The Kissing Tree (24 page)

“I did it for me, not for you,” she spat the words at him. “He had it comin’, didn’t he, Miss McLaughlin?”

Ridge looked over at Georgiana. He could not accurately read her expression, so he looked back to Cordelia. There was something in her eyes . . . some kind of sorrow mixed with triumph. Not triumphant for killing a man, but rather for overcoming some personal test. He was missing something, some secret she and Georgiana now shared.

“You’re not going to get away with this. Think about it, Cordelia. Eventually the posse will come this way, maybe even decide what I told them might be noteworthy. There will be at least fifteen or twenty armed men.” He looked over to the two men still not looking like they were making any progress. “Do ya really think you’ll hold up in a shootin’ match with those two at your side?”

“That’s why I have them,” she pointed toward Georgiana and Samantha, “and you.” She looked down at him. “Someone else might die, but that’s a risk I’m willin’ to take. Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

Cordelia walked over and stood behind him. Pointing the shotgun at him with one hand, she took the other and began playing with his hair.

“There is one other possibility,” she continued to play with his hair, her voice taking on a dreamy quality. For the longest moment she didn’t move or say anything else. Finally, she tore her eyes away from him and glanced at Georgiana. Ridge stiffened, worried what she was planning. Cordelia didn’t seem to notice and began speaking again. “I know she’s beautiful, Ridge,” she continued, staring at Georgiana as she spoke. “And . . . and you’re quite taken with her.”

Ridge tensed his muscles, preparing himself to act quickly if she made a move to harm Georgiana.

“But . . . ,” she said, looking back at him, and he relaxed slightly. “I do have something she doesn’t have.” Cordelia paused, and Ridge didn’t say anything, just waited. “Why, I have all this money,” she suddenly blurted out, gesturing toward the wagon. “Just think . . . one bag is enough to live comfortably on for at least two years and there are more than ten in the wagon.” Her voice became excited. “We could go someplace, another country, perhaps. I’m supposed to meet up with my father at the Utah/Idaho border. We thought we’d get lost in Mormon territory for a while. They’re pretty accepting of outsiders. Who knows . . . maybe they’ll even convert me.”

She laughed at that and added, “Though Father would be awfully disappointed if I suddenly grew a conscience and gave the money back.” She laughed again, almost hysterically. Ridge watched carefully as her hand relaxed on the gun. “But I don’t care about my father. He has never cared about me or my mother.” Cordelia turned her full attention back to him and once again her voice took on the same dreamy quality as before. “I . . . I know I could make you happy . . . if you’d only let me.”

Ridge knew he needed to keep her distracted. If he could, he might be able to get the gun from her without harming anyone. Or maybe he could talk her into leaving with him and get her away from Georgiana and Samantha.

So slowly he reached up with one hand and gently grabbed hold of her fingers that were wound in his hair, bringing her hand down to lie against his cheek. Her breath caught in her throat as he guided her hand further down toward his mouth and with his lips, kissed it softly. He could feel her hand trembling. He felt a pang of guilt, but he knew he had to do something, anything, to keep Georgiana and Samantha safe and to end this all before it became a heated battle.

“Maybe I did make a mistake. Your offer is tempting.”

He spoke the words low and seductively, all too aware that Georgiana was watching, listening. It was going to work—she was weakening, becoming even more distracted. Just as he was about to make his move, she abruptly pulled her hand away from his and placed both hands back on the shotgun. When she spoke, her voice was heavy with emotion.

“You’re almost as smooth as Jake.” Her voice broke. He was surprised to see tears spill from her eyes. “Though you’re even more dangerous because . . . I . . . I could more easily believe you,” she added. With the back of one of her hands, she swiped at the tears on her face and quickly put it back on the gun. “I may want you . . . or want what you could give me and my . . .” She paused, and her expression turned hard. “But I’m not a fool. I saw the way you kissed her. You wouldn’t have kissed her that way unless you were in love, deeply in love.” She took a minute to wipe another tear. “You’re not going to go anywhere with me. You’re just sayin’ the things I want to hear.”

