Forever and Always (36 page)

The morning and afternoon passed slowly. Sibyl brought them some lunch and stayed to talk briefly. Peter haunted the house, begging to be allowed to see his father, even though he had been assured he'd be told the minute Colby woke. Jared and Laurie stuck their heads in, but Cassie insisted upon coming in and getting a good look at Colby for herself. “I wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for him,” she said. “You've got to make him well.”

Supper time passed, the children were all sent home to bed, and the house was so quiet Logan thought he could hear his own breathing. When James suddenly became alert, he realized it was Colby he heard. His first thought was that it was a death rattle.

“I think he may be regaining consciousness,” James said. “You'd better get his wife and the doctor.”

“Are you sure?” He didn't want to build Naomi's hopes only to have them dashed.

“You can never be sure in situations like this, but they'll want to be here either way.”

Logan woke the doctor first, then Naomi.

“What's happened?” she asked, her eyes filled with fear.

“I don't know, but James wanted me to call you.”

Naomi dashed past Logan and ran down the stairs. When Logan reached the doctor's office, all three of them were gathered around Colby's bed. Logan reached the bedside just in time to see Colby open his eyes.

“What's everybody staring at?” he asked. “Have I been sick?”

With a body-racking sob, Naomi fell back onto the cot next to Colby's bed. Dr. Kessling seemed incapable of speech, and Logan was too choked up to talk.

“You were shot,” Dr. Pittman told him. “You've been unconscious for close to three days.”

It seemed Colby hadn't realized until now that he was on a bed in the doctor's office. “I guess that's why I'm trussed up like a papoose. Did somebody get the bastard who shot me?”

“Yes. I believe it was Elliot who got him.”

“Who the hell is Elliot?”

“I'm Elliot,” Logan managed to say. “Or at least I was.”

“Nobody's making much sense,” Colby said. “Maybe I'd better go back to sleep and wake up again. Naomi, are you crying? Now I know something's wrong. Naomi never cries.”

“You nearly died, you idiot,” his loving wife told him. “I'm crying because I'm happy you survived.”

“Where's Peter? At least I can depend on him not to act weird.”

“I'll get him,” Logan volunteered. “I'll get the rest of your family, too. They've been waiting as anxiously as the rest of us.”

* * *

It was close to midnight, but finally the excitement over Colby's recovery had quieted down, and everybody had gone home. Logan was relieved to be back in Sibyl's house with Kitty asleep upstairs. He and Sibyl had retreated to a bench in the backyard in a grove of young cottonwood trees. After the stress of the last few days, the soft evening air engendered a sense of well-being.

“This is the first time I've had you to myself in days,” Sibyl said.

Logan kissed her on her nose. “You've had me all to yourself for weeks.”

Sibyl giggled. “You know what I mean. We were worrying about Colby, Bridgette was a dark shadow over all of us, and you were pulled away by your brothers or one of the children. I was starting to feel like you were taking me for granted.”

Logan put his arms around her and pulled her hard against him. “I can never take you for granted. I still can't believe you love me. The swelling in my face is nearly gone, but I'm far from handsome. Next to Ted Drummond I look like a gargoyle.”

Sibyl elbowed him gently in the side. “So does every man in Cactus Corner, but you're my gargoyle. As long as you look a little scary, I don't have to worry about some hussy trying to steal you away from me.”

Logan laughed softly. “There'll be a lot of things that will worry you from time to time, but you'll never have to worry that I'll stop loving you. I've never been half as happy in my life, and I don't mean to let anything change that.”

“Kitty loves you as much as I do. I think it was her liking you that made me look beyond the surface. I decided what I found there was worth keeping.”

They were silent for a few minutes.

“Will you really be happy not going back to Chicago? Your whole life was there for thirty years.”

“I lived and worked in Chicago, but I hadn't found any real meaning or focus in my life until I came to Cactus Corner. My brothers and their families are here.” He laughed. “Peter is here. How could I think of living anywhere where I couldn't be part of his unbounded enthusiasm for life? But most important, you and Kitty are here. The two of you are my family. I could be happy anywhere as long as I'm with you.”

“I would have gone to Chicago.”

“I know, and I love you for it, but I really do want to stay here. I feel like I've finally come home.”

Sibyl snuggled deeper into Logan's embrace. “I can't wait to become your wife, but you know we have to wait until Colby is strong enough to attend the wedding. He'll want to stand up with you.”

“Are you sure?”

“You should have seen how excited he was standing next to Jared when he married Laurie. You'd have thought he was marrying Naomi all over again.”

“If both my brothers stand with me, Naomi and Laurie should stand with you.”

“And Cassie. It would break her heart if we left her out.”

“Kitty and Esther can be the flower girls, but can we trust Peter not to drop the rings?”

