Chapter 16

Dear God! Cam looks terrible, Shea thought as the bailiff led Ty and her to the seats they'd occupied in the courtroom the day before. Seeing the dark hollows scoured beneath Cam's eyes and the lines of weariness bracketing his mouth, she wondered if he'd slept last night at all.

She'd tossed and turned herself until almost dawn, grappling with the memory of following Cam to his office and what she'd found when she got there. Never had she imagined that the strong, calm, capable man she thought she knew could be so fragile and vulnerable. She had taken him into her arms instinctively, needing to comfort, needing to absorb as much of his confusion and pain as she could. She'd wanted so much to be with him, to offer him the balm of lovers' intimacy, the succor of her tenderness.

Close as they'd been last night, he'd finally given up the last of his secrets, trusted her with what he believed was the worst of himself. Even after he'd told her what he'd been and done, Shea's faith in him was unshaken.

God knows Cam had made his mistakes, but he wasn't brutal or cruel. He wasn't the kind of man Wes Seaver was, and she couldn't help believing Cam had had reasons of his own for joining up with the guerrillas so late in the war.

She only feared—especially when she saw how brittle and drained Cam looked this morning—that he would bend beneath the weight of Wes Seaver's threats, sacrifice his honor to protect his sister.

She couldn't bear the thought of that, of what it would do to him, of what it would do to Rand and Lily. Cam was the foundation the two of them had built their lives on, and while Seaver's revelations might rock their world, Cam's family would survive unless he crumbled.

Shea looked up at where Cam was giving a few last instructions to his bailiff and wished she'd had that insight to give him last night. Shea longed to go to him now, look into his eyes, and reassure him. She wanted to tell him he must stand against Seaver's threats for everyone's sake.

But the courtroom was quickly filling with lawyers and jurors and spectators. The trial was about to resume, and she'd have no chance to talk to him.

Beside her, Ty leaned in close. "Is Cam mad at us?" he wanted to know.

Shea smiled and gently smoothed down Ty's hair. He hadn't slept well, either. She'd heard him cry out more than once in the night, but when she'd gone to him, he'd turned to the wall to hide his tears.

"Of course Cam's not mad at us," she offered gently. "He doesn't want to be here today any more than we do."

Ty nodded as if he understood, but before she could say more the deputies brought in the defendants.

As he settled into his chair at the defense table, Sam Morran glanced back at his boy. A smile touched his lips, a smile warm enough to drive the fear and sadness from his eyes.

Ty reached out and closed his short, blunt fingers around the tails of his father's battered sack coat. He gripped it tight, crimping new wrinkles into the already rumpled cloth.

The brevity and the intensity of that contact wrung Shea's heart. What would this child do when the jury brought back their verdict? How would she console Ty when his father was sentenced to hang?

"First District Court is now in session," the bailiff intoned.

Cam clapped his gavel and the trial picked up with the presentation of the defense attorneys' cases. Cal Edwards, Jake Seaver's attorney, called his first witness.

Hyram Plumber was the barkeep at the Citation Saloon, one of Denver's seediest drinking establishments. After establishing that the man had been pouring drinks the day of the robbery, the lawyer went on to question him. "Were any of the men in this room drinking at your establishment that afternoon?"

"Why, yes, sir, they were," Plumber answered crisply. "Mr. Seaver and Mr. Morran were there, and Mr. Faber came in a few minutes later. The three of them ordered a bottle."

"Can you identify those men for the jury, Mr. Plumber?"

"Sure," Plumber said with a nod of his bald head. "They're the ones sitting over there, done up in manacles."

Mr. Edwards frowned as if he wished Plumber had used some other way of identifying his client and the others, but proceeded anyway. "Mr. Plumber, just how do you know these gentlemen were in your establishment at the precise moment the Bank of Denver was being robbed?"

"Well, sir, when we heard gunfire from the shootout at the bank, Mr. Seaver turned to me and said, 'What the hell is that?' "

A murmur rose in response to Plumber's answer.

Seaver's attorney waited for the din to die away. "And how did you answer Mr. Seaver?"