Georgiana looked sadly over at Cordelia. In spite of everything, she felt sorry for her. Even with her hardened and calloused attitude, she could see Cordelia was frightened. When stripped of her defenses, all she had left to cling to was her anger and her hate. When she’d shot Jake, she’d lost the direction for all those negative feelings. She would not aim them at the child she carried, Georgiana knew that. The protective way her hand went to her abdomen so often spoke volumes. Now, only left with the fear and worry of raising a child on her own, her desperation had culminated. She was looking for a way out but was still not willing to give in.

“Cordelia,” Ridge pleaded. “Just give the money back and turn yourself in. They’re going to catch ya either way. You’re a woman. The judge will go easy on ya.”

Cordelia looked tired and desperate. The two were not a good combination. Shaking her head, she looked at the ground for a moment, placing one hand on her stomach. Then they all heard the sound of approaching horses.

Cordelia’s head came up immediately, and her eyes turned hard.

“You,” she said, motioning to Georgiana, “get down here . . . now!” She pointed the gun at Ridge’s head. “Or you can say good-bye to your man.”

Georgiana quickly scrambled out of the wagon as best she could with her hands tied. Gratefully her feet weren’t tied too. Nevertheless, she stumbled. She fell a second time before she managed to get close to Cordelia. When she did, Cordelia turned the gun on her, just in time for the posse to appear in the bushes behind Gil and Wyatt. The two men were totally unaware of their presence.

“If you come any closer, I’ll shoot her.”

“Put the gun down, Miss Jamison,” the sheriff spoke. “You’re only gonna make things worse for yourself.”

“I’m not givin’ in that easy, Sheriff.” She turned her attention to Ridge and ordered, “Mr. Carson, fetch two of those money bags and tie them to that horse over there.”

Ridge looked at the sheriff, who nodded his head.

“I suggest you take your orders from me, Mr. Carson, and not the sheriff.” She shoved the gun closer to Georgiana. “If you want your woman back still breathin’, that is.”

Ridge stood quickly, obediently walked to the wagon, and hoisted two of the money bags out. Walking over to the horse, he began securing the bags to the saddle. When he was finished, he stepped back to the middle of the road.

“Now, bring the horse over here.”

Ridge walked back, untied the horse, and began leading it toward her. It was at that moment that Gil finally looked up and noticed Ridge walking with the horse, money bags hanging.

“Hey, what’s going on . . . ?” Gil shouted. Wyatt looked up.

“Yeah, what’s going on?” Wyatt echoed.

The distraction wasn’t much, but it had startled Cordelia enough that Ridge was able to lunge toward her, knocking the gun from her hands. The gun went off.

Simultaneously a shot came from the direction of the posse.

Ridge was horrified when Georgiana flung herself in front of Cordelia, knocking her down, and shouted just as he heard another shot being fired. “No, sheriff! She’s going to have a baby!”

Georgiana fell limp on the ground.

With Samantha’s scream ringing in his ears, Ridge ran to Georgiana, knelt beside her, and lifted her upper body onto his lap. Blood was quickly soaking through her dress, and an immense fear seized hold of his heart. He couldn’t lose her, not now!

Please . . . please . . . please!
he prayed.

“Mother?”

Georgiana had tried opening her eyes and could have sworn she’d seen her mother’s face hovering over her before she’d quickly shut them to avoid the bright light. Someone squeezed her hand, and she once again attempted to open them, this time successfully.

“Mother, is that you?”

“Yes, my dear. It’s me.”

“But how . . . when . . . ?” Georgiana looked around her. She was lying in her bed at her grandfather’s house, so her mother was here, in Colorado.

“Shhh . . . you need your rest. Go back to sleep and I’ll fix you something to eat. You must be famished. After you’ve eaten something, we’ll talk.”

