The Stranger

Robbie, who’d been headed outside to play, obeyed without question. He knew better than to argue with his mother when a stranger came to the house.

Laura waited until she heard the metallic click of the latch. Only then did she take the double-barreled shotgun from its rack above the bookshelf and thumb back both hammers.

The rap on the door came again, more insistently this time. Laura’s heart, already racing, broke into a gallop. “Who’s there?” she called.

“Caleb McCurdy’s the name. I didn’t mean to scare you, ma’am. Just wanted to ask a question or two, then, if you want me to leave, I’ll be on my way.”

McCurdy. Laura groped for some memory of the name and came up empty. There was something familiar about the voice that filtered through the heavy wooden door, but without a face to go with it…

Bracing the gun stock against her hip, she opened the door a few cautious inches. “What do you want?” she demanded.

The man who filled the narrow opening was tall and lean, with straight, black hair and a battered face. A closer look revealed jutting cheekbones, obsidian eyes and skin that was burnished to the hue and texture of saddle leather. He was dressed for the trail in unfaded clothes that looked recently bought, but what struck Laura at once was his expression. He was staring at her as if he’d seen a ghost.

His throat moved. Then he closed his mouth tightly, as if he’d thought the better of what he’d been about to say. For an instant his gaze lingered on the ugly scar that zigzagged down the left side of her face. Then he averted his eyes, as most people did when they met her.

Laura jabbed the shotgun’s twin barrels toward him. “Well, then, speak your piece, Mr. McCurdy, or be on your way. Strangers aren’t welcome around here.”

Caleb filled his eyes with her defiant face. Lord, she hadn’t recognized him. Otherwise, by now, he’d have a belly full of buckshot. After what had happened five years ago, he could understand why she greeted callers with a gun. She was likely terrified. What he couldn’t understand was why she’d stayed in a place with so many tragic memories. Surely she had kinfolk back east who would have welcomed her home.

Her large gray eyes studied him cautiously. It made sense, now, that she wouldn’t know him. His real name would mean nothing to her. And he was no longer the bashful teenager who’d adored her across the kitchen table. Five years had put height and muscle on him, and prison had altered his features. A fight with the prison bully had broken his nose. An accident with falling rocks had split his lip and laid a puckered scar across his left eyebrow. Even his eyes had long since lost their look of innocence.

Laura had changed, too. The knife wound on her face had healed badly, leaving a jagged white streak from her temple to the corner of her mouth. Her hair was pulled harshly back and twisted into a tight knot. But it was her dove-colored eyes that struck him to the heart. They were an animal’s eyes, wounded and mistrustful.

They had done this to her, he and his brothers. And Caleb knew that, in his own blundering way, he was as much to blame as Zeke and Noah. He had tried to rescue her and failed. Worse, his interference had opened the way to Mark Shafton’s death.

“I’m waiting,” she said. “You’ve got ten seconds to tell me what you want before I blast you off my porch!”

Caleb scrambled for words, saying the first thing that came to mind. “Your corral gate needs mending. I’ll do it in exchange for a meal.”

She hesitated, her eyes coming to rest on the pistol that hung at his hip. Impulsively, he unfastened the gun belt and held it toward her. “Take this for safekeeping if you’re worried about me,” he said. “Believe me, I’d never hurt you or take anything I hadn’t earned.”

She recoiled slightly, more from him than from the pistol, Caleb suspected. “Lay the gun on the porch,” she said. “You’ll find some tools in the shed. When you finish mending the gate, your food and your weapon will be waiting on the front step. You can take them and go.”

Caleb nodded and turned away, aching for her. Even with the scar, Laura was a beautiful woman. With the ranch as a dowry, she could have had dozens of suitors fighting for her hand. But fear, it seemed, had made her a recluse. He could not imagine such a woman letting any man near her.

The fluttering clothes on the line caught his eye again. He remembered now that she’d told Zeke she was pregnant. Her child would be a little more than four years old, a boy, judging from the pint-sized shirts and overalls. Laura would have her hands full, raising a son alone.

Was there any way he could help her? Not likely, Caleb told himself as he walked toward the shed. He’d be a fool to stay within shotgun range for long. A look, a word, anything could trigger Laura’s memory and her finger. Worse, if she recognized him and sent word to the sheriff, he could end up in prison again, this time as an accessory to murder.

