Chapter 12

Shea opened the studio door one morning several weeks after Christmas and found a big wooden box on the landing. When she stepped out to examine it, she found the crate unmarked, unlabeled. Clearly it wasn't the photographic equipment she'd been expecting from New York.

She glanced down to where Mr. Nicholson was sweeping the walk in front of his store. "G'morning, Abe," she called to him. "Did you see who left this box for me?"

Nicholson paused and shook his head. "Haven't seen anyone 'cept Mrs. Franklin going into her shop. Must be the weather."

Shea glanced at the gray, fleecy sky. They'd have snow before nightfall. She could feel the cold, damp bite of it in the rising wind.

Frowning, she looked down at the pine box, then nudged it with her toe. Something rustled inside—something alive.

Shea stepped hastily backward. It had been nearly three weeks since someone ransacked her studio, and neither Cam nor the sheriff had been able to discover who it was. Had the same person left this box for her? Was this another threat?

The faint rustling came again. Were there snakes inside the box? Or rats?

Her skin crawled with the possibilities. For an instant she considered going for the sheriff, then she straightened with an exasperated sniff. "Don't you be a fool, girl," she admonished herself. "Just open the damn box, and have done with it."

She went inside to get her hammer—and her Winchester. Then, bracing one knee to hold the top in place, she pried out the nails around the edges. The whine from the nails set Shea's teeth on edge, and the movements of whatever was inside the box became more agitated. Once she'd pulled them all, Shea took up her rifle and flipped open the top.

A huge calico cat leaped gracefully onto the floor of the landing.

Shea stumbled back against the door frame. "Rufus!" she squeaked.

Rufus looked her up and down—and hissed.

Shea laughed, feeling both foolish and relieved. It was just Ty's cat!

Setting her rifle aside, she hunkered down and extended a hand. Rufus hissed and swiped at her.

Giving up on making friends with Rufus, Shea examined the box more closely. Inside was a tattered piece of blanket, a chipped pottery bowl, and a hastily folded paper.

She opened the note and read the scrawled, uneven letters:

DEER SHA

PLEZE FEED MY CAT.

TYLER MORRAN

They must be gone, Shea thought on a sharp wave of concern. Though she'd spoken to Ty directly only half a dozen times since Christmas, she kept up with him through her son. As long as Ty and his father were in Denver, as long as Rand and Ty were friends, she was able to keep an eye on him. If there had been trouble, she was near enough to help. If he'd needed money or food or medicine, she'd have found a way to provide it.

Now that tough, brave, self-sufficient, and vulnerable boy was out of her reach. He was at the mercy of a father who was so wrapped up in his own misery that he could barely acknowledge the world at large, much less his son.

Shea couldn't even be certain where the two of them were. They'd gone back to the mountains, she supposed, back to the mining camp. But why would they go in the dead of winter? Had they run out of money? Were they one step ahead of the law?

Shea wanted to grab up her shawl and run over to the cabin to see what she could learn, but first she needed to get Rufus inside. She was still down on her knees trying to coax the wily calico close when Owen came puffing up the steps.

"What's all this?" he asked her.

"Ty and his father seem to have left town. He asked me to take care of his cat," Shea explained. "Ty calls him Rufus."

As if drawn by the sound of his name, Rufus tiptoed around the far side of the box and blinked at Owen. Owen blinked back, then extended his hand.

"He isn't very friendly," Shea warned him.

Just to make a fool of her, Rufus nuzzled up against Owen's fingers and began to purr.

"Such a nice kitty," Owen crooned and scratched behind the cat's ears. "Nice Rufus."

Rufus immediately rolled over and exposed his tummy, inviting more extensive scratching.

"Must just be me he doesn't like," Shea murmured, pushing to her feet. She carted the box inside and set it in one corner of the studio, wondering what she was supposed to feed this troublesome creature.

Owen scooped up Rufus and followed her in. "We finish painting today?" he asked her.

They'd been working on the studio since the day after Christmas. They'd swept up the glass, repaired the furniture, and repainted the walls. Once the new camera and supplies arrived, Shea could begin to reschedule her portrait sittings and see if she could pick up where she'd left off. But the incident had shaken her confidence.

She could see that the vandalism had disturbed Cam, too. He'd become more protective since that night, more attentive. More apprehensive somehow. She could sense a brittleness in him that was strangely incompatible with the man she'd come to know. It was almost as if he was waiting...

But waiting for what?

Shea gave a snort of impatience and dispatched Owen down the block to see if he could find something Rufus might like for breakfast.

Cam was still on her mind when he burst through the door a few minutes later. "Are they here?" he demanded. "Have you seen them?"

"Seen who?" she asked. Cam was rumpled and unshaven. She heard a ragged edge of panic in his voice. Alarm spiraled through her.

"Rand and Ty."

"Rand?" she echoed, her throat pinching tight.

"This was the only other place I could think of to look for them," he told her, trying to catch his breath.

"I found Ty's cat outside my door this morning. I think he and his father have left Denver. Did Rand go with them?" she asked incredulously.

