Diablo (35 page)

But Ben feared leaving without contacting Mrs. Culworthy first. The child might disappear into some orphanage or God knew what.

He finally knocked at the door. Mrs. Culworthy answered, a smile wreathing her face. “You and Mrs. Hamilton come to pick up Sarah Ann?”

Feeling as cold as a January day in Alaska, Ben shook his head. “I have some bad news. Where's Sarah Ann?”

“Taking a nap,” Mrs. Culworthy said, the smile changing into a frown. “Come in.”

Ben moved awkwardly into the parlor. It seemed empty without Mary May. He kept remembering her laughter. Sarah Ann's laughter.

“Mrs. Hamilton was killed,” he said.

Mrs. Culworthy's face paled.

“She asked … me to look after Sarah Ann. I have to leave for a week, maybe two. I was hoping you could keep her that long. I'll make it worth your while.”

“Poor little mite,” Mrs. Culworthy said. “I suppose I can postpone my trip another few weeks. But what will you … do?”

Ben shrugged helplessly. “I don't know. I'll think of something.”

“Are you going to tell her … about her mother?”

Ben hesitated. “Let's wait until I get back.” He hated putting off unpleasant things, but he simply didn't have the time to do it right. Kane O'Brien was out there someplace, and Ben didn't know what in the hell was going on. He just had a very bad feeling about all of it.

He took some coins from his pocket and handed them to Mrs. Culworthy. “Will twenty dollars be enough?”

“More than enough,” Mrs. Culworthy said. “I liked Mrs. Hamilton. I'll pray for her.”

“She'd appreciate that,” Ben said, meaning it. “And I will, too.”

“You be careful, Mr. Smith. That little girl needs someone.”

Ben nodded. He wasn't sure Sarah Ann needed
him.
He wasn't sure anyone needed someone like him. He would have to change his ways, and he wasn't sure he could do that. Maybe he could find another Mrs. Culworthy someplace.

But he had no time to consider that now. He stared around the room once more, again seeing Mary May with her daughter, seeing their smiles. He felt a tightness behind his eyes. He didn't look forward to telling Sarah Ann her mother wouldn't be back. But neither could he ask Mrs. Culworthy to do it.

“Thank you,” he said. He hesitated a moment, then handed her a letter he had written at the hotel. “If I'm not back in two weeks, contact this gentleman. He'll make provisions for the girl.”

“God be with you,” Mrs. Culworthy said as she took it.

“I hope so,” he said fervently, not for himself but for little Sarah Ann and a man named Kane O'Brien.

Nicky rested a little after dawn. She had ridden throughout most of the night since cooking the rabbit; she'd wanted to put distance between the shot and herself. But she had to give Molly some rest.

She knew where she was now. She no longer needed the map. She took it from her pocket, then burned the parchment until the flames licked at her fingers. She dropped the remaining scrap, knowing it wasn't enough to help anyone.

If Kane did find it, he would realize she hadn't entirely trusted him. A small, bitter victory. Somehow, it didn't make her feel any better.

Six hours after he'd left the remnants of Nicky's fire and nighttime meal, Kane found the spot where she had rested, possibly slept. The outline of her body was obvious in the dirt behind some rocks. He also found something else: a partially burned map that he instantly knew led to Sanctuary.

So she'd had a map all along, and she hadn't shared it with him.

Enough of the map was burned to obliterate all but a few miles north of Gooden. He wondered if she'd left the remainder to tell him she'd had it, to taunt him with it, or whether she hadn't wanted it to fall into his hands and she had been too exhausted to make sure it had burned completely. Either way, she apparently hadn't trusted him as completely as he thought. Oddly, that hurt. Well, she had been right.

He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the heavy, hot beard that was drenched in sweat. He didn't need it anymore. Sitting where Nicky had slept, imagining he still felt the heat from her body, Kane then took his knife from its holster and used it to peel the beard from his face, nicking the skin as he did so. He felt the blood running down the bristles of his own beard. At least he felt like himself. For better or worse, he was Kane O'Brien again.