"I said, 'Damned if I know.' But then, for some reason, I took out my pocket watch."

"And what time was it?"

"It was ten minutes after one." Plumber paused for effect. "Which is amazing, you know, because that is exactly the time the Rocky Mountain News said the robbers came out of the bank."

"You're sure of the time?" Edwards asked.

"I said so, didn't I?" The saloon keeper took out a rumpled handkerchief and blotted perspiration from his upper lip.

"What did the defendants do when they heard the shooting?"

"Do? Well, sir, the three of them tossed back their drinks, and went out to see what the ruckus was about. I saw them head up the street in the direction of the shooting," Plumber testified, "so maybe that's how folks got the idea it was them that robbed the bank."

"And you're swearing these men were in the Citation Saloon at the day and time in question?"

The barkeep bobbed his head. "I specifically remember, because they left half a bottle on the table when they went out."

"Which you watered and sold to some other unsuspecting sod, you cheating bastard!" someone shouted from the back of the courtroom.

The place erupted with catcalls and laughter.

Cam straightened like a shot and banged his gavel. "There will be order in this court, or I'll have the bailiff toss the lot of you out into the street!"

Even at that, it took a minute or two for the crowd to settle. When they had, Cam turned to Mr. Edwards. "Have you any more you want to ask this witness, sir?"

"No, Your Honor."

Cam turned to Faber's and Morran's attorneys.

Morran's lawyer, Josiah Wallace, got up and asked one question. "And you're sure Sam Morran was in your establishment during the bank robbery?"

"Like I said. I know Mr. Morran real good. He's one of my best customers."

It was a dubious achievement, to Shea's way of thinking, but it established Sam Morran's identity.

Matt Faber's attorney asked specifically about his client, and received much the same assurances.

John McGreggor, the prosecutor, rose. "You testified, Mr. Plumber, that while the defendants were in your saloon, you took out your watch." Plumber inclined his head. "And that it was at exactly ten minutes after one o'clock in the afternoon on January the twenty-sixth, is that right?"

"Yes."

"You're sure it was the twenty-sixth?"

Plumber laid his hand across his heart. "It would have been my dear mama's sixty-first birthday. God rest her soul."

"Do you happen to have the timepiece in question with you?" McGreggor asked.

Cam frowned down from the bench. "Mr. McGreggor, is there a purpose to this?"

Shea's heart leaped and she couldn't help wondering why Cam was questioning the prosecutor's methods.

Was this what judges did, or was; he preparing to undermine the prosecution?

"I think you'll see the purpose, Your Honor," McGreggor answered, "if you allow me another question or two."

Cam scowled and nodded.

"Would you mind if I took a look at your watch, Mr. Plumber?"

Plumber shot a quizzical glance at Seaver's attorney, then dug the watch out of his pocket.

McGreggor turned the shiny silver pocket watch in his hand and popped open the case. "This keep good time, Mr. Plumber?"

"Un-huh," Plumber answered, pressing his handkerchief to his upper lip again.

"And why do you find it necessary to carry this timepiece, sir?" McGreggor asked, shutting the case over the face of the watch.

"Well," the witness began with a grin, "for one thing, it ain't good business to have a clock in a barroom."

The crowd rumbled again, probably in agreement.

"I see," McGreggor murmured, flicking open the side of the watch case that protected the works. "So, Mr. Plumber, can you explain to me how you consulted this watch, the very one you claim to have been carrying on January twenty-six of this year, when it's engraved with your name and the date 'February eight, 1876'?"

Plumber paled, and Shea heard Cal Edwards curse under his breath. "Goddamned idiot!" he mumbled.

Cam banged and banged his gavel, but it was a full five minutes before the turmoil in the room sank to manageable levels.

When it did McGreggor continued, "I have a bill of sale from Hense Jewelers, which details the sale of this watch and is dated the eighth of February."

Cam scowled over the edge of his bench at the witness. "Well, Mr. Plumber, you care to tell the court what happened here?"

Plumber had sweated through his shirt and vest. "I got nothing to say, Your Honor."