Cam pulled a crumpled paper from the pocket of his coat. "I found this when I went to wake Rand this morning."

The note was written in Rand's careful copperplate script.

Dear Pa and Aunt Lily,

Ty's father went off yesterday. Ty says he thinks he knows where he is, so we are headed out to find him.

We should be back in a couple of days. Please don't worry.

Love,

Randall Cameron Gallimore

P.S. I took Jasper and some food with me.

Shea looked up at Cam, at the taut, pinched lines between his brows, and the narrow set of his mouth. New shadows haunted the blue of his eyes. She reached for him, catching his hand, feeling his warmth and sinewy strength beneath her fingertips.

"Surely they'll be all right."

Cam shook off her hold and paced from one end of the studio to the other. "Do you have any idea where they went?"

"Well, there's a mining camp up in the mountains—"

"Where is it?" he demanded. "How far?"

"A full day's ride when the weather's good."

"When the weather's good," he echoed, the lines in his face settling deeper. "But it's going to snow..."

Hot threads of apprehension darted through her. It might very well be snowing up in the mountains already.

"Oh, Cam! They're such little boys to be up there all alone." Her little boys—Rand, her precious son, and Ty, the child she'd been mothering in Rand's stead.

Cam clasped her hand in his, giving back the assurance she'd given him. "They'll be all right. Now can you tell me how to find that camp so I can go and bring them home?"

She shook her head. "I'm going with you."

"Oh, Shea," he protested. "I don't think—"

"The turnoff to the camp could be hard to spot, especially if it's snowing," she argued, thinking how easy it would be for the boys to get lost up there. Besides, she wasn't going to sit in Denver when her son was missing.

"It's damned rough country," he warned her.

"I know what kind of country it is."

"The temperature's dropping, and if it's started to snow—"

"Then, don't we need to dress warmly and get on our way?"

Something about her pragmatism won him over. "I'll be back in half an hour with supplies and horses." He paused halfway to the door and glanced back at her. "You're a damn stubborn woman, Shea Waterston."

Coming from him, the words sounded like a compliment.

* * *

They'd trekked a good long way up into the mountains before it started to snow. At first Cam tried to convince himself that what he saw ahead was fog creeping down from the high country, but soon enough the whorls of white resolved themselves into tight, dry flakes. As the snow thickened around them, Cam glanced back and saw that Shea was staying close on his heels in spite of the pace he'd set for them.

She was bundled up against the cold in a heavy woolen skirt, a sheepskin jacket she'd borrowed from Owen, and two pairs of gloves. A long knitted scarf tied down her hat.

Had Rand thought to dress as warmly? Cam wondered. Had he brought matches, food, and blankets in case he and Ty got stranded? Did Ty know the way to this camp well enough that they wouldn't get lost? Speaking those worries aloud would have made them far too real, yet they wore at him with every step.

"They'll be all right," Shea said, nudging her horse up close beside his on the narrow trail, speaking the reassurance as if she'd read his mind. "Ty's as resourceful as they come, and Rand won't let him take any foolish chances."

Still, beneath the broad brim of her hat, Cam could see Shea's face was every bit as set and grim as his own.

They pressed ahead. Here along the edge of the ice-skimmed stream they were sheltered from the wind, but ahead, where the trail wound higher, all Cam could see was roiling clouds of white. The snow fell faster the further they went. It blew in their faces and piled up in the folds of their clothes.

They lost the light as the clouds settled low and the velvety pines closed in around them. The trail turned slick and treacherous underfoot. The horses labored, chuffing with the altitude and the effort it took to keep plowing ahead. Only when Shea's horse stumbled in a belly-deep drift did Cam ask about stopping for the night.

"I'm afraid I'll miss the turnoff to the mining camp if it gets too dark," she admitted, shivering.

The world around them had gone silent, opaque. The swirling snow had a milk blue shimmer that obscured everything but this one dim notch between the trees.

"There's an old trapper's cabin not far ahead," Cam conceded. "We'll stop there and wait for daylight."

With every step they took Cam prayed he'd find the boys holed up in that battered shack, but when they reached it, the snow blown against the door lay undisturbed. Fighting down desolation, Cam sent Shea into the cabin while he saw to the horses.

By the time he brought in their saddles, Shea had a fire going. She'd unfurled their bedrolls across the floor and had melted snow enough to make tea. He hunkered down on the bedding closest to the flames to warm himself. With the heat of the fire and the flickering orange glow dancing over the walls, the shack might have seemed snug, almost cozy if he hadn't been so worried about the boys.

"Surely they've found someplace to shelter for the night," she said hopefully, though he could sense the tautness in her, too.

"If the boys left Denver at dawn," Shea went on, offering him a steaming mug of tea, "they may have made it to the mining camp before the weather got bad."

Cam gave a low, noncommittal grunt and unbuckled his gun belt before he accepted the tea.

Shea sipped from her own cup, then set it aside. "Do you mind if I have a look at your pistol?" Shea asked him.

Cam ignored the sharp twist of uneasiness in his gut. "Of course not."

