Beyond Betrayal (40 page)

He was almost finished eating—beans and bacon had never tasted so good—when he noticed that Delilah was not eating. "Aren't you going to eat something?"

She shook her head. "I'm not very hungry. The mere smell of food makes me queasy lately."

Samson stopped chewing and stared at her. Thoughtfully, he assessed her appearance. She looked pale and tired. Naw, he decided he was probably worrying for nothing. It had only been a little more than two weeks since that night. And he hadn't noticed her being sick to her stomach.

A short time later, he spoke again. "I read your letter."

Her gaze flew up to lock on his, and she slowly swallowed a sip of coffee. "And?" she asked.

He frowned. He didn't even know why he'd told her. Just to see her reaction he supposed. But now she was seeking something more, and he didn't know what to say. "You were right," he said. "I can't forgive you."

Her face went blank as she stared at him for a moment more. Then she nodded and rose to begin gathering the dishes. She turned to the stove, and he thought he saw a tear glisten on her cheek, but in the next instant it was gone, and he wasn't sure. It made him feel cruel and petty, and he didn't like it. Why the hell should he feel like that? She was the one who'd betrayed him. And what in blazes did she have to cry about? It wasn't as though she hadn't expected his reaction.

As the next few days passed and Samson finally began to spend more time awake than asleep, he began to sink further and further into a brooding, moody melancholy that he was powerless to throw off. Although, thanks to Delilah, he was alive, he had no life to return to, also thanks to Delilah. And if that wasn't bad enough, he'd now heard her vomiting on two occasions early in the morning when she'd thought him still asleep. Damn! He watched her with hooded eyes as she moved about the cabin performing chores, caring for him. He was furious with her, but he couldn't deny that he still wanted her. Desperately. He wanted to hold her, kiss her senseless, and make her cry out her pleasure as he took her. And most certainly, if she was pregnant with his child, he wanted to hold it and see it grow.

Suddenly he thought to wonder about their sleeping arrangements. She was always sitting in a chair at the table when he fell asleep at night, and awake cooking breakfast before he woke in the morning. "Where have you been sleeping?" he asked bluntly, his words falling like stones into the heavy silence that had pervaded the cabin.

Delilah jumped and then turned to meet his eyes. "I have a bedroll," she murmured.

Samson's eyes narrowed as he noted the fatigue that now marked her face, her posture. Yes, she had a bedroll. But was she using it? That night, he feigned sleep, waiting, watching to see what Delilah would do—where she would sleep. About fifteen minutes after she believed him asleep, she lay her head down on her arms at the table. For an instant, he thought she was going to sleep like that, and then he realized that her shoulders were quaking with huge silent sobs. The sight of her in such deep emotional pain hurt him more than he would have thought possible. And, in that moment, he accepted her assertion that she was truly sorry for what she had done. But there was something else he had to accept too, and it was much harder to swallow: Samson had to accept the realization that, as much as he wanted to hate her, to put her out of his life, he didn't. He didn't trust her—might never trust her again—but he still loved her. And he was worried about her.

Slowly, carefully, he rose from the bed to go to her. So profound was her misery that she didn't even hear him approach, though he made no effort to be silent. She jumped when he placed his hand on her shoulder, jerking her head up to look at him with a blotchy, tear-stained face and red-rimmed eyes. Perhaps it was a measure of how irrevocably his heart was involved that he still found her beautiful. "What's the matter Delilah?"

Her gaze slid away from his. "I'm just tired. I don't recall ever being quite so fatigued."

"Have you been sleeping?” He tried to see her expression, but she continued to avoid his eyes.

"Of course!" she said, but he thought her response might have been a trifle too fast.

"Come here," he said as he lifted on her arm. He wanted nothing more than to sweep her up in his arms and carry her, but he knew his ribs wouldn't allow it. "You're sleeping on the bed tonight, where you can get a good night's sleep."

Slowly, she stood to face him and then raised her brilliant blue eyes to his face. His breath caught in his throat. Damnation she was beautiful. Too damn beautiful for his peace of mind. "Are you. . . still angry with me," she asked in a small voice.