And if he did stay, what could he do for her? Tell her lies? Hurt her again? Caleb sighed as he unlatched the door of the toolshed. He had learned all he’d set out to learn. Laura’s life was far from perfect, but she was surviving as best she could. The wisest thing he could do now was ride away and leave her alone. And he would—as soon as he mended the corral gate.

Laura peered past the frame of the window, watching as the man named McCurdy rehung the sagging gate. He moved with a quiet sureness, one shoulder bracing the timbers while he hammered the nail that held the iron hinge in place. She had tried to do the job herself a few weeks ago but had lacked the strength to hold up the heavy gate while she worked with her hands. Caleb McCurdy made the task look easy.

Her fingers brushed the scar that trailed like spilled tallow down the side of her face. Who was Caleb McCurdy, she wondered, and why had he come this way? Laura was curious, but starting a conversation would only encourage him to stay longer. She’d agreed to his offer out of the necessity to get the gate repaired. But all she really wanted was to be left alone.

He was well spoken and decently dressed. But aside from that he was a rough-looking sort with the face of a brawler. There was no telling what a man like that might do to a helpless woman with a child. Until he was out of sight, she would be wise to watch his every move.

“Who’s that man, Mama?” Laura had let Robbie out of his room a few minutes earlier. Now he was standing on tiptoe beside her, peering over the sill.

“Nobody,” she said. “Just a saddle tramp who needs a meal. At least this one’s willing to work for it.”

“Can I go outside and swing now?” the boy asked. “You said I could if I cleaned up my room.”

Laura hesitated, torn, as always, between the need to protect her son and the awareness that even a small boy needed some freedom. Every time Robbie left her sight she was sick with worry. But the last thing she wanted was to raise him to be a timid, fearful man.

“Please,” Robbie begged. “Just for a little while.”

Laura sighed. “All right. But stay close to the swing. Don’t go near the creek, and leave that man alone, do you hear?”

“Yes, Mama.” He skipped across the kitchen and out the back door, letting the screen slam behind him. Laura watched him through the window as he ran toward the swing. Such a beautiful, open, trusting little boy. So like his father.

But her husband had been too trusting, she reminded herself. In the end, Mark’s faith in the goodness of his fellowmen had killed him and very nearly destroyed her.

In those black days after his murder, only the thought of their unborn child had kept her alive and fighting. Now Robbie was her life—her whole life. She would die, or kill, to keep him safe.

The sight of Caleb McCurdy’s gun belt, coiled like a rattlesnake on the seat of the rocking chair, reminded Laura of the bargain she’d made. Slicing off four slabs of brown bread, she made sandwiches, layering them with meat from the grouse she’d shot in the foothills and with lettuce from her garden. When she was finished, she wrapped the sandwiches in a clean piece of flour sack, knotted the corners and left them on the porch next to the gun belt. As an afterthought, she filled a tin cup with cold water from the kitchen pump. He’d been working hard, and the early summer sun was hot.

Locking the front door behind her, she went back to the kitchen window and looked outside. Caleb McCurdy had the hinges in place and was testing the gate, moving it back and forth to make sure it swung smoothly. Soon he’d be returning to the porch for his meal. It was time she got Robbie back into the house.

She hurried through the kitchen, out the screen door and onto the stoop to call him.

Her heart froze.

The swing dangled empty on its long ropes. Her son was nowhere in sight.

Caleb was gathering up the leftover nails when Laura burst around the corner of the house. Her face was white. “Robbie—my boy!” she gasped. “Where is he?”

“He was on the swing the last time I looked over that way. He can’t be far.” Caleb dropped the nails and the hammer next to the gatepost. It was the nature of little boys to run off and explore. They did it all the time. But the expression of stark fear in Laura’s eyes went beyond motherly concern. Did she suspect him of doing something to her child? Was she afraid he’d snatched the boy to lure her outside?

But why brood about it? After what his family had done to her, Laura had every reason to be fearful and suspicious.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll help you look for him.”

They sprinted back toward the tree, where the boy had last been seen. Laura called her son’s name while Caleb checked the creek, which flowed high with runoff from the melting snow in the mountains. There was no sign of the boy in the water, nor were there any fresh tracks along the bank.

“Have you looked in the springhouse?” he asked her. Laura shook her head. “I always keep it locked. He wouldn’t be able to get in.”