"Well then, I'm going to ask my bailiff to escort you to the room next door so we can have a little chat when I'm done here about what happens to witnesses who perjure themselves."

Once Plumber was gone, Cam turned to the jury. "Now then, it's my duty to direct you to disregard this witness's testimony and not to consider it in your deliberations."

The trial proceeded, and in the course of the morning, the defense called three more witnesses who proved hardly more reliable than Hyram Plumber.

Just before twelve o'clock, Cam banged his gavel and adjourned the court for the noon meal. Shea waited in the corridor, needing to talk to Cam, needing to convince him not to bow to Seaver's threats. But Cam never showed his face beyond the tightly locked door of his chambers.

The afternoon session was louder and more unruly than the previous one, probably owing to the fact that most of the spectators had sought their lunch at the saloons surrounding the courthouse. Once Cam had called everyone to order, he asked the lawyers to make their final statements.

Shea listened raptly, and found Prosecutor McGreggor's strong and relentlessly logical. Five citizens of Denver had been ruthlessly shot during the robbery. Numerous unimpeachable witnesses had identified the outlaws. All three of the defendants had been arrested outside the bank with their weapons drawn.

The defense attorneys attempted to convince the jury that their clients had been mistakenly identified in the confusion of the robbers' escape.

After all the lawyers had spoken, Cam turned to instruct the jury. As Shea understood it, this would be his chance to explain how they should consider the evidence, limit the scope of their deliberations, and temper the outcome of the trial.

Shea's heart beat hard inside her. If Cam was going to submit to Wes Seaver's blackmail, he would begin to guide the jury's purpose now. As if he knew what she was thinking, he glanced across at her, and the desolation in his eyes made her belly churn with dread.

"Sometimes," Cam began his directive, his voice ringing low and resonant across the crowded courtroom, "sometimes mitigating circumstances alter the deliberations a jury undertakes and affect the outcome of a trial. I believe that there are things about this case, this robbery, that might influence the way you judge the men being tried today."

Oh, Cam, no!

Shea bit her lip to keep from crying out, knowing it was already too late to change what was about to happen. If she'd wanted to help him stand against Seaver's threats, she should have held his hands in hers last night, promised him that Lily would understand and forgive him his past, and pledged to help and support him whatever came. She hadn't done that. Instead she had let him run her off, let him believe he had to walk this treacherous road alone.

Up on the judge's bench Cam continued his instructions to the jury. "I think that the deaths of your friends and your neighbors might well color the deliberations you are about to undertake. I know you are bound to feel bitterness and grief at the deaths of these good men. You may even long for revenge against their killers. That's more than understandable, but those feelings have no place in a juror's mind."

Cam compressed his lips before he went on. "When you agreed to serve on this jury you took an oath. You promised to set aside your personal considerations in the name of the law. It is my duty to remind you of that pledge."

His gaze moved over the jury, the courtroom, and came to rest on the defendants.

"You must consider the charges against these three men solely on the evidence presented here—and nothing else. No wishes to avenge these senseless deaths, no feelings of bitterness and hatred. It is the law that raises us a step above the beasts, and we must uphold the rights and responsibilities it demands of us."

Shea's throat closed and her eyes burned with pride. Cam had not bowed to Seaver's threats. He might be forced to confront his past, but he would do it as a man who stood for right and honor. If he let her, she would stand proudly beside him through whatever came.

Cam drew a long breath and let it out again before he concluded. "As you go off together, you must consider each of these men's crimes separately. That means you might well decide on different verdicts for each of them—and ultimately provide for different punishments. The bailiff will escort you to a room where you can consider those decisions."

Deputy Sim Cummings led the jurors out a side door of the courtroom. Cam rapped his gavel sharply to adjourn the court. There was nothing for any of them to do now, but wait.

* * *

"Jury's coming back, Judge," Deputy Cummings said, seeking Cam out in the small spartan chamber down the hall from the courtroom.

Cam put down the cup of coffee he'd been drinking and pushed to his feet. "Be right there."

"We gonna have a necktie party, Judge?" Someone in the hallway waved a flask in his face as if the man were proposing a toast. Cam batted the flask aside.

