Beyond Betrayal (39 page)

With the horses cared for, Delilah took a pail from the cabin and sought out the well. It was the old windlass type—no pump—and she quickly lowered the old wooden bucket into the shadowy depths. Please God, don't let it be dry, she murmured. After endless seconds, she was gratified to hear a splash.

Back in the cabin, she was about to start the stove in preparation for heating the water when she discovered one other thing she needed: wood. The wood box next to the stove was almost empty. Blast! Why was nothing ever easy?

Since Samson had sunk into unconsciousness anyway, Delilah took the lantern and hastily looked around the cabin for a wood pile. But the darkness had become so absolute that it was difficult to see any distance, even with the lantern. She was just about to conclude that the wood stores must have been used and not replenished by the cabin's last tenant, when she spied a small pile in the shadow of the lean-to.

"Thank you, Lord," Delilah murmured. Setting the lantern down, she scooped up as much wood as she could carry and hurried back into the cabin.

For the next week, Delilah cared for Samson almost continually, helping him take care of his most basic and intimate needs, while he drifted in and out of consciousness. She hovered constantly on the edge of exhaustion herself, refusing to allow herself to contemplate anything but the next task that needed doing. Driving herself to exhaustion so that she couldn't think, couldn't contemplate the magnitude of her error. Finally by the end of that week, Samson began to rouse himself. Though after his first twenty-four hours of consciousness, she almost began to wish he could have stayed unconscious throughout his entire convalescence. The man was rude, ungrateful, uncooperative, and resentful. And with nothing but time on his hands to think, his resentment grew.

"I guess I shoulda paid more attention to the biblical connotations of linking our names, after all," he said suddenly.

Delilah looked up from where she sat before the stove altering a man's shirt she'd found in one of the bedrolls to fit Samson's imposing size. The swelling on his face had gone down though the flesh remained discolored. He stared at her now with eyes that were as hard as flint. Delilah merely nodded, too tired to argue. "I suppose you should have," she agreed quietly. "Do you want some soup?"

He scowled. "I'm sick of soup. I want something with some substance. What are you trying to do? Starve me to death?"

Delilah ignored his question. "If you think you can keep it down, I can fry some bacon. And I found some tins of beans. I can open a couple of tins."

"I just got finished telling you I'm starving, woman. Of course, I can keep it down."

Feeling unaccountably near tears, Delilah nodded and rose, turning to the task. She was just tired, she assured herself. That's why his anger hurt so. If she’d been feeling better, she would tell him what an ungrateful lout he was. Then she sighed. No, she wouldn't because she deserved his anger. She deserved every unkind word he flung her way. After all, he'd almost been killed because of her.

While the food was cooking, Delilah turned to the task of dressing his injuries and checking his ribs, as had become her habit. He stared at her resentfully the whole time, chilling her with the expression in his eyes. Swallowing nervously, Delilah did her best to ignore his anger—but it wasn't easy. She was alone in a mountain cabin with a man big enough to break her in two like a matchstick. A man who was fast regaining his strength, but not the gentle temperament that had held it in check. A man who had reason to hate her.

She drew a deep breath. "Do you need to use the chamber pot?"

As though the question was the last straw in the list of indignities that had been forced upon him, his hand shot up to grip her throat, tightly but not painfully. "You know," he said almost conversationally, "I could wring your neck for what you've done."

Delilah's gaze locked on his. "I am yours to do with what you will. If my death will ease the misery I've caused you, then by all means, kill me. I won't fight you."

A flicker of surprise crept through his eyes, and then was gone. He stared at her for a long moment and then, with a grimace of disgust, dropped his hand to his side. "Go," he said. "Just get away from me. I'm going out to the outhouse."

"I don't think—" Delilah started to argue that he wasn't ready, but she wasn't allowed to finish.

"Don't think," he snapped. "Leave me alone.” He watched her as she walked to the stove and began turning the bacon in the pan. God, he hated her. He hated her for betraying him and throwing his love for her back in his face. He hated her for caring for him so tirelessly—as though that could possibly make a difference now. And he hated her for looking so fragile and beautiful despite the faint blue shadows beneath her eyes.

Ignore her
, he admonished himself. Then slowly, cautiously, he pushed himself to a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was weaker than he'd imagined, he realized, as his arms shook with fatigue. Then, looking down at his legs, he realized he was damn near naked. "Where are my pants?"

"Hanging over the end of the bed. I was going to wash them and mend them, but I haven't gotten around to it yet."

"Don't bother," he muttered as he carefully worked his way a few inches toward the foot of the bed so that he could reach the trousers. One leg was torn and crusted with blood, but he donned them anyway and then, after a glance to ensure Delilah was turned away, he slowly stood to fasten them. His legs trembled alarmingly and he looked around for something to use as a crutch or a cane. He'd be damned if he'd accept her help any more than was absolutely necessary. "Bring me that broom, will you?"

Delilah considered him for a second, as though contemplating arguing and then, with a resigned shake of her head, did his bidding. Without a word, Samson accepted the broom and, using it as a cane, began to make his way toward the door.

"The outhouse is to your right and around the corner," Delilah said and then added, "Just in case you're interested."

Samson scowled. He wished he knew who the devil Delilah Sterne was behind her ever-changing facade. Was she a lady who happened to gamble? Or a gambler who knew how to pretend she was a lady? Was she a lady sharpshooter who'd become a temptress and betrayer of men? Or a temptress who'd learned how to shoot? And who was this tireless nursemaid who'd suddenly appeared? Was Delilah none of them? Or all of them?