She slid the pistol from his holster, handling the weapon carefully, but without a woman's squeamishness. She settled her palm around the mother-of-pearl grip and, taking care to turn the barrel away, she examined the inlay and the chasing.

"Where have I seen this gun before?" she asked him.

Apprehension jolted along Cam's nerves. "It was hanging in my room while you were recovering."

"You've taken to wearing it more often lately," she observed.

Cam nodded, nursing his tea. "For the same reason I've been having Rand ride back and forth to town with me. Because there are more miscreants in Colorado this year than last."

She frowned running her fingers along the gun's delicate silver traceries. "I don't think that's why I remember it."

The broken photographic plate flashed before Cam's eyes. She'd seen a gun just like this one when she'd taken that photograph of Wes Seaver. He just prayed she wouldn't remember.

"The pistol is one of a pair my men gave me after the Rapidan," he volunteered, hoping to divert her.

She glanced at him. "Why?"

He swallowed down more of his tea. It tasted gritty and sulfurous as cannon smoke. "Well, I'd made major, for one thing, and I'd managed to keep more than half my troopers alive through three years of battle."

It didn't sound like much, but considering what those years had been like, it was little short of a miracle.

"What happened to this gun's mate?" she asked instead.

"I lost it," he said shortly.

"How?"

Trust Shea to ask. He hesitated trying to decide how much of the truth to tell her. More rather than less, he thought.

"Toward the closing days of the war I was assigned to a roughshod detachment of soldiers and was fool enough to take that fancy rig with me. Right off one of the officers offered to buy the guns. When I wouldn't sell, he tried to win them at poker. That didn't work, so he had his orderly try to steal them. Finally he took my horse from the picket line and deliberately mistreated him." Cam shrugged. "I couldn't tolerate that, so I picked a fight."

"And you lost?"

Cam stared down into his tea. "Yeah."

It hadn't been a fair fight. Riding with outlaws, he shouldn't have expected it to be. Still, losing to Seaver had rankled him. He'd been sprawled on his face breathing dust when Seaver propped a foot in the small of his back and pulled the pistol from the holster at Cam's hip.

"I'm leaving the other of these fine guns for you," Seaver had drawled. "So that every time you draw it, you'll remember I'm the better man."

"And the officer kept the gun?" Shea asked him.

Her question jarred Cam, chased the memory away. "He took it as his due."

Shea admired the Colt a moment longer, polished the fingerprints from the barrel with the hem of her skirt, and slid the pistol into its holster.

The wash of relief came so strong Cam felt almost drunk on it. If she didn't remember now where she'd seen this gun's mate, she'd never connect him to Wes Seaver.

Shea went to rummaging through the saddlebags, pulling out bread and cheese and apples for their dinner. Cam's stomach rumbled as she set the food before him, and he couldn't help worrying about what Rand and Ty were having for supper.

"And you're sure this mining camp is where Morran would go?" he asked her.

Shea looked up from slicing the bread. "Didn't the barkeep over where he and Ty were living tell you some of Morran's cronies came and got him?"

"Which for miners is odd," Cam reflected. "Winter isn't a miner's most productive time. So why would Morran hightail it back to this camp? And what would prevent him from taking Ty?"

"Could they have made some kind of a strike?"

"That's possible," he allowed, but knew it wasn't likely. "I just wish the boys hadn't been as brash and reckless."

Shea's mouth tipped up at the corner, and she slid him a sidelong glance. "I'll warrant you were every bit as brash and reckless when you were younger."

"Oh, I don't know," he said with another shrug. "Has Lily been telling tales on me?"

"She did say you won medals in the war. That sounds brash and reckless to me."

The mention of the war caught him like it always did, quick and hard. Drenching him in memories.

"It's war that makes men brash and reckless," he said with more than a modicum of bitterness. "It makes them do things against their beliefs, against their conscience. War forces men to deny their humanity, and when what they've done has turned them into beasts, the government gives them medals for doing it."

Shea might have seen how it was with him the night of the opening and understood some of it. But not all—and he wasn't about to enlighten her.

He took a slice of bread and a piece of cheese and shifted back onto his elbows, putting some distance between them. "So tell me about growing up in Ireland," he suggested. "I'll wager you weren't the most staid and docile of children, either."

She laughed as if she were pleased that he'd given her leave to speak of happier things. As they ate, she told him about her life in the cottage by the sea. She spoke of her da and mam, of her brothers and sisters, of boating and fishing and riding over miles of rolling countryside at her father's heels.

She was so lovely sitting there in the firelight, her eyes alive with memories, the lilt in her voice deepening, her words flowing with a special kind of music. The glow of the fire set the copper lights to shimmering in her coppery curls and deepened the ruddy flush the wind had scoured into her cheeks.

It seemed all at once like a very long time since he'd touched her softness or tasted her warmth. He yearned for that tonight, for comfort and surcease. He longed for the vitality of her flesh beneath his hands and the sweetness of her mouth. He wanted to lie down with her, wrap her in his arms, and forget how cold and weary and worried he was about the boys.

