Chapter 5

By the end of the third day, Shea had had her fill of being ill. She'd sipped enough fever tea to float a ship, memorized the twists and turns of every sprig of ivy on those papered walls, and was thoroughly bored with her own company.

As the light beyond the window turned rosy, Shea strained to hear the voices of the people gathered in the kitchen. Lily had been singing all day and sounded pleased to have company for supper. Dr. Farley's slow drawl gave counterpoint to Lily's faintly breathy tones and Owen's reedy ones. Cam spoke with a quiet resonance, and when Rand told them about something that happened at school, everyone laughed.

Shea slumped low on her pillows and scowled. She hated being sick! She should be getting her photographic plates off to New York and finding winter accommodations, not lying here in bed. She'd navigated as far as a chair in the parlor this morning—with Lily's help—then slept for hours afterward.

In spite of her discontent, Shea must have dozed, because supper was well over when Lily came to look in on her.

"It's such a lovely evening," she began, rubbing her hands together as much with nervous energy as with happy anticipation, "we decided to have cake and coffee on the veranda. Are you feeling well enough to join us?"

"Oh, yes!" Shea answered eagerly, not caring about anything but being out of bed.

At Lily's summons, Cam came and carried Shea out to the front porch. Though her head was reeling by the time they got her tucked up in blankets and nestled on the wide porch swing, it was well worth the effort. From where she lay she could see a swath of mauve and crimson sky draped behind a ridge of jagged mountains off to the west. She could hear the rustling of the cottonwoods that sheltered the house and smell the soft musk of fall in the languid breeze.

Once everyone had finished their lemon cake, Lily turned to Rand. "Why don't you go get out your violin and play us that piece you've been practicing?"

The boy flushed and did his best to disappear behind the pot of geraniums at the head of the steps.

"I think your father would like to hear what you've been learning," she prodded him.

"Oh, Aunt Lily!"

Cam spoke up right on cue. "I certainly would like to hear you."

"My da used to play his fiddle in front of the fire in the evening when I was growing up," Shea offered, smiling at the boy.

"Your da?" he asked.

"That's what we call fathers in Ireland," Shea clarified. "He was really quite an accomplished fiddler. He'd play with some of the other men at parties or in the pub." The melodies drifted through her head, rousing reels, melancholy laments, and songs with words that fomented rebellion.

The judge inched forward in his chair. "Where in Ireland are you from, Mrs. Waterston?"

"From the west country," she answered. "My father was gamekeeper at an estate near Clifden."

"And what brought you to America?"

Though the question was innocuous enough, Shea sensed the lawyer in him and saw the way those bright, appraising eyes bore into her.

He made her want to pull the blankets up around her ears and refuse to answer. Or perhaps the reason she was reluctant to speak was that she had no intention at all of telling him the truth. What business was it of his that her father had lost his position because he'd agreed with men opposed to British rule? Nor was she about to explain the strife that had torn her country and her family apart. Some memories just didn't bear thinking about, and they most certainly weren't meant to be shared with the likes of Cameron Gallimore.

She lifted her chin. "I came to America for the opportunities, to be sure."

Then, to avoid more of the judge's scrutiny, she turned to Rand. "You will play for us, won't you, child? I do so miss the sound of fiddle music."

The boy scowled and grimaced and pushed to his feet.

"I'll accompany him on the piano," Lily offered, following Randall indoors.

With the windows open to catch the breeze, the strains of "My Old Kentucky Home" floated out to them. Rand played haltingly, yet Lily managed to fit her accompaniment around his squeaky passages and uneven rhythms.

As she listened, Shea couldn't help wondering if her son had inherited his grandfather's gift for music, or his uncle Sean's way with horses, or old Auntie Maura's second sight. She wondered if Liam looked like his da or her, and she couldn't help wishing that she'd be able to see a bit of the people she'd loved and lost in Liam's face when she finally found him.