A glance toward the springhouse confirmed her words. The door hasp wore a forbidding steel padlock. Caleb understood Laura’s need to keep her son away from the horror of that place. But there was nothing he could say about it. Even in his silence, he had already begun to lie to her.

The sooner he rode away from here, the better it would be for them both.

While Laura searched the willows, Caleb studied the bare earth around the huge, gnarled cottonwood that supported the swing. His Comanche mother, who’d died when he was twelve, had taught him all there was to know about tracking. But he could see no small, fresh footprints leading away from the base of the tree. Where could a little boy go without leaving a trail?

And then, suddenly, he knew.

Speaking softly, he beckoned to Laura. “Come and stand right here. Wait till I’m out of sight. Then look up into the tree and call to him.”

With wondering eyes, she stepped onto the spot where he’d stood. Caleb moved back under the eave of the springhouse. He wanted to make sure the boy wasn’t too frightened to show himself.

“Robbie?” Laura looked up into the branches above her head. Relief, shadowed with exasperation, swept across her face. “Robert Mark Shafton, what on earth are you doing up there?”

A joyous giggle rang out from ten feet above her head. “I climbed up here, Mama. All by myself!”

Laura’s voice shook. “You had me scared half to death! I’ve been calling and calling. Why on earth didn’t you answer me?”

“I was playing hide-and-seek! You were supposed to find me!”

“Well, pardon me, Master Shafton, I didn’t know this was supposed to be a game.” Laura stood glaring up at her son, her hands on her hips. Caleb watched her from the corner of the springhouse. Five years ago, Laura Shafton had been a shy, enchanting young bride. Tragedy and motherhood had brought out her inner strength. She was magnificent, he thought.

Too bad he couldn’t risk telling her so.

“You get down from there, Robbie,” she said. “Carefully, now, so you won’t fall.”

“Are you going to spank me?” Robbie straddled a sloping limb, clinging to his perch like a treed cat. He was a beautiful child, with his mother’s eyes and his father’s golden coloring.

“No, I’m not going to spank you,” Laura said firmly. “But you’ll be spending some time in your room, young man. We’ll talk about it when you get down.”

The boy inched backward down the limb, but he couldn’t see where he was going. His small feet groped for purchase. He was clearly in trouble.

Laura gasped. “Wait, Robbie! Don’t try to move!” But the child was already slipping off the limb.

Caleb sprinted out from the shelter of the springhouse and started up the tree. “Hang on, I’ll get you!” he shouted, scrambling up the knotted trunk. But he was already too late.

He heard Laura’s scream as Robbie lost his grip and plummeted downward in a shower of twigs and leaves. She sprang for him, trying to break his fall, but as she reached out, she lost her balance and stumbled. The boy fell through her fingertips, struck the ground with a sickening thud and lay still.

Chapter Two

“Robbie! No!” Laura crumpled to her knees beside her son’s body. He was lying facedown on the grassy earth, one arm bent outward at a nightmarish angle. She could see no sign that he was breathing.

“No—” She reached for him, frantic to snatch him up and cradle him in her arms, but a steely hand gripped her shoulder, pulling her back.

“Don’t try to move him,” Caleb McCurdy said. “That could hurt him worse. Give me some room. I’m no doctor, but I’ll do what I can.”

Struck by the urgency in his voice, Laura shifted to one side. She felt a cold numbness sinking into her bones, as if she were being frozen in a block of ice. The birds had fallen silent and she could no longer hear the gurgling creek. The only sound to reach her brain was the pounding of her own heart.

McCurdy knelt beside her. She held her breath as his long, brown fingers probed the length of Robbie’s spine, pressing gently against his ribs. Seconds crawled past. This was all her fault. If she hadn’t scolded the boy, insisting that he come down at once, he would have waited for help. He would have been safe. Now he could be dying or so badly hurt that he would never run, swing or climb a tree again.

Laura prayed harder than she’d ever prayed in her life. Five years ago she’d almost given up on prayer, but the words came now in a rush of silent pleading. Please…please let him be all right, I’ll do anything, give anything…

More seconds passed in frozen agony. Then Robbie coughed, gulped air and began to struggle. His legs kicked freely, but when he tried to move his arm, he flinched and broke into a wail of pain.

“There now, your mother’s right here.” McCurdy eased the sobbing boy onto his back and lifted him off the ground. Supporting the broken arm, he laid him tenderly across Laura’s lap.