But he couldn't bring himself to compromise Shea any more than he had already compromised her by bringing her here. He couldn't take advantage of either her womanliness or her warm heart. Still, he needed some harmless bit of contact.

From where he was propped up beside her, listening to her tales of her home, he could reach the thick, brushy bloom of curls at the bottom of her tightly wrapped braid. He raised his hand to stroke those gingery strands, to rub the silky corkscrew tendrils between his fingertips. Her hair was as soft and vital as Shea was herself. And as mesmerizingly lovely.

At his touch, she paused, an unfinished sentence still poised on her lips. She closed her eyes, and for a score of heartbeats went utterly still. When she turned to him, he could see the same lonely desperation in her face, the same yearning for tenderness and succor he was feeling.

His chest filled with warmth, filled with wonder.

"Shea," he whispered, wanting to offer her what she needed. "Oh, Shea."

Tightening his hold on her braid, he drew her toward him.

Shea hesitated; her eyes darkened and her mouth bowed. For an instant he thought she might pull away, but then she sighed and came to him.

He kissed her gently at first, his lips barely grazing hers. Her mouth was succulent and even softer than he remembered—plush, pillowy pink and fresh with the taste of apples. His lips settled over hers, lingering and then withdrawing, sipping and pressing.

Her mouth moved sinuously beneath his, caressing, retreating and giving back. She grazed his upper lip with the tip of her tongue, rasping along the bristly edge of his mustache, then returned to slick his lower lip.

As they kissed, he pulled the ribbon from her braid and began to untwine her soft, thick hair. He spread the loosened strands against her shoulders and back in a mass of tumbled coppery-gold curls. He filled his palms with that softness as he eased her down across their bedrolls.

Lying beside her length to length, he was reminded how small she was, how delicate, how deliciously feminine. He pulled her close and raised his hand to cup her cheek. He tipped her mouth to his and lavished those full, sweet lips with the swipe of his tongue.

This was what they needed, Cam decided hazily. Closeness and comfort, the balm of touching, the companionship of these few shared intimacies. They needed shelter from the cold and from the fear that had dogged them every mile they rode today. Surely no harm could come of giving and receiving something so simple, something so basic.

They kissed for a very long time, slow, lazy, languorous kisses. Kisses that rode the rhythm of their breathing. Kisses that shuttered the world and their worries away. Kisses that teased and probed and promised.

Her hands slid over him as they kissed, going around his ribs and up his back. Cam drew her closer, telling himself comfort and succor were all he meant to give—and all he wanted for himself.

He should have known better.

Tangled there before the fire, their kisses ripened. Deepened. Darkened. They skimmed the ragged edge of passion.

As innocent as Cam had meant those kisses to be, they kindled a thick, rich heat between them. Cam's senses sang with his awareness of Shea's earthy lavender scent, with the oddly provocative way she moved beneath him, with the soft, appreciative sighs she gave as he raised his mouth from hers.

How much he longed to ease her out of her clothes and lie with her skin to skin, to tangle his legs with hers, and skim his hands the length of her back. He wanted to savor that closeness, savor that heat. He wanted to make love with her.

The admission sobered him, and before he could act, Cam rolled away from her. He sat up at the edge of the blanket, dizzy and disoriented.

"I need to—to go check on the horses," he managed to mumble.

But as he reached for his holster and his pistol, Shea caught his hand. "The horses will be fine," she assured him, her thumb caressing the curve of his wrist where the blood ran hot and close to the surface. "I want you to stay with me."

He shook his head and swallowed. "If I stay," he whispered, "I'm going to end up making love to you."

Her dusky green gaze rose to his. Her eyes were soft and bottomless with yearning. "I know," she answered.

His breath caught in his throat and he stared at her. "That is isn't why I brought you here."

Shea nodded and came to kneel beside him. Slowly she lifted his hand and curled his fingers around the top button in the row that ran down the front of her bodice.

"Shea?" he managed to whisper.

She inclined her head.

Desire condensed inside him like breath on glass.

Cam slipped one whorled pewter button from its buttonhole. With fingers that trembled, he undid a second and a third. Shea's bodice began to part, revealing a long, ivory white V of skin, and the wash-softened folds of her underthings.

He reached to skim that soft freshly exposed throat, the creamy billow of her breasts above the neckline of her chemise. He pulled the satin bow at the neckline of the quilted jaconet she'd worn for warmth, and loosened the hooks along the front.

Then he pulled her against him and kissed her, slow, sweet, sensual kisses.

They parted long enough to finish removing their clothes. His vest and shirt, her bodice and jaconet. His boots and trousers, her skirt and flannel petticoats. They paused in their disrobing to touch and savor and fondle. But the cabin was chill, and soon they sought their bedrolls.

There beneath the blankets they came together skin to skin, opened mouth to opened mouth, a sweet damp heat mingling between them. She tangled her fingers in his hair and he stroked his palms down the length of her back.

There was such delectable comfort here, such tenderness and warmth and communion. Such joy and forgetfulness, such ease and sustenance. This was what he'd wanted—to be with her, to have her be with him. To lose themselves for a little while.