Shea and the three men applauded as the duet wound to a close.

"Cammie," Lily called out, her voice gently teasing, "shall I bring you your guitar?"

Cameron scowled and grimaced, duplicating his son's expressions of reluctance. "Oh, I suppose," he conceded.

After he'd tuned the fine instrument to his satisfaction, Cam glided gracefully into "Barbara Allen," a tune Shea immediately recognized.

He played well, and his voice, warm and rich as peat smoke, wrapped around Shea, enveloping her in the story of lost love. Midway through the second verse, Emmet Farley shifted forward in his chair and slid a slim, silver mouth organ from the inside pocket of his jacket. The reedy tones and trills he breathed from that simple instrument added a melancholy counterpoint to the simple tune.

Swept up in the ballad, Shea drew breath and began to sing. Though her voice wobbled a little at the start, it gradually bloomed and gained momentum. As it twined in delicate harmony around the judge's lush baritone and merged with the plaintive whine of Emmet Farley's harmonica, Shea seemed to share some unexpected connection to these two men, to everyone here. It felt so good to be part of a family again, no matter how fleetingly.

Once they finished the last stanza where the rose and the briar "twined themselves into a lovers' knot," Lily applauded with delight. "That was wonderful!" she exclaimed.

Shea laughed breathlessly, feeling warmed and welcomed, more safe and contented than she had in a very long while.

"Why, Mrs. Waterston," Cameron offered, leaning toward her across the waist of his guitar. "I had no idea you sang so well."

Shea basked in the warmth of his teasing smile. "I dance a fair jig, too, though I'm afraid I must plead my infirmity this evening."

"You'll demonstrate it for us another time, perhaps?" he suggested, those night blue eyes alight.

"Perhaps, Mr. Gallimore, I'll do exactly that."

"Could you teach me to dance a jig?" Rand piped up, drawing her attention from his father. "Men dance jigs, too, don't they?"

"And hornpipes and reels," Shea assured him, resisting the urge to reach over and muss his hair.

"Maybe she'll show you when she's feeling better," Cameron suggested.

"I will indeed," Shea promised.

Emmet returned the harmonica to his pocket, then pushed to his feet. "I'm afraid I'm needed back in town. Thank you, Lily, for another delicious dinner," he said and sketched a bow. "And thanks to everyone else for such fine entertainment."

Before he left he turned his professional regard on Shea. "Now, even if you're feeling better, missy," he told her sternly, "I don't want you doing too much."

"She won't," Lily answered for Shea, standing over her.

Shea bristled a little. She was used to seeing to herself, used to looking after others as well. Yet how lovely it was to have someone show her such charity and concern. How beguiling it was to be taken care of, to feel so safe.

And the Gallimores did make her feel safe: Lily with her bustle and concern, Rand with his open-handed friendship. And Cam, who stood like a bulwark for the rest, a calm, quiet man with depths that drew her in spite of herself.

Still, Shea knew better than to rely on strangers' kindnesses. Simon might have taken her in, might have been willing to marry her, but she'd paid a price. She didn't regret the years she'd given him. She'd loved Simon, and he'd taught her so much. But those years had also convinced her that the only person she could truly rely on was herself. To think otherwise was dangerous—and could break her heart.

So Shea looked up at where Dr. Farley was standing over her and gave him her own answer. "I promise to behave myself."

Cameron set his guitar aside. "Since you're bent on leaving, Emmet, why don't you let me give you a hand with your horse?"

Owen rose from the far end of the porch to follow.

"I'm coming, too," Rand chimed in.

"Oh, but I'm afraid you're not. You have school tomorrow," Lily reminded him, "and it's time for bed."

"Aw, Aunt Lily!"

"Maybe we can read another chapter of The Three Musketeers tonight," Cameron suggested.

"I've been reading it to Mrs. Waterston in the afternoons," the boy put in. "We're two chapters ahead of where you left off."