Her mother bent forward and kissed her on the forehead. Georgiana tried to keep her eyes open, but it was a battle she wasn’t destined to win. Despite the slight pain in her head, sleep quickly overcame her.

When next she opened her eyes, she was alone. She couldn’t help but wonder if maybe she had been dreaming. How many of the thoughts and memories assaulting her were dreams and how much of what she remembered was reality?

Trying to sit up, she felt a deep pain shoot through her shoulder, knocking the breath out of her and causing her to fall back onto her pillow. Well, the memory of getting shot was real enough. Reaching up, she unbuttoned her nightgown so she could slip it slightly off her shoulder, just far enough to examine the ugly red wound.

Closing her eyes and leaning back against the pillow, she tried to think. Suddenly her eyes flew back open. Ridge! She remembered hearing two shots go off. Had he been wounded too? Then she vaguely remembered seeing his worried face leaning over her, hearing his voice speaking softly . . . the feel of his hand caressing hers as he held onto it for what seemed like forever. He had stayed at her side. She was sure, but where was he now? And where was Samantha?

Just then, there was a soft knock at the door, and her mother entered carrying a tray and smiling brightly at her.

“Hello, again,” she said, a warm smile still on her face.

“Mother!” Georgiana’s heart was overjoyed. “I was worried I only dreamed you.”

“Here,” her mother said, sitting next to her and placing the tray before her. Reaching over, she squeezed Georgiana’s hand like she had earlier. “Do I feel real enough to you?”

“Yes.” Georgiana squeezed her hand back. “You feel wonderful.”

“Now, you must eat.” Georgiana inhaled the smell of the soup, and her stomach growled hungrily. “I see your stomach agrees.”

Although she was starved, Georgiana was starved more for answers.

“But, Mother, when did you arrive, and how long have you been here?”

“Eat first,” her mother scolded gently, “then we’ll talk. Your body needs sustenance.”

Dutifully, Georgiana lifted the spoon to her mouth. The taste was heavenly and filled with memories.

“Nana’s stew!” she exclaimed, and her mother smiled.

“Yes, she taught me to make it years ago when I was a young bride.”

Georgiana took another spoonful, savoring the taste of stew along with the memories of sitting at the table watching her grandmother chopping the vegetables and mutton while telling her tales and singing her Irish melodies. Before she knew it, she had consumed the entire contents of the bowl, as well as a thick slice of bread. Pushing the tray back, she looked at her mother.

“Mother, tell me, when did you arrive, and how long have I been out?”

“I’ve been here three days,” her mother answered. “I sent your grandfather a telegram almost two weeks ago, telling him we were coming. I wanted to surprise you. Your brothers are going to be very disappointed they weren’t here when you woke up.”

“William and Aden are here too!”

“Yes, dear, but I’m afraid they headed into town with your grandfather about an hour ago.” Georgiana was overjoyed. She couldn’t believe they were here. “They’ve been underfoot all morning. Your grandfather took pity on me. I’m sure they’ll come bounding in here as soon as they return.”

“How long has it been since I was shot?”

“Nearly five days.”

“Five days?” She looked at her mother incredulously.

“Yes, you passed out when the bullet hit you. For the first two days you were in and out of consciousness. You hit your head when you fell to the ground, but Doc Hansen didn’t think you’d hit hard enough to cause a concussion.”

Instinctively, Georgiana reached her hand up and felt the tender spot on the right side of her head, a few inches above her ear.

“You lost a lot of blood before they were able to get you to him,” her mother continued. “He thought perhaps between hitting your head and being shot, your body was just doing the best it could to try and heal itself.” Her mother smiled slightly. “The second night you woke up for a few seconds, do you remember?” Georgiana shook her head. “You mumbled something nobody could quite make out and went back to sleep. When you started to run a fever,” her mother paused, becoming more emotional, “I was so worried and . . . so afraid.” Georgiana reached over and squeezed her mother’s hand. It seemed to give her mother courage to go on. “You were delirious most of the time after that. Yesterday the fever finally broke. About all you’ve done since then is sleep.”