Kisses that had been filled with sweetness and succor became sleek and erotic. Touches flowed, bodies seethed with heat and provocation.

Cam lifted his hips against her mound. Shea moaned deep in her throat, soft and enticing. They began to move together in a slow erotic dance, their hands gliding and caressing, encompassing and exploring collarbones and bellies, breasts and thighs, shoulders and spines and hipbones. His sex and hers.

He had never made love to a woman he cared about the way he cared about Shea, and there was richness and delight in cherishing her. He gave of himself freely and for her sake, courting her pleasure. Shea gave of herself as well, communed with him with that same selfless generosity.

They played together until the worry and the weariness receded to the very periphery of their thoughts, and their senses were fogged with each other.

As she welcomed him into herself, Cam shivered with the heat and passion of that deep communion.

The sentient bonds drew taut between them, but they were linked by far more than the promise of pleasure. It was as if the boundaries between them had melted away, as if they were one flesh, one need, one soul.

They moved in a slow, sliding, sinuous measure, heads bowed to each other, their hips rolling in a rhythm men and women had shared forever. They were swept up in a deep mesmerizing voluptuousness, a communion without words, a search for sensation as much for each other as for themselves.

At length the tempo of their movements heightened. The friction of skin against skin, tongue against tongue, male into female became exquisite pleasure. That pleasure expanded, swelling from the places where their bodies joined, rising hot in their chests, leaping along their nerves, setting their hearts to thundering.

They cried out as completion rolled over them. He came, spilling himself into her, filling her, completing her. She came a moment after, drawing him deep into herself, binding him to her in ultimate and unconditional embrace.

They tangled together in the aftermath, petting, murmuring, drifting, replete. Cam had never known such fulfillment, such a sense of peace and satisfaction.

He wanted to tell Shea what that meant to him, what she meant to him, but he didn't know how. As he struggled to find the words, the haze of languorous perfection deepened, and together they drifted into dreamless sleep.

* * *

Shea awoke stiff and cold and alone amidst their tumbled bedding. She sat up with a start, the thick stew of worry bubbling inside her chest even before she'd opened her eyes. Was it light yet? Had the snow stopped? Were they going to be able to find Rand and Ty?

Shea scrambled from beneath the covers and wriggled into the clothes Cam had been thoughtful enough to gather up and set near the fire. As she fumbled with the buttons and hooks that had opened so easily the night before, she did her best not to think about Cam or about the marvelous and terrifying thing they'd done together.

Yet the merest thought of him brought a strange warmth to her chest and an anticipatory tightness to her belly. She did her best to dispel those feelings. She bundled and tied up their blankets, put water on to boil, and sliced up the last of the bread and cheese.

She was making their tea when Cam pushed open the door. A blast of fresh mountain air rolled into the cabin. Shea looked up and saw him standing in the doorway, tall and dark and magnificent against a world of shimmering white.

And in that instant she knew she loved him.

The realization rolled over her like ocean breakers roaring toward shore, stunning her, leaving her reeling and exhilarated. It shook her perceptions of him, of the world. Of herself. Her heart skipped hard beneath her breastbone, and she hastily averted her eyes, terrified that he would see what she was feeling. She busied herself setting out food and fumbled for something to say to him.

"Has—has it stopped snowing?"

Cam stomped the slush off his boots and came into the cabin. "Not only has it stopped snowing, but the temperature's risen forty degrees. Everything's melting."

She could smell the thaw, the warmth and earthiness that had swept into the cabin at Cam's heels.

"When are we leaving to look for the boys?"

"As soon as I get the horses saddled." He hesitated. "Is that all right?"

"Finding Rand and Ty is why we came," she answered and thrust the mug of tea at him.

Cam hunkered down beside her in front of the fire. He took a sip from his cup, then paused to tuck back the cluster of errant curls that straggled against her cheek. His touch was gentle, intensely intimate.

Though she shivered, the brush of his fingers against her skin sent heat blossoming at the pit of her stomach. Feverish agitation climbed up inside her ribs. Her throat went dry as tinder. It was a moment before she could raise her gaze to his.

When she did, he was close enough that she could see the crinkles at the corners of his eyes and the tenderness in the bowing of his mouth. For a moment she thought he meant to kiss her, but she managed to maneuver the plate of food between them.

Quirking one eyebrow, Cam retreated, helping himself to a slice of bread and a piece of cheese and settling down on one of the bedrolls to eat.

Shea set the plate on the floor between them and took a piece of bread for herself, but she was too overwhelmingly aware of Cam to swallow more than a mouthful.

She had fallen in love with him. One quick glance from beneath her lashes elicited the same clutch of elation she'd felt when he opened the door, the same fierce joy and warmth, the feverish awareness and possessiveness.

Only now that she recognized what this wondrous feeling was, she was forced to acknowledge everything that made loving him impossible—starting with the fact that he had adopted her child.

Cam must have sensed her uneasiness and edged closer again. "Shea?" he asked, his voice deep and tinged with concern. "Is everything all right?"

Shea started at the question. "Fine," she answered. "Everything's fine."