"We'll have to see," he answered and promised himself that once this was over he was going to take a bottle of whiskey off somewhere and drink himself insensible.

The jury had come to their verdict even faster than Cam had anticipated. Nor did he think their efficiency boded well for the men on trial. Not that he was surprised; these three were unquestionably guilty of the charges brought against them.

Except maybe for Sam Morran. Cam couldn't imagine for a moment that Morran could have shot someone. Certainly none of the witnesses had said he did, but Cam supposed that didn't matter. Denver was in a hanging mood. The populace—goaded by the shrill headlines in the newspapers—had decided the men who'd died in the course of the robbery had to be avenged, and today that bill came due.

It was time for Cam to play his part in this—despite Wes Seaver's threats. Once the jury had published its verdict, he'd pass the sentence, set the date, and attend the execution.

The very thought of facing another hanging—especially this hanging—made his belly burn. Dear God, he hated being part of this!

He hated even more that he was going to have to condemn Sam Morran in front of his boy. He'd wished he could count on Shea to keep Ty out of the courtroom, but he knew short of chloroform or hog-tieing she wouldn't be able to prevent the boy from being there. In a way Cam couldn't blame him. He'd needed to be at his father's bedside when he died, and he hadn't been a whole lot older than Ty was now.

As Cam took his place on the bench, he glanced across and saw that Shea and Ty were seated in their usual place. Though Ty's mouth was set, Cam could see a glimmer of hope in him, some stubborn childish belief that everything would be all right. Shea sat with Ty's hand wrapped tight in hers, and Cam thought she might be hoping for a miracle, too.

In any case, he figured he owed her some sort of warning. He caught her eye, then nodded almost imperceptibly. Still holding his gaze, she inclined her head.

What surprised him even more than her perceptiveness was the compassion he saw in her eyes. She understood what having to pass this sentence was doing to him, how speaking the words was going to flay his soul. And he could see that no matter what he'd told her, no matter what he'd done, she was willing to stand by him when this was over.

The din in the courtroom rose as the prisoners were escorted to their places, and Cam noticed the way Sam Morran greeted his son. The communication that flowed between them, the need to touch, the yearning to speak of things that only boys and fathers knew sliced to the quick of him.

He saw the fear beneath Jake Seaver's bravado, and the acceptance in Matt Faber's eyes.

Cam straightened as the bailiff called the court into session. "And have you come to a verdict?" Cam asked the foreman of the jury a few moments later.

"We have, Your Honor."

Cam asked the defendants to rise, then turned to the foreman again. "How find you in the case of Matt Faber?"

"Guilty on all counts, Your Honor."

The courtroom buzzed like a hive of bees. Cam rapped his gavel for silence.

"And Jake Seaver?"

"Guilty on all counts."

Cam hesitated and let his gaze stray to the last man at the defense table. "And Sam Morran?"

"Guilty, sir."

To his credit, Morran's face gave nothing away. Cam suspected he had accepted what was going to happen long before. From what Shea told him, Morran had been trying to kill himself with drink ever since Ty's mother died.

Cam slid a glance at where Shea had her arm around Ty and his heart twisted hard. Still, he banged his gavel for silence, then turned to the row of defendants.

"Do any of you have something to say before I pass sentence?"

Faber's head was bowed. Jake Seaver looked scared down to the soles of his boots. Morran looked back at his son. None of the prisoners spoke.

Cam took a breath that burned all the way down. It didn't matter how hard men were or what they'd done, at the moment he condemned them they were more like children than monsters, more like terrified boys than heinous outlaws. Because Cam always saw that other self in men like these, he hated this part of being a judge. He hated it more today than he ever had.

"Very well, then," he began. "It is my determination that in accordance with the laws of the Colorado Territory you will each be hanged by the neck until dead."

He took another long breath. Knowing the mood of anticipation rife in the city, he continued. "I'll convene court to hear any appeals your lawyers care to make first thing in the morning. Otherwise, the sentences will be carried out tomorrow at two o'clock."

Ty gave a cry of protest and bolted out of the courtroom. Shea jumped to her feet and ran after him.