“What about Samantha, Mother. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine, dear. She’s come over every day to check on you, except today, that is.”

“What about Dawson?”
Where had he been through the whole ordeal?
Georgiana wondered.

“He’s been worried about you too. I’ll ask your grandfather to go back to town later and send Dawson a telegram, letting him know you’ve awakened.

“Telegram?”

“I’m sorry, dear. He had to leave for home yesterday afternoon. The doctor assured him you were going to be fine or he would never have left. Neither would have Samantha.”

“Samantha? Samantha’s gone . . . but where?” She was getting the feeling she’d missed out on an awful lot while she slept.

“Well,” her mother said, looking at her tentatively. “Dawson offered to take her with him to see New York.” Her mother smiled knowingly. “Even as a child that girl always dreamed of going to the city.”

“I remember.” Georgiana pondered for a moment what that all meant.

“He left you a letter.” Her mother reached into her apron pocket and withdrew an envelope with her name on it. “Would you like to read it now?”

Suddenly, Georgiana was very tired again. What she really wanted was to know where Ridge was, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask. She had only mentioned Ridge to her mother in a few of her letters. Her mother couldn’t have any idea of how deep her feelings for him ran . . . or could she?

“Can you leave it on the dresser for me, please? I think I’ll read it later. I’m feeling quite fatigued again.” Georgiana reached out and took her mother’s hand. “Thank you, Mother, for coming. I . . . I’ve missed you, have wished you were here.” Georgiana was on the verge of crying.

“I’ve missed you too, love. When you wake up, we’ll talk some more. We have much to discuss.” Her mother’s words made her curious, but she was too tired to ask their meaning.

“Mmm . . . ,” was all she managed before she was lost to sleep and to the musings and figments of her dreams.

◁ ◊ ▷

Charlotte watched as her daughter drifted off. Gently she reached over and brushed away the wayward strand of hair that had fallen onto her sweet, beautiful face.

Charlotte finally understood why Georgiana had held herself back from Dawson. She cared for him, but she didn’t love him, not like a love between a husband and a wife should be, not like she had loved Michael. Why hadn’t she seen sooner that Georgiana had lost her heart long ago? Sadly, she knew the answer to that.

For the thousandth time, Charlotte bemoaned the fact that she’d taken her children away from here, from this place so filled with love. As soon as she had walked into the house, she felt it rain upon her, saturating her soul. Why hadn’t she realized it then? While being so weak from the sorrow and grief . . . so lost in the loneliness, she had run away from this house and the sound of Michael’s laughter that still echoed down the halls. Run from the mountains and from her memories of days spent walking and meandering with him through their majestic beauty. Shamefully, she had even run from the sound of his father’s voice, so similar to Michael’s own. In that first year, sometimes when Angus would speak or call out, her heart would begin to pound, and she could almost believe it had all been a bad dream. She’d imagine Michael was still here, calling her from the other room. So, yes, she had run . . . run with their children . . . run straight into the arms of her cold and spiteful sister, who for so many years had not owned even an ounce of love in her heart.

When she woke from her grief, it was too late. Cecelia had control over all the family’s money, even the little she’d brought with her, leaving her at the mercy of Cecelia’s wants and desires. None of them included Colorado or her husband’s family. Cecelia was only interested in furthering her own rank and social standing, and unfortunately for Georgiana, Cecelia had decided that she was her surest ticket.

Charlotte’s stomach lurched at the knowledge she now possessed, the deceit and the lies her sister had succeeded in perpetrating for so long. She wouldn’t be returning to live with her sister, nor would her children. Not ever.

Standing up, Charlotte bent down once again to place a kiss on her sleeping daughter’s head and picked up the tray from the bedside table. She still had one more important task she had to accomplish today, and she could no longer put it off.