"Are you sure?" She could feel how closely he was watching her. "You're not sorry that we—"

"No!" Shea's head came up. She couldn't let him think that she regretted for a moment what might well be the most wonderful night of her life.

In truth they had come together because they were cold and tired and worried half to death about the boys. They'd needed the comfort of touching and bodies tangled close. They'd needed the solace of kisses and desires so deep they kept the world at bay. But in the end, what had passed between them had been something else, something extraordinary.

Shea had never known a man to offer up so much of himself in making love. Cam had courted her with the patience of his caresses. He had devoted himself to fulfilling her needs and desires. As they'd made love he had opened himself to her, showing her his innate loneliness and his longing for companionship, his joy in touching and being close, his willingness to reveal the most secret and fragile parts of himself to her.

Shea had never felt so revered and treasured as when she lay in Cam's arms. She'd never felt so connected to another human being—or so undeserving of his trust.

Her unworthiness stood out like a broadside, in the light of day. From the moment she'd realized Rand was her son, she'd been lying to Cam. She'd deliberately courted his confidences, then manipulated him to have more time with her boy. She'd even lied to him about her reasons for wanting to come up here with him. Even as she'd been taking shelter and comfort in his arms, she'd been nurturing the seeds of his betrayal in her heart.

Pure, gut-twisting guilt ate at her as she looked hard and long at what she'd done. She loved this man. She'd lain in his arms and shared the most tender intimacies a man and woman could have together. And all the while, she'd been keeping a secret that could destroy his world.

Then, all at once, Cam pushed to his feet and stood over her. "Well, then," he said, "if you're packed up and ready to head out, I'll go saddle the horses."

As he bent to grab up their saddles, the need to tell him the truth rose in Shea like a flood tide. The words she'd guarded so carefully sprang into her throat. The declarations burned like pepper on her tongue. She couldn't leave this place without telling him the truth about his boy, about her son. Without telling him the truth about herself.

When she'd revealed her secrets to him the last time, he had accepted them and comforted her. She couldn't imagine he would respond the same way now.

She turned to him while the resolution was burning hot in her belly. "Cam?"

He paused, silhouetted in the brightness of the open doorway. "Yes?"

For a moment the words were wedged tight in her throat, packed close by tears. Then she took a breath and revealed all of her secrets, all of herself. "I believe Rand is my son. I believe he's the child I gave away."

He stared at her, his eyes gone suddenly to flat blue planes, his expression stark and unreadable.

"He's exactly the same age as my son would be," she pushed ahead. "He came west on an orphan train to St. Joseph, Missouri, during the fall of 1866—just as my son did. Rand's eyes are almost the color of mine. He has that same special way with horses that both his father and my brother had. I believe he's mine."

"He's not your boy." Cam's voice was toneless, implacable.

She raised her chin. "I've never felt such an affinity for another child."

Cam didn't so much as question her. He just looked at her as if he didn't know who she was.

"He isn't yours," was all he said. Then he turned and went to saddle the horses.

* * *

Rand wasn't her son!

Shea was wrong. She'd made a mistake. What she claimed was impossible.

Cam was shaking inside, breathless and aching and coldly furious as he spurred his horse up the trail through the melting snow.

What could have possessed Shea to make such a claim? What was she thinking? How could those few coincidences and a handful of physical similarities convince her Rand was the child she'd given up?

It was ridiculous, preposterous.

It wasn't as if she'd tracked Rand down, arrived at the farm in search of the child she'd given up. She'd come to them by accident, by the purest chance.

Or the hand of fate.

Cam scowled and squinted into the snowy glare that lay ahead, and eased his horse along the slippery, twisting trail.

He didn't believe in fate. He didn't believe in miraculous reunions. He didn't believe Shea was right about who Rand was.

He sheared a glance back to where Shea was resolutely following him deeper and deeper into the mountains. He couldn't tell what she was thinking, but beneath the shadow of her hat he could see that her mouth was set in a thin determined line.

She really did believe that Rand was her child, goddamn her. She wouldn't lie about something as important as this, not something that could shatter so many lives. Shea might keep secrets, but she didn't lie.

Of course she didn't have proof of what she was claiming, either. Yet even if she'd come to him with sworn oaths and affidavits, he wouldn't have believed her, wouldn't have given up his son.

He couldn't give him up, even if he'd wanted to. Cam himself might love Rand as if he were his blood and bone, but that boy was Lily's life, the center of her world, the very bedrock of her existence. He couldn't let Shea—or anyone else—threaten his family.

He wouldn't ever let Shea take Rand away.

Not that she could. If Cam knew one thing, it was the law, and Shea had no rights at all before the bar. She had no way to prove she was Rand's mother. She'd forfeited her claims to him when she'd left him on the steps of that foundling home and walked away. It didn't matter that she'd gone back; it didn't matter that she'd been searching for him all this time.

What mattered was that Cam had taken Rand as his son that day in St. Joe. He had the papers the Children's Aid Society agent had given him, granting him custody. He had gone on to adopt Rand, all legal and proper. Rand was his, his and Lily's.