Cam watched them go, hating himself for doing what he'd sworn before the law to do. But now, by the grace of God and the new constitution of Colorado, Cam would never have to condemn a man to die again. He was done with the law. He meant to tender his resignation right after the execution.

He rapped his gavel one last time.

* * *

Cam elbowed his way through the crowds in the halls of the courthouse ignoring the score of men who tried to stop him, slap him on the back, and congratulate him on how well the case had turned out. What he'd never been able to understand was why they treated him as if he'd done something worthy of their praise, as if condemning three men was something he'd want to celebrate.

The jury had found Seaver, Faber, and Morran guilty of robbery and murder. All Cam had done was his job.

He drew a long shaky breath when he finally reached the street, then turned resolutely toward his office. If he hadn't spilled or broken it last night, he had a bottle tucked away somewhere. What he wanted more than salvation right now was to get to his office, unearth that whiskey, and drink until he couldn't see.

He hadn't gone more than a dozen yards when someone snagged his arm and pulled him around. He hunched his shoulders and balled his fist, ready to punch whoever had been imprudent enough to interfere with him.

Albert Root, one of the city councilmen, waved a newspaper in Cam's face. "What's the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"Of what?" Cam snatched the paper from Root's grasp and scanned the headline.

PROBE INTO JUDGE GALLIMORE'S

PAST PROMINENT COLORADO JUDGE BELIEVED TO HAVE RIDDEN WITH QUANTRILL

Cam felt the color drain out of his face.

"What the hell are they talking about?" Root demanded. "You didn't ride with those reb outlaws, did you, Cam?"

Cam shoved the newspaper back in Root's face. "I can't explain this to you now," he murmured tersely and started up the street.

"I don't want an explanation," the councilman shouted after him. "I want a denial!"

Cam kept walking, bile rising up his throat.

A short, wiry man in a rumpled coat stepped into his path. "Men like you reb bastards killed my grand-daddy defending his farm," he shouted, shoving at Cam's chest with the heels of his hands.

Cam didn't say a word, just stepped around him and pressed on. A thousand glaring eyes seemed to pierce him as he made his way up Larimer Street. The crowd parted as he passed, shrinking away as if he were a snake.

"I wouldn't have believed that of him," he heard someone say.

"Quantrill's men were brigands, sure as hell!"

"Goddamn Sesch outlaw," someone else hissed, and spat at him.

Cam finally reached Mr. Johanson's livery stable and saddled his horse. After what he'd just seen here in town, all he could think about was getting out to the farm. All he wanted was to explain to Lily about the war and the raiders and what had happened that day in Centralia, before she heard it from someone else.

He'd known this was coming from the moment he'd recognized Seaver's photograph at Shea's studio, known it from the moment he'd decided to fly in the face of Seaver's threats.

He'd run this trial exactly the way he had every other one he'd presided over these last four years. Once the jury had published their verdict, he'd passed the only sentence he could. It was the sentence the law provided for murders, the only sentence that would keep the citizens of Denver from storming the jail and lynching the prisoners outright.

But he had expected time before the truth about his past came out. He'd figured the editors would send a reporter to talk to him, give him a chance to explain himself before they printed Seaver's allegations.

He'd meant to use that time to take his courage in his hands and face his sister. He'd wanted to explain things he should have told her years before, wanted the chance to ask for forgiveness.

Now he had to reach her before the newspaper did.

The countryside he rode through seemed cowed and bleak beneath its tattered sheet of graying snow. The sky hung thick and low. The wind pierced through him like talons.

Everything he'd wanted, everything he'd tried to build in Colorado, every bit of the future he longed for depended now on Lily and how she accepted what he was going to tell her. He was terrified by the prospect of seeing hurt and betrayal rise in her eyes, frightened of what she might do. He'd accept whatever recriminations she heaped on him, knowing full well how richly he deserved her censure. But he hoped with all his heart that once he'd told her all of it, she'd find a way to forgive him for the things he'd done and the secrets he'd kept from her.