"I'll catch up," Cameron assured him, following Owen and Dr. Farley down the path.

Shea liked reading with Rand, liked listening to him, liked sharing his excitement at the musketeers' adventures. She liked watching his face and imagining the kind of man he would become. The kind of man she'd always hoped her own lost boy would be, she thought, and couldn't help wishing Rand was hers.

Once Rand had dragged reluctantly into the house, Lily began loading their cups and plates onto a tray.

Shea turned to her, smiling. "This has been such a pleasant evening. I had no idea you were all so accomplished."

"Mama taught piano to Cam and me when we were little," Lily answered almost wistfully. "He learned to play the guitar during the war."

"Rand's doing well with his violin," Shea observed. "He's such a good boy, Lily. You and the judge must be so proud of him."

"We are," Lily confirmed, gathering up the tray.

Shea inclined her head. "And what happened to Mrs. Gallimore?"

"My mother?" Lily asked in surprise.

"Cameron's wife."

Lily turned so abruptly the cups and plates on the tray clattered together. "His wife?"

Shea hadn't meant to pry and felt a flush creep into her cheeks. "I only thought that if Cameron had a child, he must have been—"

"No! Oh, heavens, no! Cammie has never been married!" Lily proclaimed, then fled into the house.

* * *

By the time he got back to the porch, Cam could see that Shea Waterston was wilting like pansies in high summer. Her head drooped against the back of I swing, as if she were too weary to hold it up, and there were lines of exhaustion around her mouth.

"If you're ready," he suggested, "I can take you back to bed."

"But it's been such a pleasant evening," she murmured, sounding like a child who'd been allowed to sit with the grown-ups.

"There's always tomorrow," he said gently. Without waiting for her assent, he bent and slid his arms beneath her shoulders and knees, and lifted her against him.

For more than a week he'd been trying to reconcile this dab of a woman with the avenging angel who'd bolted upright in that wagon box bent on saving his life. Feeling how small and frail Shea was, and remembering what she'd done back there in the foothills, made Cam go hot and tight inside.

He wasn't sure he deserved the sacrifice she'd been willing to make, wasn't entirely sure he'd wanted her to risk herself for him. Now he owed her, and he couldn't think how he'd ever even the score with a woman who'd come so close to dying to keep him safe.

Scowling at the thought, he shouldered through the screen door, crossed the parlor, and bore Shea into his bedroom. The place had been transformed since she'd come here. Though he'd managed to maintain a toehold by refusing to relinquish so much as one square inch of space on his overflowing desk, the rest of the room had been commandeered and feminized.

Several fresh, neatly folded nightdresses were piled on the corner of his dresser. Combs and brushes and ribbons had overrun his socks and handkerchiefs and were scattered across the top. The skirt and bodice Shea had been wearing when he brought her home had been mended and laundered and pressed. They hung on the pegs by the window, all but veiling the dangerous, masculine shape of his mother-of-pearl-handled pistol and holster. The bar of lavender soap on the washstand seemed to scent the whole damn place with spring.

With her caught up close in his arms, he realized Shea smelled of lavender, too. It was the fragrance his sister usually wore, but the scent seemed sweeter on Shea's skin, more earthy and provocative. It made him want to press his cheek into the tumble of her caramel-colored curls and nuzzle her temple.

A hot dart of conscience shot through him. This woman was ill. He'd offered her his protection, and here he was, thinking about nuzzling her skin. What the devil was wrong with him?

Tamping down the notion, Cam bent and lowered Shea down between the bed's opened sheets. As she settled back, the hand that had lain lax along his neck trailed down his chest. At that simple touch, he became vividly aware of its weight and warmth against him. It made his breath snag in his throat and set off an unwelcome tingling that rippled all the way to his groin.

Cam scowled again and pulled the covers all the way up to her chin, intent on cloaking her from his view.