He stole another glance at Shea and his chest went tight. He thought that when they'd touched and kissed, they'd been sharing something fine and pure and extraordinary. He thought she'd offered herself to him because she had yearned for tenderness and communion as fiercely as he, because she sensed the bond that had been growing between them. How could she have made love to him with such sweetness and abandon just last night, then told him what she believed about Rand this morning?

For the brief, sweet whisper of time when they'd lain together, he felt as if he'd wrapped his hands around something solid, something worth having, something just for him. Now everything he thought he'd found had crumbled in his grasp leaving him with nothing.

Leaving him with less than nothing. Where once there had been burgeoning hope that Shea was something special, there was now a cold hard knot of suspicion that she had lain with him for reasons of her own.

Whatever had made her do it, at least she hadn't told either Lily or Rand what she suspected. Somehow he'd have to find a way to convince her not to tell them, find a way to make her promise—

"Cam, I see them!" Shea cried out.

He jerked around and looked toward where she was pointing. Three riders were picking their way down a snowy incline that breached the rim of the next rise. Though they were still some distance away, Cam recognized Jasper's reddish hide and the size and shape of his son astride him.

Feeling shaky and light-headed, Cam cupped his hands around his mouth. "Hullo, Rand!" he shouted.

His voice echoed off the high rock walls, and Rand waved back. The gesture was extravagant, filled with confidence.

Damn fool boy! Cam found himself thinking, anger chasing hot on the heels of relief. To his son all this had been a grand adventure. Now he'd have to persuade Rand otherwise, perhaps with the help of a hickory switch.

"Oh, Cam!" Shea breathed from where she'd pulled up beside him. "They're safe!"

Cameron turned to her and was unsettled by the shimmer of tears on her cheeks and the gleam of possessiveness in her eyes as she watched his son picking his way toward them.

As they waited, he reached out and clasped her wrist. "Not a word to Rand of what you told me this morning," he warned. "I don't want him knowing about this until I've had a chance to look into your claims."

She stiffened, her eyes wide with reproach. "I would never do anything to hurt Rand," she averred. "Or Lily, either."

At least she understood what was at stake.

"Then see that you don't!" he hissed at her.

"Cam. Oh, Cam," she whispered so softly he wasn't sure she had meant for him to hear. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen the way it did."

Cam didn't have a chance to ask her what she meant, because Rand came loping toward them.

"You didn't need to come all the way up here, Pa!" he shouted. "We'd have been home tonight."

Cam rode out to meet his son, thinking how much older Rand suddenly seemed, how insufferably pleased he was with himself.

But as Cam closed the distance between them, Rand must have read the worry in his face. In the space of a heartbeat Rand's demeanor changed. He became a child again, one who'd suddenly realized just how much he'd displeased his father.

"Geez, Pa, I'm sorry," he began. "I'm sorry if I worried you. I didn't mean to. I'm really sorry. I didn't think—"

Cam drew rein beside his son, reached across, grabbed him, and hugged him hard. He needed the contact, the feel of his tall gangly boy against him, the reassurance that his son was safe. Rand's cheek came cold on his, and there was the smell about him of onions, tobacco smoke, and bacon grease. They were threatening smells, somehow, and Cam hugged him harder.

"Just what the devil were you thinking about, boy?" he demanded the moment he let Rand go. "Coming all the way up here, just you and Ty? Your aunt Lily's been beside herself since we found your note. How could you be so reckless?"

Rand bobbed his head. "I'm sorry, Pa. I didn't mean to make Aunt Lily worry. But when Ty said he was headed up into the mountains after his pa, I figured I couldn't let him go all by himself."

Cam scowled at the boy. "Ty's your friend; he isn't your responsibility. You deliberately left home without permission. You went somewhere you knew you shouldn't go and put yourself in a situation that might have been dangerous. It's only by the grace of God that you and Ty didn't get hurt or lost or frozen to death. Once we get back to the house, we're going to have a long talk and decide on your punishment."

"All right, Pa," Rand offered meekly. "I'm really sorry I worried you."

Shea nudged her pony closer just as Sam and Ty joined the group. Cam could tell by the expression in their faces that they were surprised to see her, but he didn't offer any explanations.

Instead he leveled his gaze on Sam Morran. "Are the boys all right?" Cam asked him. "Did you take good care of them?"

"They got up to where I was staying just before the storm blew in," Morran answered as if he didn't like being questioned. "We fed 'em, we watered 'em, and we gave 'em a place to sleep. I was bringing 'em back to Denver this morning."

Cam nodded, not quite satisfied. "Mrs. Waterston tells me you were at some sort of mining camp, is that right?"

Morran's eyes widened and his gaze flickered to Shea. "It's where she met the boy and me."

"And why did you go back there?" Cam asked.

When it looked like Morran didn't know what to answer, Ty spoke up. "Some of Pa's friends come and got him. You had business up there, didn't you, Pa? Something about the claims?"

Morran glanced at his son. "Yeah, something like that."

Cam wouldn't have minded questioning Sam Morran more closely, but gray clouds were beginning to crowd out the sun and the wind was picking up. Cam didn't want to take the chance of getting caught in another snowstorm.