Cam reined in at the foot of the drive, turning his horse in circles while he tried to gather his courage. Once he rode up the lane his course would be set, his destiny decided. His mouth tasted like years-old rust and his chest was tight. Somehow he managed to nudge his gelding forward.

Cam's mouth went dryer still when he saw that Emmet's buggy was parked by the gate—though judging by the horse's lathered hide Emmet hadn't been there long.

Cam had been so intent on facing Lily that he hadn't even considered what he'd tell Emmet about all this. Or what he might say to his son. Confronting Lily wasn't the end; she was only the beginning of a round of explaining and begging forgiveness.

Still, he had to start by making this right with her. For these next few hours only Lily mattered—Lily's anger, Lily's grief. Lily's feelings of betrayal and loss.

He dismounted and opened the gate. He was halfway up the walk when Emmet stalked out onto the narrow porch. He braced his feet and curled his fingers into fists.

"Go away," he spat. "She doesn't want to see you."

Each one of those careful, quiet words bit into Cam like the tail of a lash. "Did she see the story in the newspaper?"

Emmet raised his chin, his color high and accusation clear in his voice. "I brought her the newspaper. I thought she needed to hear the truth about her brother from someone she could trust."

Emmet's words made it hurt to breathe, hurt to speak. It made him ache to see Emmet acting as Lily's protector when Cam had dedicated his life to watching over her. It was agony to know Emmet was protecting Lily from him.

"Please, Emmet," Cam offered softly. "I need to talk to Lil, need to explain. I need to tell her why I took up with the guerrillas so late in the war. I need to make her understand why I wasn't there to protect Mother and her when Anderson and his raiders came through Centralia."

"So you admit it, then?" Emmet asked, his voice deep with loathing. "You admit you rode with that vermin? You consorted with that madman Anderson and the James brothers and the Daltons and the Seavers. Even though I fought for the South, I consider those men a scourge, a blight on a grand and glorious Cause."

In spite of Emmet's outrage, Cam stood his ground. "I want to talk to my sister."

"Do you think she's likely to forgive you for joining up with the men responsible for her being burned? Do you think she'll simply excuse you for lying to her all this time?"

"I have to ask her," Cameron offered again. "Emmet, please. Give me a chance to talk to her."

Emmet stood like a spire of granite between Cam and the door, between Cam and his sister.

Then, just as Cam was about to turn away, Lily stepped into the doorway. Though he couldn't see her all that clearly through the screen, he could tell her face was set, and she looked like she'd been crying.

"Lil—" Cam called out to her in entreaty. "Lily, please."

Emmet turned and glanced at her. "Go back inside," he bid her, softly, insistently. "Let me take care of this."

She hesitated as if she might change her mind, then swiped at her tears and stepped back into the kitchen.

"Lily, please..." Cam begged, but his sister was gone.

Emmet glared at him. "I'd as soon kill you where you stand," he offered softly, "as give you the chance to hurt her again. Go away, Cam. Get out of here."

Cameron had no doubt of Emmet's sincerity. He took one step backward, and then another. If Lily had seen the article in the Rocky Mountain News, she knew the worst. Perhaps if he gave her time to absorb what she'd read, gave her time for her hurt to subside, he could make her listen.

"I'll be back," Cam said, shifting toward the gate.

"You're not wanted here."

"But I will be back. I'll keep coming back until Lily agrees to see me."

"She'll never agree to that," Emmet assured him.

Cam was terrified that was true. "You will take care of her while I'm not here, won't you, Emmet?"

"You can depend on it."

"Emmet." Cam's voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Will you tell her I'm sorry?"

For a moment Cam thought Emmet meant to refuse, then he nodded his head.

Cam dragged himself out the gate and looked back at the house. Emmet stood at the edge of the porch, his feet braced wide and his arms crossed against his chest. He was the very picture of disapproval and obstinacy, and Cam was suddenly glad that if Lily and Rand didn't have him to protect them, they had Emmet.

He swung up onto his horse and rode away.

* * *

Shea cracked open the studio door and stared out at Cam, leaning against the brickwork at the top of the steps. "Shea?" he whispered. "May I come in?"