And Kane O'Brien was sick of the lies and deception. After deciding earlier to be no man's pawn again, he had developed his own plan. It started with finding Nicky and telling her the truth. And then he was going into Sanctuary, confronting Nat Thompson, and convincing him to send Nicky and Robin away immediately. He would make Thompson believe a posse was on its way; the threat, at least, should be enough to make Thompson act.

It wouldn't be much of a jump from the truth. Kane would be surprised if Masters weren't hot on his trail by now; he hadn't had time to cover it, nor had Nicky.

And Davy … well, he had that figured, too. He remembered every word of his conversations with Masters.

I want that pardon for Davy if I'm kitiled.

I might be able to convince the governor … if we find your body.

I'll try to get killed where you can find me.

So, he would see to it that his body was found. He would goad Thompson, who was bound to kill him for his treachery, into making an example of him, to make sure his body was dumped where others—including Masters—would see it. He wasn't sure how he could accomplish that aim; he only knew he must.

It was the least he could do for Davy, the only way to try to repair the damage to Nicky. It was the only way he could accomplish both of his objectives. And, hell, he'd rather take a bullet than die by the noose any day.

Chapter Twenty-two

Only a few more hours to Sanctuary if Nicky had reckoned right. She knew she should be relieved, but she wasn't.

What was she going to do? What was she going to tell her uncle? She had to tell him at least part of the truth. He had to be warned; Kane knew much of the route now.

A hot wind blew against the dried tears on her cheek. Her body felt stiff with dirt and sweat. She was numb from weariness and hunger and heartbreak.

A few more hours. A bath. Food. Bed. Her uncle. Robin. She could see her brother's face now as he realized Diablo's betrayal. How many betrayals could a boy tolerate?

She sighed and stopped, slipped down, her legs almost giving way from sheer exhaustion. The mare's mouth was ringed with foam and had to rest. There were no more water holes, not that Nicky knew of, so she emptied the contents of her canteen into her hat and held it out to Molly.

A few minutes' rest wouldn't hurt. She didn't want to consider that she might be delaying the end of her journey because she would then have to make decisions that she still wasn't quite ready to make. Why she wasn't ready, she didn't begin to know. Kane had betrayed her, used her. She should feel nothing but hate for him. And she did hate him. But then, she also remembered the tender touch of his lips, the gentleness of his fingers.…

Tricks. All tricks. If only she didn't hurt so badly. If only the pain didn't seem to temper the anger rather than strengthen it.

She walked Molly until she found a small rise where she could see a long distance in every direction. She sat down, looking up at the sky, watching as clouds tripped across the sky. Light, billowy clouds. The sun shone bright, and she welcomed the warmth because there was none inside her. She stretched flat on the ground and stared upward until drowsiness crept over her, and her eyes closed.

Panic woke her. Panic and fear. Bewilderment. She didn't know where she was, but the very air seemed to crackle with danger. She fought her way out of the exhaustion-drugged sleep.

“Nicky?”

She heard his voice before she opened her eyes. Kane's voice. It was soft, questioning. New waves of pain rushed through her. He had managed to track her despite her precautions. A sob caught in her throat. Maybe she wanted him to find her. But then what did that make her?

“Nicky?”

She slowly opened her eyes. He was standing next to her. The beard was gone, replaced by dark bristle on his cheeks. His dark gray eyes were wary, all laughter, indeed any spark of life, gone from his gaze.

Her heart stopped, and for an instant she couldn't breathe. She wanted to hit him, swear at him, kill him, but she couldn't move.

A muscle in his cheek throbbed against the side of his face, making the scar more prominent. The mark of the devil. Of Cain. Why didn't she reach for the rifle lying next to her? Why couldn't she move?

He stooped down, and his hand reached toward her face. She flinched, shying away like a wounded animal would move from the thing trying to kill it. He jerked his hand back.

“You heard me and Masters, didn't you?” he asked finally.

She still couldn't speak. She was afraid what might come from her mouth if she started. His face changed, looked haggard and tortured. She knew the feeling. Chunks had been cut from her these last two days, leaving her raw and bleeding and tattered inside.