Sibyl sat up and faced Logan. “I never heard of a man who wanted to help plan his wedding.”

“Marrying you is the most important step I've ever taken. I want to be part of every bit of it.”

Sibyl sank back into his embrace. “You really are an unusual man.”

“And forgetful.” Logan pulled Sibyl into a sitting position. “There's one important step I completely forgot.”

“What? I can't think of anything.”

“If we're going to do this, we've got to do it right all the way.” Logan slid off the bench and knelt before a very surprised Sibyl. “My dearest Sibyl, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

There in the moonlight, kneeling before the woman he adored more than life, Logan received the perfect answer to the most important question of his life.

Leigh Greenwood is the
USA Today
bestselling author of the popular Seven Brides, Cowboys, and Night Riders series. The proud father of three grown children, Leigh resides in Charlotte, North Carolina. He never intended to be a writer, but he found it hard to ignore the people in his head, and the only way to get them out was to write. Visit him at
www.leigh-greenwood.com
.

Read on for a special glimpse into the lives of the Bachelors of Battle Creek by
New York Times
bestselling author Linda Broday.

Forever His Texas Bride

FROM THE AUTHOR
…

It gives me great pleasure to introduce you to my Bachelors of Battle Creek series. In it, I show how three ragged boys came together in the orphanage to form an unbreakable bond as brothers that forges their journey into adulthood. Tears still come into my eyes when I think of how they were so desperate for family that they created their own.

Brett Liberty's story goes to the very core of who I am, maybe who we all are, and what I stand for. Being a half-breed was the worst thing for a man in the 1800s because it meant he straddled two worlds with neither claiming him. In this story, Brett faces pure hatred to the point that others want him dead. He's never been with a woman, never known the softness of a woman's touch or the feel of her lips on his. But when he meets pickpocket Rayna Harper in the jail cell next to his, he finds a kindred spirit. The brush of her hand is almost unbearable in its tenderness, and when she curls up beside him on the narrow bunk, she curls up inside his heart as well.

This is a story of never giving up hope and reaching for a forbidden love that others are bent on denying. It's about how through compassion you
can
change. Brett and Rayna's deep love binds them together like a strip of the toughest rawhide and won't let them go.

Now, I'd like to share an excerpt of
Forever His Texas Bride
…

North Central Texas

Spring 1879

A plan? Definitely
not dying.
Beyond that, he didn't have one.

High on a hill, Brett Liberty lay in the short, bloodstained grass, watching the farm below. With each breath, pain shot through him like the jagged edge of a hot knife. The bullet had slammed into his back, near the shoulder blade from the feel of it.

If a plan was coming, it had better hurry. The Texas springtime morning was heating up and the men chasing him drew ever closer. Every second spent in indecision could cost him. He had two choices: try to seek help from the family in the little valley, or run as though chased by a devil dog.

The blood loss had weakened him though. He wouldn't get far on foot. About a half mile back, Brett's pursuers had shot his horse, a faithful mustang he'd loved more than his own life. Rage rippled through his chest and throbbed in his head. They could hurt him all they wanted, but messing with his beloved horses would buy them a spot in hell.

He forced his thoughts back to his current predicament.

Through a narrowed gaze, Brett surveyed the scene below. It seemed odd that no horses stood in the corral. The farmer who was chopping wood had a rifle within easy reach. The man's wife hung freshly washed clothes up on a line to dry under the golden sunshine while a couple of small children played at her feet. It was a tranquil day as far as appearances went.

Appearances deceived.

Help was so near yet so far away.

Brett
couldn't
seek their aid. The farmer would have that rifle in his hand before he made it halfway down the hill. The fact that Indian blood flowed through Brett's veins and colored his features definitely complicated things. With the Indian uprisings a few years ago fresh in everyone's minds, it would mean certain death.

No, he couldn't go forward. Neither could he go back.

They'd trapped him.

Why a posse dogged his trail, Brett couldn't say. He'd done nothing except take a remuda of the horses he raised to Fort Concho to sell. He could probably clear things up in two minutes if they'd just give him the opportunity. Yet the group, led by a man wearing a sheriff's star, seemed to adhere to the motto
shoot first and ask questions of the corpse
.

He was in a hell of a mess and wished he had his brothers, Cooper Thorne and Rand Sinclair, to stand with him.

Inside his head, he heard the ticking of a clock. Whatever he did, he'd better get to it.

The family below was his only chance. Brett straightened his bloodstained shirt as best he could and removed the long feather from his black hat. Except for his knee-high moccasins, the rest of his clothing was what any man on the frontier would wear.

At last he gathered his strength and struggled to his feet. He removed a bandana, a red one, from around his neck. On wobbly legs, he picked his way down the hill.

