Jamie sat on Sirius, one arm around Miranda, anchoring her to his chest. He had decided to ride double, for she seemed quiet and withdrawn, almost disoriented. Twilight was falling when they emerged from the cover of the forest to the grassy foothills. On the right, the river murmured with a steady ripple. Bats darted in the air, like black flashes that vanished before the eye had time to focus on them.
Jamie kept going at a slow walk until it became too dark to ride safely. He reined in on a flat stretch of riverbank bordered with big boulders. “We’ll camp here for the night.”
In silence, Miranda slid to the ground. Instead of tackling the chores with the brisk efficiency she’d worked so hard to develop, she stood aimlessly on the spot. Even in the darkness, Jamie could see the rigid set of her shoulders and her fraught expression.
What was she thinking? What images were flashing before her eyes? Would her mind ever be free of the bloody scenes of the afternoon?
“Could you unsaddle the horses?” he asked, hoping the familiar routine might snap her out of her withdrawn state.
Miranda gave no response, not even a nod. Jamie waited, was about to repeat his request when she moved. In odd, jerky steps, almost like a puppet controlled by some unseen force, she went to the horses, unsaddled them and led them down to the water to drink.
Jamie kept an eye on her while he fried beans and jerky for supper. He might have shot a turkey while they were in the forest, but he had not wanted to fire his gun, for the sound might have brought the terror of the killings back to Miranda.
Finished with the horses, Miranda resumed her aimless pose.
“Food’s ready,” Jamie called out to her. “Come and sit down.”
She shuffled over and sank down beside the fire, not pausing to inspect the ground or select the most comfortable spot. When he handed her a plate and fork, she took them without comment. Still and silent, she stared into the flames, the beans and jerky going cold on the tin plate balanced in her lap.
His own appetite was no better. Jamie scraped the food back into the pan, took Miranda’s plate and did the same, then clipped a lid on the pan. The food would serve for lunch tomorrow.
“Why don’t you set out the bedrolls?” he asked.
Miranda got up. Jamie went to rinse the dishes in the stream and took the opportunity to deal with his wound. He ought to have attended to the injury earlier, but he had wanted to keep the extent of damage to his body hidden from Miranda.
He took off his coat and stripped away his shirt. The fabric was stiff with blood but the bleeding had ceased. Lifting his arm, Jamie inspected his side. There was no entry or exit wound, merely a groove that ran along his side, like a furrow in a freshly plowed field.
Jamie hopped onto a flat stone by the edge of the water, leaned over the swirling current and bathed the wound, slowly washing away the dried blood. Pain hovered on the edge of his mind. Stoically, he kept it there, refusing to acknowledge the sensation.
A thought crossed his mind. There’s more of the Indian in me than I realized. He possessed the ability to endure greater pain and more hardship than most men did.
When the gash in his side was clean, Jamie went to his saddlebags, applied a coat of herbal salve to prevent infection and put on a dressing and a clean shirt. Miranda lay huddled on a bedroll next to a big boulder. At least her mind had not completely shut down. It may have been subconscious, but she had settled in the safest place, protected by the rocks. And she had spread his bedroll beside hers. Relief flooded through Jamie. She was not rejecting him, horrified by the visions of him as a ruthless killer.
He walked over and lay down beside her. He wanted to ask her to swap places with him, so he could lie on his good side while he cradled her close to him, but she seemed asleep. He curled up beside her, the pain in his side aggravated by the pressure against the hard ground. Penance, he thought. But it wouldn’t be enough. Nothing would ever be enough to gain absolution from having exposed Miranda to danger.
Carefully, he slipped his arm around her. Perhaps sleeping on his injured side was better after all. It hurt more, but his good arm could hold her tighter against him. Jamie pulled her into the shelter of his body. She was stiff, unresponsive. He could feel her shivering.
“Are you cold?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
So she was awake. Jamie tucked the blankets more snugly around her. For the rest of the night, he lay awake, accepting the bitter truth. He had acted rashly, without proper judgment, something a bounty hunter could never afford to do if he wished to remain alive.
He had followed the lure of the image he could see in his mind—a piece of land, with horses prancing in corrals. A house on the land—a proper house with papered walls and lace curtains in the windows—and Miranda in the house.
The dream had grown in his mind, like the desert came alive after a burst of rain. He had seen her belly rounded with his baby, a passel of children racing around the yard, their laughter and joyous voices ringing through the air.
A happy family. And he had wanted to be four thousand dollars nearer to that dream. He had succumbed to the idea that the gulf between him and Miranda was no more than a narrow ditch he could jump over with ease, when in truth it was a rift as wide as the great canyon of the Colorado River they had yet to cross.
He was a bounty hunter, a man who lived by his gun, a man whose survival depended on luck and a split-second advantage against an outlaw prepared to kill him. It was the only life he knew—just as he had once told Miranda.
Miranda had wanted to team up with him in his dangerous profession, to help him reach out for that dream. And what had he done? Instead of giving her the taste of adventure she had been seeking, instead of giving her the secure future he had promised, he had plunged her into his dark world of violence and death.
There was only one penance great enough.
He had to give up the dream. He had to give up Miranda.
For he could think of no other way to keep her safe.
* * *
Miranda lay in Jamie’s arms. She wanted his warmth, wanted to be comforted by his strong body pressed against hers, but the peace and contentment didn’t come. Cold shivers rippled over her as she struggled with the knowledge that had revealed itself during that terrible instant framed by the roar of gunfire.