“Will you hear me out?” he finally said.

“No,” she finally whispered. And the tears came again. Tears she thought she'd used up. Tears that came from somewhere so deep she couldn't stanch the flow. Like a mountain stream fed by ice and snow, they thundered from the deepest part of her, demanding an escape. She huddled on the ground, her body heaving, even as she hated those tears, that show of weakness before a man who had already used her.

“Nicole.” His voice was a broken whisper, but all she heard were the lies in it. All the lies.

A hand reached out again, and once more she shied away. “Don't … touch me,” she said in an agonized whisper, pulling her body into the tightest knot she could possibly manage. She had thought so many times about what she wanted to say to him, the words she wanted to throw at him, and all she could do was curl up in a shaking wet ball.

He waited until she stopped, until all the tears were gone, and the heaving left her body with a wretched weakness. She finally managed to still the tremors. Her hand futilely tried to wipe away the tears. Then she sat up and looked at him.

He was still, like a piece of marble, except for his eyes. If she didn't believe all the things he was or did were lies, she would have said there were real tears in them.

But it must be nothing but the glare of the setting sun, she decided, trying to regain what wits she had after that outpouring of emotion. She felt so empty, so completely hollow. “What do you want now?” she asked bitterly. “Actually, since you followed me, I guess you have what you want.” She buried her face in her hands, feeling the betrayal again, just like it was new. “I was a fool all over again.”

He started pacing a small imaginary line. Back and forth. The length, she supposed idly, of a prison cell, one he was so eager to leave he was ready to betray those who would befriend him, love him.

His face was like granite. No more movement of a muscle. No more emotion in his eyes. She might be looking at marble.

“I have to see your uncle.”

“I won't take you,” Nicky said grimly. “I don't care what you do to me.”

He kneeled next to her. “God help me,” he said. “You can't believe I would …” His voice trailed off.

“Hurt me?” she asked. She laughed, a short choking noise. “Why not? What do you think you've done? I would much prefer you inflict pain honestly. A gun. Your fists. Either would be better than your … sweet words.”

All of a sudden, her emotions exploded. Her hand went back and she slapped him as hard and violently as she could, harder than she'd thought her ebbing strength would allow. He took it without flinching, without moving, and she saw the mark of her hand against his face, drops of blood trickling from his mouth.

She sat back, drained and empty. Awaiting retaliation. But he just continued to kneel next to her. He was like a statue, but his eyes never left her.

“Damn you,” she said.

His eyes closed, and the fingers of his left hand balled into a fist. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “So damn sorry.”

“That I found out before you got your blood money?” she asked, tears blinding her eyes again. She hiccuped and turned away, humiliated.

“I never lied to you,” he said in a low voice.

She laughed again, and even she heard the hysteria in the sound. She was shaking. She felt the tremors roll through her. How could she hate someone so much, and still love him? Because she did. She looked at his anguished face, and she loved him. She wanted to put her hand to his cheek, to sooth away the lines around his eyes and the harsh, self-condemning set of his lips.

He stretched out a hand again. “Nicky. I didn't tell you the truth, but I didn't lie, either. Not about how I felt.”

The sky was blood-red behind him. His face looked demonlike in the last dying rays of the sun. Lean, hollowed, scarred. “I trusted you,” she whispered.

Kane bent his head and closed his eyes, a groan coming from deep inside him. She wished she could trust that sound of pain. She couldn't, though. She would never trust anyone again. Especially Kane O'Brien.

She wanted to hurt him again. Not physically, but like he'd hurt her. “Where's your friend?” she asked. “How far behind is he? And exactly what was your price? My uncle would have bettered it, you know. He was even willing to throw me in.” The laugh came back to her as a brittle echo. “Is that what scared you off? Is that why you went looking for a better offer? And what were you going to do with me? Turn me in, too?”

He hadn't moved. Now he did, his hands reaching out and taking her arms. They were like iron bracelets. “Don't ever think that,” he said, and once more his voice seemed to break. “God, I tried to stay away from you. I tried.”