Shea must have noticed his gruffness. "I'm sorry to be such a bother," she murmured fretfully. "I hope you won't have to cart me about like this for very much longer."

He deliberately gentled his voice and, ignoring every gram of his common sense, reached out to stroke back a few straggling strands of her hair. "I really don't mind. Besides, now that your fever's gone, you'll be getting stronger every day."

"It was pleasant though, wasn't it, sitting on the porch this evening?"

He heard the wistfulness in her voice. How often did she have a chance to have her evening coffee on a veranda? Moving around the way they did, she and Owen had to live a solitary life. And Brandt, for all his loyalty, could hardly be mistaken as an affable companion.

Cameron had already begun to take back his hand when Shea reached out and caught it in her own. "I'd like another word with you if you have the time."

Cam looked at her, aware of how weary she seemed, aware that he'd promised to read with his son. Still, something in Shea Waterston's eyes, something in the taut line creasing her brow convinced him to give her a few more minutes.

He settled on the edge of the mattress. "What is it?" he asked her.

She raised those pale green eyes to his; they were wide and filled with doubt. It made him want to gather her up and hold her until whatever was paining her melted away.

The muscles in her delicate throat worked before she spoke. "Owen says I shot a man up in the mountains..."

Cam waited for her to go on, his chest filling with dread and anticipation.

"...I want to know if that is true."

"Those were Joe Calvert's friends," he said remembering how the miners had come tearing down out of the rocks before he had a chance to defend himself. "They were men who didn't agree with the sentence I passed on him."

"I need to know." She paused and swallowed hard. "I need to know if I killed him."

He could see what this forthrightness was costing her, saw how she pressed her lips together to stop their trembling. Still, he couldn't bring himself to lie to her.

"If it's any comfort, your shooting him saved my life." It was the first time he'd admitted that, even to himself, and the knowledge dragged on him. "You traded my life for his," he went on. "What you need to decide is whether you think it was worth it."

"Of course it was worth it," she answered without reserve, sounding more sure of his value than he was himself. "I suppose what I need to know is—is how you live with yourself afterward."

The question set off tremors in his hands and he balled them into fists to still their shaking.

"What makes you think I'd know?" he asked her.

She pressed those soft full lips together as if to firm her resolve. "Lily said you fought in the war, so I thought—I thought you'd be able to tell me."

The war again. The war, always and forever—staining him, marking him the same way it had marked a whole generation of men who'd marched off to fight for causes that had gotten obliterated in the heat of battle.

He looked past her, out the window to where the memories lingered in the dark. Memories of firing his gun more times than he could count, of looking over the field after the battle and wondering how many of the men lying dead were ones he'd killed.

"You tell yourself what you did was justified," he finally answered, his voice gone raw. "You tell yourself you had no choice. But you never forget what you did, and the remembering tempers everything you do from that day on."

He hunched at the edge of the bed, knowing he should have lied to her. The truth was too harsh, to hard to tell, too ugly for her to live with for the rest of her days. He should have refused to answer. He should have—

Shea slid her hand across the coverlet and curled her fingers around his wrist. His pulse beat hard beneath her cool soft flesh, and when he dared to raise his gaze to hers, what he saw in her eyes was understanding and compassion. No one had ever offered those things to him; no one had ever understood how badly he needed them. The moment of contact burned fierce and hot between them, then abruptly Cam pushed to his feet.

He needed to put distance between this woman and himself, to break off the strange communion. His head was reeling a little as he stood over her. "I can't imagine that a conversation as grim as this is going to lead you into pleasant dreams," he apologized as he bent to dim the lamp.

"Ah, no." Her voice came soft in the dark. "But I think that it was necessary. I thank you for telling me the truth."

The truth, Cam thought as he closed the bedroom door behind him, was one more thing in life that was vastly overrated. Lies, evasions, and denial were so much easier, so much safer. But then, Shea Waterston didn't seemed to be afraid of the truth. He was beginning to wonder if she was afraid of anything.