When the farmer saw him and started for his rifle, Brett waved the bandana over his head. “Help! I need help. Please don't shoot. I'm unarmed.”

With the rifle firmly in hand, the farmer ordered his wife and children into the house, then cautiously advanced. Brett dropped to his knees in an effort to show he posed no threat. Or maybe it was that his legs simply gave out. Either way, it must've worked—he didn't hear the sound of a bullet exploding from the weapon.

The man's shadow fell across Brett. “Who are you and what do you want?” the farmer asked.

“I'm shot. Name's Brett Liberty. I have a horse ranch seventy miles east of here.” When he started to stand, the farmer jabbed the end of the rifle into his chest. Brett saw the wisdom in staying put.

“Who shot you?”

“Don't know. Never saw them before.” A bee buzzed around Brett's face.

“How do I know you didn't hightail it off the reservation? Or maybe you're an outlaw. I've heard of Indian outlaws.”

Brett sighed in frustration. “I've never seen a reservation, and I assure you, I don't step outside the law. I'm respected in Battle Creek. My brother is the sheriff. If I took up outlawing ways, he'd be the first to arrest me.” Likely throw him
under
the jail instead of putting him in a cell. But he didn't add that.

He glanced longingly toward the house, but the rifle barrel poking from a window told him asking for safety inside was out of the question. So was running. Their guns would cut him down before he'd gone a yard.

Maybe if he stalled, made sure he looked as unthreatening as possible and kept the man nearby, he might just make it. With a witness to the posse's actions, the sheriff might let him live. It was his only shot.

The ticking clock in Brett's head was getting louder, blocking out the buzz of the persistent bee. His pursuers would be here in a minute. His dry mouth couldn't even form spit. “Please, mister, could you at least give me some water?”

It was a gamble, but one that looked like it might pay off. Silently, the farmer backed up a step and motioned Brett toward the well with his rifle barrel.

“Thank you.” Brett got to his feet and stumbled toward the water. He lowered the bucket and pulled it up, then filled a metal cup that hung nearby and guzzled it down. He was about to refill it when horses galloped into the yard and encircled him.

“Put up your hands or I'll shoot,” a man barked, sparing an obvious glance toward the farmer.

Brett glanced up at the speaker and the shiny tin star on his leather vest. He set his empty cup on the ledge circling the well. “Your warning comes a little late, Sheriff. I would've appreciated it much earlier. Would you be so kind as to tell me what I did to warrant this arrest?”

The bearded sheriff dismounted. Hate glittered in his dark eyes, reminding Brett of others who harbored resentment for his kind. Jerking his hands behind his back, the middle-aged lawman secured them with rope. “You'll know soon enough.”

Ignoring the sharp pain piercing his back, Brett tried to reason. “I can clear up this misunderstanding if you'll only tell me what you think I did wrong.”

No one spoke.

Brett turned to the farmer. “I'll give you five of my best horses if you'll let my brothers know where I am. You can find them in Battle Creek. Cooper Thorne and Rand Sinclair.”

The farmer stared straight ahead without even a flicker to indicate he'd heard. While the sheriff thanked the sodbuster for catching Brett, two of the other riders threw him onto a horse. With everyone mounted a few minutes later, the group made tracks toward Steele's Hollow.

Brett had passed through there before daybreak, anxious to get home to the Wild Horse Ranch. The town had been quieter than a blade of grass growing. He couldn't imagine what they thought he'd done. This was the first time he'd traveled through the community. Usually he took a more southerly tack returning home after driving a string of horses to Fort Concho, but this time he'd had to deliver a sorrel to a man on the Skipper Ranch near Chalk Mountain, so he'd decided to cut through.

He made a mental note to give Steele's Hollow a wide berth from now on.

Not that there would be a next time if things kept going the way they were.

The combination of blood loss and the hot sun made Brett see double. It was all he could do to stay in the saddle.

By the time they rode into the small town an hour later, Brett had doubled over and clung to the horse's mane with everything he had. The group halted in front of the jail, jerked him off the animal and into the rough wooden building.

“Please, I need a doctor,” Brett murmured as they rifled through his pockets.

After taking the bank draft from the sale of the horses and his knife, they unlocked a door that led down a dark walkway. The smell of the earthen walls and the dim light told him the builder had dug into a hill. They unlocked a cell and threw him inside.

“A doctor,” Brett repeated weakly as he huddled on the floor.

“Not sure he treats breeds.” The sheriff slammed the iron door shut and locked it. “See what I can do, though. Reckon we don't want you to die before we hang you.”

“That's awful considerate.” Brett struggled to his feet and clung to the metal bars to keep from falling. “Once and for all, tell me…what did I do? What am I guilty of?”