Laura pressed her face against Robbie’s dusty hair, kissing his ears and his dirt-streaked face, murmuring incoherent little phrases of love and relief.

McCurdy exhaled and sank back onto his heels. The bright sunlight cast his eyes into shadowed pits. “My guess is he just got the wind knocked out of him. But you’ll need to watch him for a few days. Get him to a doctor if there’s any sign that something’s wrong. And that arm’s got to be set and splinted.”

“There’s no doctor within twenty miles of here,” she said. “Can you help me with the arm?”

He hesitated, then slowly nodded. “I’ve seen it done—had it done when I broke my own arm as a boy. There’s not much to it, but it’ll hurt.” He looked down at Robbie. “How brave are you, boy?”

Robbie’s eyes opened wide in his tear-stained face. “I’m not scared of anything. Not bugs or snakes or even our big red rooster. Not even trees,” he added with a wan little grin.

The ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Caleb McCurdy’s mouth. He looked younger when he smiled, Laura thought. She had judged him to be in his thirties. Now she realized he might be closer to her own age. But he had clearly seen some hard living. Like her he was scarred. Inside, she suspected, as well as outside.

Reason told her he was the last man she should trust. But right now her son needed help, and Caleb McCurdy was all the help she had.

“Are you brave enough to let me straighten your arm?” he asked Robbie. “It’s going to hurt.”

“It hurts now,” Robbie said, grimacing. “I’ll be brave.”

“Good boy.” McCurdy brushed a knuckle against the boy’s flushed cheek. For Laura, the awkward caress was one more reminder of what Robbie had missed growing up without a father. She was doing her best with the boy. But there was only so much a lonely, frightened widow could do to raise a son to manhood. Every day the task became more daunting. The killer who’d gunned down Mark Shafton had shattered three lives—Mark’s, hers and Robbie’s.

Caleb McCurdy rose to his feet. “The sooner we get this over with the better,” he said. “I’ll need some thin, straight wood for the splint and something to wrap around it.”

“Try the woodpile,” Laura told him. “I’ve got an old nightgown I can tear into strips. That should do for wrapping.”

“Fine. Take your boy inside. Lay him down and get him as calm as you can. I’ll be in as soon as I get the wood ready.”

Cradling her son in her arms, Laura carried him through the back door and into the house. Through the window, she caught a glimpse of McCurdy rummaging through the woodpile. Less than an hour ago the man had been a complete stranger. Now he’d be coming into her home. She would be trusting him with her life and the life of her precious son.

The last time she’d opened her door to strangers was the day of her husband’s murder. The thought of doing it again sent a leaden wave of fear through her body. Not all men were evil, she reminded herself. So far, Caleb McCurdy had treated her with courtesy and kindness. But she couldn’t afford to lower her guard. Robbie’s life and her own could depend on her vigilance.

Robbie was whimpering with the pain of his broken arm. Laura laid him on her own bed, propped him with pillows and arranged the arm gently across his chest. She could see where the bone angled halfway between the wrist and elbow. The sight of it made her stomach clench.

Soaking a cloth with cold water from the pump, she laid it over the swelling flesh. Then she brought him some fresh cider to drink out of his special blue china cup. “My brave little man,” she whispered, kissing his damp forehead. “Close your eyes and rest. Everything’s going to be all right.”

She waited until his whimpering eased. Then she found the threadbare flannel nightgown, sat down on the foot of the bed and began tearing the fabric into strips.

Caleb chose a straight chunk of pine and split off two thin slabs with the hatchet. Then he sat down on the chopping block and began smoothing the pieces with his knife, rounding off the rough edges and shaping them to the contour of a child’s arm. Laura’s son would need to wear the splint for at least six weeks. He wanted it to be comfortable.

As he worked, his mind pictured Laura, seeing the terror in her eyes as she plunged toward her fallen child. What if the boy had been killed? Laura was so deeply scarred by the past that one more loss would have shattered her.

And the boy was not out of the woods yet. He could have internal injuries that might not show up right away. Days from now, he could start vomiting blood. Caleb had seen a man die that way in prison after a vicious kick to the gut. The same thing could happen to a child.