He nodded for he couldn't deny it. "Yeah, but I'm working on it. All right?” Once again a small spark of something flared in her eyes and she nodded. "Now," he said, "come lie down.” Reaching for the lantern on the table, he extinguished the light.

Despite their mutual fatigue, they lay stiffly side by side while sleep remained as elusive as a wraith. Samson could not help thinking about Delilah's letter, about all she had said and so much that she had not. He needed to understand. Finally, he spoke into the darkness. "Tell me about Jacob Sterne?"

There was a moment of silence, and then she asked, "Why?"

Samson frowned, not fully understanding himself why he wanted. . . no,
needed
, to know the details. Finally, he said, "I guess so that I can understand why you were so frightened of me."

After a long silence during which Samson began to suspect she would not tell him, Delilah began to speak. And when she was finished, he understood better than ever before her fear of men. For the first time, he considered the possibility that perhaps he had been partially responsible for his own capture. If he had not pursued Delilah so relentlessly, watching her every move in the Lucky Strike, making his presence felt, would she have become desperate enough to follow the course she had? He didn't think so.

Rolling onto his side, he stared down at her for a moment, saw her blue eyes gleaming in the darkness, and then he leaned forward and kissed her. That gentle kiss said everything he could not put into words:
I forgive you; I miss you; I still love you; I want you
, and most importantly of all,
I'm sorry
.
Sorry for not being able to trust you. Sorry for getting you pregnant. And sorry that I may not be here to help you raise our child.
If all went well, he would return to her. If not. . . she need never know what had happened to him.