She glanced past him to where lacy swirls of snow spun through the dark and tried to judge the hour. Well past midnight, she thought. Well past the time when respectable women entertained gentleman callers.

She reached out and grabbed his wrist anyway. "For the love of God, Cam," she murmured as she pulled him into the entry, "where have you been?"

He braced back against the wall to steady himself, and she realized he'd been drinking. And by the bite of whiskey on his breath, drinking heavily.

"Is—is Ty here?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "He's spending the night at the jail with his father. The sheriff said it was all right, since they haven't much time..."

Cam sighed and, even in the filmy half-light, she could see how he sagged under the weight of the sentence he'd had to pass today. It was a weight distinct and separate from his usual mantle of guilt and responsibility. Shea couldn't help worrying that condemning Ty's father coupled with Seaver's revelations about Cam's past might be what finally broke him.

Because he was here—and in this condition—Shea suspected he'd gone to see Lily and that things had gone badly between them. She supposed she should ask about his sister, but it was late and she knew he'd tell her when he was ready.

"What can I do to help?" was all she said.

He shifted and curled his arms around her. "I need to hold you and breathe you in and taste your throat. I want to sleep with you in my arms and wake in the morning with you beside me."

His words surprised her, sending a shiver of pleasure down her back. Cam never spoke about his needs, never asked for help from anyone. That he'd come to her tonight gave proof of his yearning for warmth and solace, soft words and reassurances. His yearning for her.

She reached up and cupped his cheek. "Then take off your coat and come to bed."

He draped his duster on the coatrack with scrupulous care, then did the same with his gunbelt and hat. He wavered just a little as she led him into her tiny bedroom.

Rufus, who'd been snuggled deep in the covers at the foot of the bed, hissed as Cam plopped down on it.

"Even the cat wants me to go away," he murmured, loosening his necktie and working the buttons down the front of his vest.

"I'm glad you came," she murmured and reached out to trace the contours of his cheek and jaw.

"Why?" he asked.

Because I love you. Because I like knowing you need to be with me. But Shea knew she couldn't say those things to him now, couldn't expect him to respond to her when he had nothing left to give to anyone.

She shifted her shoulders and stepped a little away. "You know I hate being here by myself at night."

He accepted her at her word and continued removing his clothes. He was not nearly so incapacitated as she'd thought, but he seemed weary down to his bones.

Knowing he was going to pass judgment on Sam Morran had been wearing on him for weeks. Having to condemn Jake Seaver in the face of his brother's threats had taken a terrible toll. But it must have been facing Lily with the truth about his past—and hers—that left him so depleted, so terribly spent and hollow-eyed.

He'd tried to refill that void with whiskey, and ended up on Shea's doorstep instead.

When he was down to his knitted underdrawers, Shea lifted the covers on the bed and guided him beneath them. The springs creaked in protest as he eased down onto the mattress; they grumbled even more as she climbed in beside him.

Without so much as a word, she took him into her arms. It seemed right for him to be there, his head resting against her shoulder, his breath washing warm against her throat. He curled his hand at her waist, drawing her closer. She felt his mustache graze her collarbone.

Shea smiled to herself, weaving her fingers through the heavy raw silk of his hair. She liked having him here with her. She liked the way his scent surrounded her, liked the faint tang of vetiver, the crispness of the cold and snow, the malty sweetness of whiskey. She liked his breadth, his maleness, and the sense of safety he gave her by just being Cam. Even now, when he was so vulnerable, he was able to make her feel safe. He always made her feel safe. She closed her eyes and reveled in that safety.

They drifted for a time, half awake and half dreaming, communing in a way that transcended words. The time seemed imbued with priceless tenderness as each of them was wrapped in caring and warmth and acceptance.

As the night advanced they stretched and turned and twisted, always touching, always moving together, always nestling close. As Cam curled onto his side, he pulled her back against his chest, notching his knees to the bend of her legs, wrapping himself around her. Shea arched and snuggled deeper, drawn by his rich internal heat.

But now as they lay spooned together, a torpid voluptuousness began to flow between them. Gradually the whisper of sexual awareness came louder, more insistent. Slowly the need for rest was replaced by other more compelling needs.