It took Samson quite some time to work his way to the outhouse, and when he finally arrived he discovered he certainly didn't have the strength to stand any longer. Sitting there, alone for the first time in days with his trousers bunched around his ankles, Samson sourly contemplated life as he tried to regain his breath and enough strength to make it back to the house. It was as he was pulling up his trousers that Samson heard the crackle of paper in his pocket. Frowning, he reached in and extracted a thick wad of paper.

Delilah's blasted letter! He was about to throw the missive into the outhouse hole when something suddenly stayed him. He remembered the questions he'd just had about her. Might her letter answer some of them? He wasn't about to forgive her, but it might not hurt to see what she'd had to say.

Sitting back down, he leaned against the plank wall, pulled the letter from the envelope, and unfolded it. Angling the missive to catch the light coming through the door, he began to read:

~~~

Dearest Matt,

What I have to tell you is extremely difficult, and I know you shall never forgive my betrayal which is why I haven't the courage to face you

~~~

Anger clouded his vision for a moment, but he forced himself to read on. And then, gradually, he found himself caught up in her story despite himself.

~~~

I am not truly a widow, as I think you may have guessed or at least suspected. I merely borrowed the persona in order to make my way in life on my own terms. I stole the name from a man who stole something very precious from me. But I've jumped ahead in my story again.

When my father began to awaken from his prolonged state of mourning, in order to support us, he returned to the occupation he knew best: bounty hunting. As you must know, bounty hunters make enemies, and my father was no exception in that. One day, when I was seventeen and Eve but fifteen, and Daddy was away tracking a killer, we received an unexpected caller going by the name of Jacob Sterne. Sterne had learned that Daddy was responsible for taking his younger brother in to face a hangman's noose, and heedless of his brother's guilt or innocence, he wanted revenge. When Sterne discovered that Daddy wasn't home and that neither Evie nor I could tell him where to find him, he decided to get his revenge in another way. A way that would bring Daddy to him.

~~~

Although Delilah did not say, in so many words, what had happened that day, Samson could well imagine the events, and he winced as the story continued to unfold. For although Delilah's penned words seemed to carry very little emotion, he sensed the depths of the tragedy she'd endured and perceived what it must have cost her to put it all down on paper. Temporarily setting aside his own anger with her, Samson wanted to soundly thrash the father who had left two young women, little more than girls, alone while he went off chasing a killer. He wanted to kill Jacob Sterne all over again—though, according to Delilah, Garrett Sinclair had accomplished the task quite adequately, albeit at the cost of his own life. And he wanted to hang Trent Lider, Delilah's supposed betrothed, for spurning her on the heels of such a painful incident, rather than lending her his strength.

~~~

After daddy's death, we stayed on the farm. I was determined to try to make a home for Eve, but it didn't work out well. Very few of the townspeople offered sympathy, or help, or friendship. Rather they seemed to avoid us, me in particular, as though the misfortune that had befallen us might in some way rub off on them. When I came to realize that Eve was as unhappy as I, we decided to sell the farm and move on to a place where no one would know us or the scandal that had transpired. I was still in mourning for Daddy at the time, and, at one point in our journey, a fellow traveler mistook me for a young widow. That was when I decided to appropriate Jacob Sterne's name.

~~~

Samson paused a moment in admiration of her resourcefulness, her resilience. How many young women would have done as well? How many would have had the courage to manipulate the conventions of so-called polite society in a way that worked
for
her rather than against her.

~~~

I didn't begin to gamble until Eve married
,
for I wouldn't have submitted her to the stigma associated with my profession. But having no desire to enter into the wedded state myself, and certainly no desire to apply myself to making a living in the age-old manner which so many lone women are forced into, I turned my eyes to the saloons and the gaming tables. I found widowhood a boon for the freedom it afforded me, although as a man you undoubtedly will not understand that. And so, I embarked on a new life for myself. A life without responsibility to anyone but myself. Or so I thought until I received Eve's letter.

You see, dear Matt, I promised Daddy long ago that I would never let any harm come to my younger sister, and I take my promises very seriously. With Tom in such dire straits, when Eve informed me that she needed money to save her ranch, I could not refuse. Yet my luck seemed to desert me at the gaming tables, and I was not bringing in the income I needed—particularly on the nights when you were there. Your presence unnerved me, and yet you wouldn't leave me alone. I've been leery of men for years now, as you can imagine, and I was afraid of you. No, that's not quite true. I was afraid of the things you made me feel. I wanted you out of my life.

So, when I saw your face on the poster Pike brought to town, and recognized you, I saw the means to accomplish the two things I felt I needed to most. And I'm more sorry than you can ever know. If I had known Telford's nature I would not have done it. I told myself that you were probably innocent—for in my heart I never believed you guilty—and that a trial would only clear you and set you free. I convinced myself that my actions would benefit everyone all the way around, including you. I've never been more wrong in my life. Forgive me someday, if you can, as I hope to be able to forgive myself. My love, always, Delilah Sinclair. (How wonderful it feels to use my own name again!)

~~~

Damn! Samson crumpled the letter and thrust it back into his pocket, wishing that he'd never read it. She was right, he could never forgive her, but despite himself he'd begun to understand her motivation and that meant he couldn't hate her either. At least not quite as much as he had.

When he emerged from the outhouse, Delilah was standing on the porch staring anxiously toward him. He scowled at her and she turned and went back inside. When he finally entered the house a few minutes later, leaning rather heavily on the hapless broom, she said simply, "The food's getting cold."

He shrugged slightly and then winced as his healing ribs protested the action. "It'll do. I'll eat at the table this time.” He stared at her, expecting her dissent. Expecting her to tell him that he'd already overdone it. But he was disappointed, for she merely nodded, and Samson realized he'd been looking for an argument. Looking for some fire, anything other than this meek facade she'd been presenting him with.