

now.”

Morgan raised the revolver and took aim with exquisite care.

"Thank

God," Aaron whispered.

Morgan fired once. Between one moment and the next, Aaron Holt's pain was over. The

echo rang across the hills, and crows rose up from a nearby pine with raucous cries.

An old miner and his mule emerged from the underbrush. Morgan was distantly aware

of the man's frightened face and the way he glanced from Morgan to the body and back

again.

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"You kilt him," the old man said.

"He was my father," Morgan said. There were no tears. No feeling at all.

The old miner gripped his mule's halter as if for dear life. "We was comin' to check up on

'im. Hadn't heard in a week. Now he's dead." He narrowed his eyes. "You were his

son?”

Two other men came up behind the miner, both in rough garb and weathered with years

in the mountains. "Hank! You all right?" one of them said. He stared at Morgan. "We

heard the shot. What the hell?”

"Aaron's dead," Hank said. "His own son shot him.”

The newcomers started for Morgan and stopped at the sight of the gun. Morgan let it fall

from his fingers. One of the men circled him cautiously and darted in to snatch the gun.

"He's dead, all right," the second man said grimly, bending over the body. "You saw him

do it, Hank?”

"Well, I

" The old man chewed the frayed ends of his moustache. "I heard them quarrel

afore, back in March during the thaw. Didn't know the boy was Aaron's son. But

”

"We got to take you to town, boy," the man with the gun said, aiming it at Morgan's

chest.

"I did hear Aaron tell him to do it," the old miner stammered. "He looks in a bad way.

Maybe it was a mercy.”

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"That's for the law to decide." The first man nodded to the second. "Get some rope, Bill.

Can't take no chances with a man who'd murder his own pa.”

Hank opened his mouth as if to speak, but quickly closed it again. Morgan waited quietly

while Bill tied his hands behind his back. He welcomed the discomfort when the men

dragged him back to their claim a mile away and talked of how they would get him to

town and hand him over to the law. He could have escaped them easily, but he did not.

He didn't defend himself when he went to trial. Old Hank spoke of what he had heard,

how Aaron Holt seemed to beg to be killed, and the local doctor testified that Aaron had

been in the grip of fatal gangrene poisoning and must have been suffering unbearable

pain.

In the end, that was what had spared Morgan death. What they gave him was worse.

They locked him up in a place that would have driven him mad at any other time. They

caged him for nine years, and when they judged his silence as rebellion they beat him.

He let them. He always healed. After a while they left him alone. Alone with his own

thoughts and memories.

That was the true punishment, the one he could never escape. Only the wolf gave him

peace. And then that, too, was taken away.

"Why didn't you tell me?”

Morgan climbed out of the pit of memory, reaching toward the light of the voice.

Athena's voice. She held him, and her hazel eyes glittered with tears.

"I would have understood," she whispered. "It wouldn't have changed anything between

us.”

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Ulysses's voice rang in dramatic conclusion. "And so Morgan Holt paid for his crime. A

crime of mercy, a reluctant easing of inconceivable torment. He has served his

sentence. He has been punished enough, and must be punished no more.”

People in the crowd began to murmur, a tide of sound suddenly released by the end of

Ulysses's tale. Morgan found his mind remarkably clear. He eased his arm from

Athena's grip and turned slowly to Niall, who had scrambled to his feet, Caitlin solemn

and pale at his side. Niall's gaze slid away from his.

"I offer a bargain," Morgan said. "Let Athena go. She is not what you are. Give her what

is hers, and I will leave and not return.”

"No, Morgan," Athena said. "It's not your bargain to make." She swung on her brother,

head lifted, and compelled him to meet her eyes.

"I loved you, Niall," she said. "I trusted you. I refused to believe ill of you, even when I

should have seen the truth. You cared for me all these years. I will never forget that. But

now I understand what made you so careful with me. It was guilt—not only about the

accident, but because of my mother." She did not lower her voice, though she must

have known how her words would be taken by the avid audience. "You robbed me of

her and lied to me all my life. You were afraid that I would become just like her if I had

my freedom." She gave a heartrending smile. "You were glad when I was hurt, weren't

you? I was safe in my chair, with my domestic and charitable work. I let you convince

me that it was all I could aspire to. Your mistake was trying to take even that away. And

my great good fortune—" She reached for Morgan's hand. "My great joy is that

someone came along to teach me about courage and daring to hope. Someone who

has suffered more than you or I can imagine.”

"Athena," Niall said, swallowing heavily. "You must understand—”

"But I do, Niall. And I pity you." She looked at Caitlin. "If anyone can help him, you can.”

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Caitlin bent her head. "Thank you.”

Niall looked at Caitlin as if she had grown horns and a tail. "You," he whispered. He

stared at Morgan and Athena in turn. It was no longer merely fear in his eyes, but

something more complex made up of equal parts bewilderment and desperation.

Morgan recognized the kind of madness that came to a man when everything he had

believed, every foundation of his world, disintegrated beneath his feet.

As Cecily had done before him, he turned hard on his heel and fled the room at a run.

Caitlin hesitated, anguish in her eyes, and ran after him. A hum of excited comment