In the morning, when Delilah awoke, he was gone.

~~~*  *  *~~~

________________________

At first Delilah thought he'd just gone to the outhouse. It wasn't until she and Poopsy went out to check on the horses and discovered that Goliath and one of Telford's big bays was missing that she learned otherwise. For an instant she could only stare at the vacant stalls in stunned disbelief. And then realization began to sink in.

With a pounding heart, she raced back into the cabin to take an inventory of the things she knew should be there. The shirt she'd altered for him by sewing extra strips of material into the seams was gone. His trousers, and another pair of men's denims rescued from one of the bedrolls belonging to Telford's men, were gone. But most importantly of all, a number of their supplies were gone as well: The old coffee pot that had been sitting on the stove when they'd arrived at the cabin, along with one bag of the Arbuckle coffee she'd purchased had disappeared. The last two cans of beans were gone as was the last of the bacon. And, most telling of all, Samson's bedroll was no longer lying in the corner.

Finally, it sank in. He'd left her! He'd left her and her instincts told her, he didn't intend on coming back. Just when she had begun to think that perhaps they had a chance of working things out, he'd ridden out of her life. And it hurt far worse than she'd ever imagined.

Too paralyzed by shock even to cry, Delilah plopped onto a chair and stared sightlessly at the open door and the green meadow beyond. What was she going to do now? Her mind remained blank. Needing the solace of routine, she made a pot of coffee in the new pot she'd purchased, and sat sipping the strong hot beverage as she tried to plan. But it was mid-morning before her numbed mind slowly began to function and she thought to wonder about Samson's precipitous departure.

Where would he go, after all? Certainly not back to Red Rock, where the whole town now knew his true identity and, regardless of how well he'd been liked, somebody would take it upon themselves to try to collect the reward. Would he go off and try once more to begin a new life? No, she was certain he wouldn't. Not with the threat posed by Telford and his reward always looming in the background. So what would he do?

But even as she asked the question, she knew because she knew what kind of man Samson was. Despite his brooding anger of the last while, his rudeness and resentment, Samson was a good and honest man. He would not keep running forever. That could mean only one thing: Samson had gone to face Telford. To free himself, one way or the other, from the reach of Telford's vengeance.

Worry froze her in place. His ribs weren't even completely healed yet. "What was he thinking?" she murmured aloud. Poopsy, sitting in the open doorway, barked in response and Delilah turned to look at her. "He's not in any condition to be going after a man like Telford.” The little dog barked again, and stood, wiggling her hind-end as she backed toward the door. Poopsy was telling her it was time to go. "You're right, Poochie," Delilah said with the hint of a smile touching her lips for the first time in days. "It
is
time to go.” She couldn't let Samson face Telford and his men alone. She didn't know exactly what she was going to do to help him, but she knew that she had to try. If she didn't, she'd wouldn't be able to live with herself.

Poopsy bared her teeth in satisfaction as Delilah rose.

After hastily packing her remaining supplies, Delilah freed the other big bay horse and the mule to roam the lush mountain valleys. She planned to ride Jackpot and use the smaller horse that had belonged to Telford's man as her packhorse. Thankfully, the combination worked well, allowing her to travel more quickly than the balky pack-mule had. Even riding hard, though, she was unable to catch up with Samson by nightfall. He must have been riding like a man driven by demons.

And perhaps he was, she reflected.

Making a late camp, Delilah ate some jerky because she didn't feel like cooking, and sat staring into the firelight thinking what-ifs and if-onlys until her eyes grew heavy and she lay down and fell into a fitful sleep. After a few days of travelling, the days began to drift into each other, one inseparable from the other by their sameness. Coming across a village, she replenished her supplies and rode on, always, it seemed, a step behind Samson.

After about eight days, when Delilah had finally concluded that she would never catch up with him, she finally spied his campsite as she was riding down a steep trail. Samson had made camp early on the banks of a creek brimming with clear mountain runoff. A short distance away, a mineral hot spring bubbled out of the earth into a natural pond. He was in the process of taking a bath in that pond, and no doubt soaking his aching ribs as well, so he didn't notice her presence. Delilah found herself watching him, mesmerized by the sheer male beauty of him. The bruises on his back had faded, and once again his big body was sleekly bronzed, the muscles rippling smoothly. Then suddenly, surprising her, he stepped out of the water to dry himself, and Delilah discovered that he was as naked as a jaybird.

Good heavens! Her face flamed as she quickly averted her gaze. In all the time she had cared for him, she'd never once
looked
at that part of him. She'd preferred to preserve her modesty, such as it was, by helping him perform the tasks that had needed to be done beneath the shield of the blankets. But now, the sight of him standing so gloriously naked on the edge of that steaming pool of water, like the god Poseidon risen from the deep, was branded in her mind for all time.

After taking a deep breath to calm her wayward emotions, Delilah began to wind her way down the trail toward his camp. It was a good thing she hadn't expected an enthusiastic greeting, for she would have been sorely disappointed.

Having heard her approach before he saw her, he had drawn his gun in readiness. When he recognized her as she came around a wall of rock, he holstered the weapon he held in his hand, but that didn't mean his greeting was any more welcoming. "What in blazes are you doing here?" he demanded.

Delilah set her chin said, "I'm going with you."

"Like hell.” The coldness of his steel-hued eyes and the scowl upon his forehead were enough to frighten the wits out of braver souls than she. Yet despite everything between them, Delilah remained certain that he would never hurt her. Without responding, she simply dismounted, set Poopsy down to explore, and then turned to tend the horses. "What are you doing?" Samson asked.

Delilah looked at him over her shoulder. "Making camp."

"I didn't invite you to share my camp."

His rudeness hurt, but she refused to show it. "Fine.” She nodded. "I'll go over to the other side of the pond.” Then, remembering that Samson had once said he hated his own cooking she added, "You're free to join me for supper if you wish."

Samson made no response, so Delilah simply ignored him as she went about the task of setting up her camp and making a fire. Then, carefully rinsing the beans she'd purchased at the village, she set them to cook over the coals. She knew there was a reason why she'd stocked up on more supplies than she needed, and now she realized what it was. She intended to ensure that all sorts of savory smells wafted across the pond to Samson. Of course she had to compete with the slightly sulfurous smell of the pond, but she thought she was up to it.