“You were born,” the sheriff snapped. Without more, he turned and walked to the front of the jail.

* * *

Panic pounded in Brett's temples like a herd of stampeding mustangs long after the slamming of the two iron doors separating him from freedom. This proved that the sheriff had targeted him solely because of his Indian heritage; he had nothing to charge him with.

His crime was simply being born?

Dizzy, Brett collapsed onto the bunk as his hat fell to the crude plank floor.

Movement in the next cell caught his attention. Willing the room to keep from spinning, Brett turned his head. He could make out a woman's form in the dimness. Surely his pain had conjured her up. They didn't put women in jail.

He couldn't tell what she looked like because she had two faces blurring together, distorting her features—but he could hear her pretty voice clear enough.

“You're in pitiful shape, mister.”

Since his bunk butted up to the bars of her cell, she could easily reach through. He felt her cautiously touch one of his moccasins.

“Checking to see if I'm dead?” he murmured.

“Nope. Do you mind if I have your shoes after they hang you?”

Brett raised up on an elbow, then immediately regretted it when the cell whirled. He lay back down. “That's not a nice thing to ask a man.”

“Well, you won't be needing them. I might as well get some good out of them.”

“They aren't going to hang me.”

“That's not what Sheriff Oldham said.”

“He can't hang me because I didn't do anything wrong.” It was best to keep believing that. Maybe he could convince someone, even if only himself. “I think he was joking.”

“Humor and Sheriff Oldham parted company long ago. He's serious all the time. And mean. You don't want to get on his bad side.”

“Wish I'd known this sooner. You sure know how to make a man feel better,” Brett said dryly, draping his arm across his eyes and willing his stomach to quit churning. “What is your name?”

“Rayna.”

“Who stuck that on you? I've never heard it before.”

“It's a made-up name. My father is Raymond and my mother is Elna. My mama stuck 'em together and came up with Rayna. I've always hated it.”

“Got a last name, or did they use it all on the first one?”

“Harper. Rayna Harper.”

“Forgive me if I don't get up to shake hands, but I'm a little indisposed. I'm Brett Liberty.”

With that, blessed silence filled the space, leaving him to fight waves of dizziness and a rebellious stomach. Keeping down the contents seemed all he could manage at present.

But Rayna wasn't quiet for long. “Where did you get those Indian shoes, Brett? I'd sure like to have them.”

“My brother.” His words came out sounding shorter than he intended.

“Sorry. I've been in here for a while by myself, and I guess I just have a lot of words stored up. Sometimes I feel they're just going to explode out the top of my head if I don't let some out. What are you in here for? I couldn't hear too well.”

“For being born, I'm told.” Brett was still trying to digest that.

“Me too.” Rayna sounded astonished. “Isn't that amazing?”

Brett had a feeling that no matter what he'd said, she would say the same thing. He wished he could see her better so he could put a face to the voice. Even though the conversation taxed him, it was nice to know he wasn't alone. Maybe she'd even hold his hand if he died.

That is, if she wasn't too busy trying to get his moccasins off instead.

“Why do you think it's amazing?”

“Because it makes perfect sense. I figure if I hadn't been born, I wouldn't be in here for picking old Mr. Vickery's pockets.”

“So you're a pickpocket?” Surprise rippled through him.

“Nope. I'm a spreader of good. I don't ever keep any of it. I take from those who have and give to the have-nots. Makes everyone happy. Except me when I get thrown in the calaboose.”

“You're a Robin Hood.” Brett had seen a copy of the book about the legendary figure at Fort Concho. He'd learned it so he could share the tale with Toby, Rand's adopted son. Brett had taken the six-year-old into his heart and loved spending time with the boy.

“I'm a what?”

“A person who goes around doing good things for the poor.”

“Oh. I guess I am. It makes me so sad that some people have to do without things they need and no one helps them. This past winter, my friend Davy froze to death because the only place he had to sleep was under a porch. He was just a kid with no one except me to care.”

Rayna's unexpectedly big heart touched Brett. She seemed to speak from a good bit of experience. “Do you have a place to sleep whenever you're not in here?”

“I get along. Don't need you to fret about me. Worrying about them putting a rope around your neck is all you can handle. Do you reckon it hurts a lot, Brett?”

“I wouldn't know.” Hopefully, he wouldn't find out.

“I'll say a prayer for you.”

“Appreciate that, Miss Rayna Harper.” She was wrong about him only having to worry about getting his neck stretched, though. He could feel himself getting weaker.

He could also feel her eyeing his moccasins again.

Pressure on the bottom of his foot made him jump. He raised his head and saw that she'd stuck one bare foot through the bars and was measuring it to his.

“Stop that,” he said with a painful huff of laughter. “The doctor'll be along soon. I'm not going to be dead enough for you to get them.”