Caleb sighed as he shaved the last rough edge off the makeshift splint. How could he ride off and leave Laura alone at a time like this? Unless she ran him off her property with the shotgun, it would be a kindness to stay for a few more days, at least until her son was out of danger. There appeared to be plenty of work to do around the place. He could use that as an excuse, to avoid worrying her.

Brushing the wood shavings off his denims, he sheathed the knife and went around the house to the front door. Laura still viewed him as a stranger. She’d even left his food and gun belt on the porch so he wouldn’t have to come inside. Now he was about to invade her home. One misstep on his part could plunge her into panic. He would have to weigh his every move and measure his every word.

Cautiously he rapped on the door. He heard her light, quick footsteps coming from the back of the house. Then the door swung inward and she stood on the threshold, wide-eyed and trembling.

“Robbie’s resting on my bed,” she said. “I’ll hold him while you set the arm. Will it hurt a lot?”

“I’ll be as gentle as I can. But yes, it’ll hurt. He’ll likely scream, but it’s got to be done.” He followed her through the parlor. Except for the little wooden train cars scattered over the braided rug, the room was much as he remembered it. “If you’ve got some whiskey, we could use it to make him drowsy,” he said.

“No.” She didn’t look back at him. “I don’t keep whiskey in the house.”

She led him into her bedroom, where the boy lay in a nest of pillows. Clearly, Laura was more concerned about her son than she was about having a strange man in this, the most intimate room in her house.

Caleb knew he should keep his eyes on the boy, but he couldn’t help noticing the store-bought mahogany bed with its quilted muslin coverlet and the matching wardrobe and dresser. The wall behind the dresser, where a mirror would have hung, was bare. In fact, there didn’t seem to be any mirrors in the house at all.

A silver-framed photograph of Mark Shafton sat on the nightstand. At the sight of that clean-chiseled face, Caleb’s stomach contracted so violently that for an instant he feared he was going to be sick.

“That’s my papa,” the boy said. “He got killed by some bad men.”

“Lie still, Robbie,” Laura said. “Don’t try to talk.”

“His name was Mark Robert Shafton,” the child persisted. “Like my name, only backwards. My name’s Robert Mark. My mama’s name is Laura. What’s your name?”

“Caleb.”

“My mama says I should call men mister. Can I call you Mr. Caleb?”

“Fine. Now let’s take care of that arm.” Changing the subject, he showed the boy the two pieces of the splint. “Your mother’s going to hold you while I pull your arm and straighten out the bone. Then we’ll put these sticks around your arm and wrap them so it’ll heal straight. All right?”

“You said it would hurt.”

“It will. But only for a few seconds.”

“I won’t cry.”

“It might help if you do.” Caleb glanced at Laura. “Hold him.”

Laura gathered her son close, burying his face against her breast. He squirmed and twisted his head away, wanting to see. She let him, even though she doubted the wisdom of it.

“Brace his shoulder,” Caleb McCurdy said, leaning above them. “Ready?”

Laura gripped the small body, feeling the thin bones strain beneath her fingers. A tear trickled down her cheek. He was so small and so brave. “Ready,” she whispered.

Caleb gripped Robbie’s wrist with one scarred brown hand. The other hand rested on the spot where the boy’s forearm was bent like a badly hammered nail. Gently at first he began to apply pressure, stretching the arm and pushing the break into position. Laura had read that the bones of small children were like green willows, more apt to bend and splinter than to snap. From the look of Robbie’s arm, the bone was still in one piece. Still, the pain had to be excruciating. She bit back her own sobs as her son began to whimper, then to scream.

“Done.” Caleb eased back on the straightened arm. Sweat was streaming down his face. “Good boy, Robbie. You’re as brave as any man I know. Now, if your mother will wrap your arm to cushion it and hand me the splints…”

Robbie’s screams had subsided to jerking sobs. Easing him back onto the pillows, Laura wrapped the first layer of flannel lightly around his arm, then handed Caleb the splints. He held them in place while she wound the wrappings. Working so closely together, it was difficult to avoid contact. The male aromas of sage, wood smoke and fresh perspiration crept into Laura’s senses until she felt strangely warm. Each accidental brush of his fingers against hers sent a jolt of awareness shooting up her arms and prickling through her body. She focused her attention on Robbie, diverting her thoughts from the rough-looking stranger who’d invaded her life. Soon he’d be gone. Then she could get back to the safe, private world she’d created for herself and her son.