"We'll talk, Morran, once we get back to Denver," he promised and turned toward home.

They all fell in behind him: Rand riding on his flank, Shea trailing after them, Ty and his father bringing up the rear. Cam should have been content to be bringing his son home safely. But his world had changed since he'd ridden out, and he didn't have any idea what to make of it.

* * *

It was just after dark when they turned up the lane to the farm. Shea was cold, saddle-sore, and tired all the way down to her bones. Yet for all her weariness, she was humming with tension, overwhelmed with remorse, afraid for the future in a way she hadn't been since Simon died. Fear sat like a weight on her chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to think beyond the terrible, life-altering mistake she'd made this morning.

Since the night she'd asked Cam about the man she'd shot, the two of them had shared a bond neither of them had expected to have with anyone. Shea saw things in him that no one else ever saw, and gradually he'd revealed the more closely held parts of himself to her.

In return for keeping his confidences, he'd opened his home to her, helped her establish her studio and start her business. He'd accepted her even when she'd told him about the child she'd given away, and held her close when everything she'd worked for had been reduced to chaos. The two of them had been good together as friends and confidantes.

She shivered, remembering just how good they'd been together as lovers in the smoky darkness of that mountain cabin. How each touch, each kiss had been imbued with overwhelming tenderness and deep communion. It was as if they'd joined on some level that was closer than skin to skin. As if their hearts had touched, as if their nerves had surged with the same impulses. As if they'd come together in some extraordinary way.

Then because she'd realized what being with Cam meant to her, she'd told him the last of her secrets.

Shea shivered again, this time with dread. How much had she lost by telling the truth? Certainly she'd lost Cam's trust, risked Lily's friendship, and maybe even forfeited contact with her child.

How could she make her way in the world if Cam refused to let her see her boy? How would she live without contact with her son, now that she'd finally found him?

As they rode up the drive toward the Gallimore farmhouse, its windows glowed with their usual warmth and welcome. Yet somehow Shea had never felt more alone, more separate from the people she'd come to care for and depend on here in Denver.

As Shea pulled up behind Dr. Farley's buggy, Emmet led Lily carefully out of the house.

She took one look at the weary riders and gave a shout of joy. "Rand!" she cried, running down the steps and into the lane. "Oh, Rand! You're safe!"

Rand jumped off Jasper's back and threw himself into Lily's arms. They came together with enough force to rattle their bones, but neither of them seemed to mind.

"Oh, Aunt Lily, I'm sorry!" Rand exclaimed, hugging her. "I'm so glad to be home!"

Lily ran her hands across his shoulders and down his back, as if she needed to confirm that he was solid and real and here with her. "Are you all right, child?"

"I didn't mean for you to worry—"

"Did you get caught in the blizzard?"

"—but when Ty said he was going up into the mountains—"

"It got so cold!"

"—I thought I'd better go with him."

"You were you dressed warmly enough, weren't you, Rand? You didn't get frostbite, did you? Can you wiggle your toes?"

"My toes are fine," he assured her. "Oh, Aunt Lily, I wish I hadn't worried you so much!"

Lily hugged him almost off his feet and burst into tears.

Watching the two of them together, Shea's own eyes teared and her heart broke all over again.

Just then, Cam nudged his horse up close to hers.

"She's his mother now," he whispered. "There's nothing to be gained by telling either of them what you told me this morning. It's here Rand belongs, here in the only home he's ever known."

The truth of his words tore into her, slicing so much deeper because what Cam said mattered to her. But neither the truth he'd spoken nor the pain he'd inflicted could keep Shea from longing for her son.

She wanted Rand and the life she'd missed and the family she'd never had. She yearned to be part of something as wondrous and enduring as what she saw between Rand and Lily, between Cam and her boy. She ached for that same closeness with her son. But what good would it do to claim her boy if he ended up hating her for depriving him of something so wonderful?

When Lily was finally done hugging her boy she tucked Rand tight beneath her arm and came to where Shea and the Morrans still sat their horses.

"I want to thank you for all you did to bring Rand home," she said. "I thank you Mr. Morran for seeing Rand was safe while he was with you. And Shea." Lily reached up and took Shea's hand. "What would I do without such a fine and faithful friend?"

Tears burned in Shea's throat and she dared not reply for fear she'd cry in front of Lily and Cam.

"Now," Lily began again, "won't all you folks come in and let me feed you supper? I've got good venison stew simmering, and it won't take me a minute to make some biscuits."

Morran spoke up first. "Much as we'd like to stay, Miss Gallimore, we need to get on back into Denver. Ty's got jobs he's been neglecting, and I got a few things of my own to take care of."

"I need to get back into town, as well," Shea murmured, knowing she couldn't help the Gallimores celebrate Rand's return. "I need to see how Owen's done without me."

As exhausted and as brittle as Shea felt, all she could think about was getting back to the studio, closing the door behind her, and crying until she'd spent the last of her tears. The life she'd always dreamed of was dissolving like sugar in tea, and there wasn't a thing in the world she could do to stop it.