Shea's skin tingled at the places where their bodies touched. An ever-sweetening intensity seeped through her. The hair along her forearms stirred; gooseflesh rippled over her buttocks and down her thighs. A warm, soft throbbing beat at the core of her.

She had not meant to bring desire to their bed. She had wanted to offer Cam a night of peace and consolation. She had wanted him to leave her renewed and armored for the trials he must face tomorrow. But the desire was here in spite of her.

Cam must have felt it, too, for the tempo of his breathing changed. His muscles flexed. He skimmed his palm upward from where it had lain at her waist and cupped her breast, splaying his fingers over her. The gesture was primitive, instinctive, blatantly and erotically male.

His erection rose against her. Deep inside, her body throbbed in answer. The wanting grew in both of them.

He nuzzled her gently, grazing the skin of her neck with his lips. He paused to breathe moisture into the hollow of her collarbone, paused to stain the pulse point midway up her throat with his heat, paused to savor the hollow beneath her ear.

He drew her earlobe into his mouth. She shivered with pleasure.

Though he murmured as if he meant to soothe her, he began to sketch slow lazy strokes around her nipple with the pad of his thumb. Strokes that made her want, made her yearn.

Sensation soaked into her, collecting low in her belly, hot between her legs. Sensual restlessness grew in her. She turned and sought his mouth.

They kissed in soft, exploratory couplings of lips and tongues. In slow, soul-melting scrutiny of every crease and every hollow of each other's mouths. In longer, deeper tastes where they could relish the pleasure they found in each other. They kissed until they were both trembling with the need for greater contact, closer communion.

Shifting beneath the covers, Shea caught the hem of her nightdress and pulled it over her head. Cam struggled out of his knitted underdrawers.

They came together skin to skin. The contact was delicious, provocative, warm, and intimate.

"I like this," he whispered, tracing her soft silhouette with the brush of his hand. "I like being with you like this."

"I like it, too," she murmured in answer.

She saw his features soften, saw the glow in his eyes intensify. Here in bed tonight, there was only him and only her. Only warmth, only pleasure and the kind of peace that came with closing out the world. It was the kind of calm and renewal Cam needed so desperately.

She rolled onto her back and drew him over her. He came nestling against her, draping one leg over hers, pulling her close. He lowered his head to her breast and drew the ripe knot of her nipple into his mouth.

"Oh, Cam," she breathed, arching against him.

As he drew on her in a rhythm as familiar as her own heartbeat, his hands skimmed over every inch of her exposed flesh. He charted the curve of her waist and the slope of her hip. He skimmed one palm the length of her legs. He traced a slow, lazy line along the vale of her chest and belly. He cupped his palm to the swell of her mound.

Everything inside her liquefied.

She reached for him, all but weeping with the joy of exploring the sleek, sweeping planes of his body. She liked his textures, the bristly vitality of his mustache, the whorly roughness of the hair along his thighs. She liked his taste, the rich dark flavor of his skin and the whiskey sweetness of his mouth.

She reveled in him, savoring him no less intimately than he was savoring her, no less provocatively, and with no less tenderness.

They stared into each other's eyes as they came together, joining flesh to flesh and soul to soul. They lay united, wholly one, cherishing an intimacy neither of them had ever known, letting the depth of that communion shape and nourish them.

In that moment of deep connection Shea might have told Cam how much she loved him, might have heard him respond in kind, but they were far beyond words. She was far beyond anything but her awareness of Cam, far beyond anything but anticipating the pleasure beckoning them.

With a few murmured endearments they began to move slowly and sinuously together. Cam breathed her name as he took her with a sweet, lazy carnality. Shea drew him deeper, engendering the pure, liquid spill of desire between them.

They held each other, whispering and kissing, giving and receiving shivery delight, keeping the world at bay for as long as they could. But in the end, those tender ministrations gave way to a wondrous tumble of sensation that swept them up in a maelstrom of ultimate rapture.

They curled together in the aftermath, shifting, breathing deep, finding bliss in each other's arms. Finding peace and renewal in the slow, sweet slide into dreamless sleep.