She’d been foolish, foolish in her quest for adventure. She’d been lured by the excitement, by the thrill of danger. Bounty hunting had seemed like a game, where those on the side of the law always won. Instead, it was real and bloody and ugly and lethal—a gamble with one’s life.
She loved Jamie. And she had failed him. She had appealed to his love for her, to the longing for a home and family he hadn’t been able to hide. She had encouraged him to dream. And then she had almost gotten him killed.
Why hadn’t she pulled the trigger? The answer was simple. And it was complicated. When she’d aimed her gun at the outlaw, she’d pictured Rose embracing him, but another mental image had superimposed itself over it—herself and Jamie, dancing and kissing in the firelight.
What would it feel like, if he died? The mere thought had filled her with a sense of loss so tearing it had felt as if her heart had ceased beating. She couldn’t do that to another woman. Couldn’t be responsible for plunging Rose into that dark world of grief. And, through her hesitation, she had almost brought that grief upon herself.
What future could she and Jamie have?
How could their worlds unite?
It would be impossible...impossible...
She had insisted they could be a team, but it was not in her to face death or be prepared to deliver it, however honorable it might be to bring an outlaw to justice. It would never work for her to join Jamie as he hunted for outlaws, courting danger while he saved money to buy land of his own. And yet she could not tolerate the idea of waiting in Gold Crossing while Jamie went away, “taking care of business” as he called his deathly trade.
It might take years for him to save enough money for his dream. During all that time, fear would rule her life. Every letter, every telegram, every sight of a stranger who might ride in with news would fill her with terror, until fear overshadowed everything else. Until she almost welcomed the news of Jamie’s death, for that meant she could stop being dominated by fear and get on with the grieving.
Of course, Charlotte had money...
Miranda frowned into the darkness. Papa might have been wrong to follow the English custom of leaving everything to the firstborn, but he had been adamant that the fortune tied up in the shipping line must not be broken up. It would be unfair to ask Charlotte to ignore their father’s wishes. And Miranda very much doubted Jamie’s pride would allow him to accept money from his wife’s relatives.
There was only one answer.
She must give him up.
She must sever all ties with Jamie.
Once he was gone, she would find some worthwhile activity to occupy her days. In time, the memories would fade. She would build a satisfying life as a spinster aunt. Or, perhaps one day she might forget Jamie enough to settle down with someone else. Even as the thought formed in her mind, Miranda knew it would never happen. She would grow old alone.
* * *
Jamie had feared that once Miranda recovered from the horror of the shootings she might insist on another bounty hunt. He could not have been more mistaken. Instead of making demands, she withdrew into herself.
Each day, she performed her chores in melancholy silence. In the evenings, as they sat by the firelight, she no longer bombarded him with questions. The distance between their bedrolls grew each night, until they were sleeping so far apart Jamie could no longer hear the words to the forlorn melodies Miranda sang softly in the darkness.
“We’ll cross the Colorado River today,” he said as they broke camp.
Miranda nodded and slipped the silver-studded bridle on Alfie.
“We’ll take Lees Ferry,” he added. “It’s operated by Mormons.”
“Men with many wives.”
Good luck to them, Jamie thought. He hadn’t been able to keep one wife safe, let alone several of them. “I hear the Mormons cultivate the valley on both sides of the river,” he went on. “The horses will have alfalfa, and there’ll be fruit and vegetables to buy.”
“That’s nice,” Miranda replied.
Jamie frowned as he tried to think of something more to say. Things seemed to have reversed between them. Miranda had become the quiet one, and he was desperate to talk, to shake her out of the shell she had formed around herself.
In the past week, they had shared the trail with other travelers, mostly Mormon settlers, spreading from Utah into Arizona, but not even the company of friendly strangers had restored Miranda’s former liveliness.
Jamie wished he had a nimble mind, the kind that could spin funny stories and tell jokes. In some way, the journey now reminded him of the ride to Devil’s Hall after he won her in the bride lottery. The same strained atmosphere, the same doubt over what would happen when they reached their destination.
At Lees Ferry, they rode down the steep slope of rust-red earth, into the narrow valley where the river gushed between its banks with a mighty roar. Ahead of them, a party with a dozen head of cattle was chasing the frightened animals onto the craft.
The ferryman was called Johnson. Jamie told him they would wait for the next crossing. He paid the fare, one dollar fifty for a horse and rider, and two bits each for the pack mules.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he warned Miranda, leaving her to feed the horses with the bundles of freshly cut alfalfa he’d bought from a farmer’s stall.
He came back with a melon that had cost too much. Something eased inside Jamie when he saw a smile brighten Miranda’s face. He sliced the ripe, sweet-smelling fruit for her and watched her eat it, only tasting some when he was sure she’d had enough.
“Ready?” he asked when the ferry inched back across the river.
“Ready,” Miranda replied.
The ferry was a big scow, twice as long as it was wide, with knee-high sides. There was no steel cable to guide it across. Jamie recalled hearing stories of how the current had once seized the craft and hurtled it downstream, drowning everyone on board.
They led the horses on board first, and then the pack mules, their hooves echoing on the timber planks. One of the Mormon wagons filled the remaining space.
“Come and stand beside me,” Jamie called out to Miranda, who had ventured to the edge where a cool spray from the river was flying up.
Without a comment, she returned to his side, pausing to reassure the restless Alfie. Of all the changes in Miranda this one worried Jamie the most, made him fear that her spirit had been crushed by the horror of the shootings—she had begun to obey his commands.