Once Charlotte finished up the dishes, she donned her hat and cloak and walked toward the far east corner of the meadow. To temper the rising feelings of nervousness and guilt, she busied herself picking wildflowers along the way.

When she came upon the graveyard, she paused at the gate before entering. Only a dozen or so graves decorated the ground; most looked forgotten and neglected. Focusing on where Michael and now his mother lay, she was touched to see that their graves were well cared for—no weeds on or near them, and a bundle of flowers at each that looked to be only a few days old.

With reverence, Charlotte slowly unlatched the gate and stepped inside. This was the first time she’d been back since the day they had placed Michael’s body in the ground. Even though they had remained in Colorado a year after his death, she had never been able to bring herself to return.

Taking a deep breath, she first walked over and stood before Michael’s mother’s grave.

“Hello, Mother McLaughlin.” She bent down, lying half of the flowers she’d collected next to the others. Tears wet her cheeks. “I’m so sorry we never came back.” The tears fell faster. “I’m sorry you and your grandchildren missed out on so many precious memories together. You were always so good to me, as if you were my own mother. I took so much joy away from you. Please . . . please forgive me.”

After another moment, she walked over to her husband’s headstone. Kneeling down, she released the last of the flowers and began running her fingers across the inscription.
Michael Angus McLaughlin 1851–1892 Beloved Son, Husband, and Father.
Drawing her hand back from the stone, she brushed at the profusion of tears with both hands.

She had sought peace for so long, but it had always eluded her. Charlotte now prayed that she might find some solace here at his grave. She had somehow always known this was the only place she would ever find the peace she was seeking, but she had turned away, fearing if she let go of the grief, Michael would be lost to her, forgotten. So she had forced herself to suffer and, in turn, had caused her children to suffer as well.

“Oh, Michael, I have made such a mess of things, not only of my life, but I fear I have caused our children unnecessary pain.” Lifting her hand, she once again traced the letters of his name. “It was not fair, you being taken from me the way you were. I was not ready to let you go. Our time together was too short. We were supposed to raise our children, grow old together, and—remember—you were going to take me to visit your homeland.”

She smiled for a moment as she remembered how he would gather her in his arms and say, “Charlotte, me love, ever it is when I look into the green of yar eyes I remember the green hills of Ireland. One day, I’ll be takin’ ye there.”

“When you left me, Michael, I couldn’t bear it and . . . and I ran. It was wrong, but I was lost without you.” Charlotte lowered her hand from the stone and picked up one of the flowers she had laid before it, bringing it to her nose and breathing in the deep, rich scent.

When she heard footsteps behind her, she instinctively knew who it was.

“Hello, Father McLaughlin.”

“Hello, lass.”

Angus approached his son’s grave. He knew she would come. He had prayed for it.

They remained silent for some time before she spoke.

“You know, he was alive that day when I found him . . .”

Angus held his breath. Long had he waited to know the last moment of his son’s life. To know whether he had died alone or whether when she had found him, there was still breath in him. He had prayed it was the latter, that his son had died held by the woman he so loved. When she spoke again, her voice was low, wrought with emotion. He knew this would cost her dearly.

“But only barely.” Her voice trembled. “I knew before I arrived something was wrong. You remember I had gone over to the Thompsons’ to check on Marva. She was near her time and after losing her last child, she was sore afraid. I had just started checking her when I thought I heard Michael call my name. ‘That’s impossible,’ I thought, ‘Michael’s at home waiting for you.’ I looked out the window anyway to see if maybe he had ridden over, but I saw nothing, so I continued with the examination.” She paused and took a deep breath. “It was a few minutes later that I heard him call my name again, but this time his voice sounded weak . . . pleading. I immediately began packing my things. Marva begged me to stay a while with her. I could see she was frightened, so I quickly made some tea to calm her and hurried to the wagon. I knew somehow Michael needed me.