His sister was wiping dishes when Cam passed through the kitchen on his way to check the animals for the night.

"I think Shea enjoyed being out on the porch, don't you?" Lily said stopping him halfway to the door. "And goodness, what a lovely voice she has."

"The singing tired her out," Cam observed. He felt churlish and itchy inside his own skin; he needed to be by himself for a while.

"Is she all right?"

He couldn't set Lily to worrying because he was out of sorts. "She'll be fine once she's slept."

"Cammie?"

He'd put one hand on the knob when he recognized the low, precarious note in his sister's voice. He turned and looked at her. Her head was bowed, and she was worrying the delicate garnet band she'd worn on a ribbon around her neck ever since the night their mother died.

"What's the matter?"

"Shea asked me about Rand's mother."

He froze. "And what did you tell her?"

She raised her head. He could see the V nipped into the delicate skin between her eyes. "I spoke before I thought. I told her you'd never been married."

He went to her, closed his hands around her arms, and drew her against him. "It's all right, Lil. She's only curious."

"But, Cammie, no one here knows where Rand came from."

He could hear the apprehension in her voice, and looked down into her ravaged face, into those wide, worried eyes. He stroked her withered cheek and loathed himself for not being able to protect her.

"No one will ever know about Rand unless we tell them," he soothed her. "There's no reason to worry. I promise you."

He gathered her nearer and felt her turn her face into the curve of his throat. Cam shifted his weight, rocking her gently. No matter how he'd failed her in the past, he was here now. He'd always be here to protect and care for her and his son. He'd made his promise.

"It will be all right," he whispered.

"You're sure of that?"

"As sure as I am that we'll have snow this winter." He smiled to himself and rested his cheek against her hair. "As sure as I am that you'll be hanging washing on the line come Monday morning."

"As sure as I am that the last piece of lemon cake will be gone before you go to bed," Lily said, and he could hear the smile come back to her voice.

It was a game they'd played since childhood, after their father had died and left their mother with the two of them to raise. Cameron couldn't remember how the game had begun, but somehow the assurances still worked for them.

"Maybe it was you, not Rand, Shea was wondering about," Lily suggested slyly.

She might as well have gigged him with spurs. "What do you mean?"

She stepped back and looked him up and down. "Perhaps Shea was asking because she finds you—"

"For the love of God, Lil!" Cameron's own unsettling awareness of Shea Waterston sent a heat creeping up his jaw. "I don't want some woman finding me anything!"

"Don't you?" she asked, genuinely surprised. "Don't you ever want—"

Her voice trailed off, but Cam knew what she wanted: a husband, children of her own, to be part of the world around her in spite of her scars. He would have sold his soul to give those things to her, but he was powerless to change the past. Powerless to alter the course her life had taken. Or his own.

He touched her sleeve to let her know he meant what he said. "I'm content the way things are, Lil. Truly I am."

She smiled at him. "You're a good man, Cammie. Any woman would be proud to—"

With a snort of irritation, he turned away. "I'm going out to the barn."

This time he managed to make it out onto the porch, but one glance toward the barn reminded him that Owen Brandt was there. What Cam wanted was solitude. He headed for the back of the house and half-stepped down the rise toward the river. He ambled through the rustling thigh-high grass that grew all the way down to the riverbank and stood watching the Platte ripple past on its thousand-mile journey to the sea. On nights like tonight he liked to lose himself in something just that vast and mute and powerful.

Shea Waterston was disrupting all their lives. Rand was dancing attendance and bringing Shea flowers. Lily was worried she'd unearth their secrets.

And as for him—the woman shook the very bedrock of who he was. The more he saw of her, the more he wanted to seek her out. The more he learned of her, the more questions he seemed to have. The more he tried to turn away, the more compelling she seemed. Even here by the river, he could not still the mumbling in his blood or quench his errant thoughts of her.