strong, sturdy hands worked tirelessly through the day, but at night
they were gentle and soft as they stroked his brow.
Grace was a dainty, petite woman. The top of her head barely reached
his shoulders. She came from wealth and status and had obviously moved
about in a world that was totally foreign to him. Yet there was a
naivete and gentleness in her that made him want to move close.
But she wasn't Kathleen. Oh, God, how he missed his wife. He ached to
take her into his arms and make love to her once again. He longed to
listen to her sing a lullaby to their little girl, to hear their
laughter, to touch . . . He forced himself to stop thinking about the
past. His life had ended when his wife and baby were taken from him,
gunned down like animals, but he had to keep going . . . had to keep
pushing and searching until he had gotten every one of the demons
responsible. Only then could he stop.
With a weary sigh, he got ready for bed and methodically went through
his notes again. He wanted to find something he'd missed before, but
that didn't happen. In frustration, he hurled the notepad across the
room and fell back against the pillows.
Oh, Kathleen, if one of us had to die, why couldn't it have been me?
He fell asleep thinking about his wife, but he dreamed about Grace.
\
( vole didn't know what had awakened him. One second he was sound
asleep, roping cattle, and the next he was wide awake and as tense as a
bow. He was a light sleeper even when he was home at Rosehill in his
own bed, and he always heard every little sound. He didn't hear
anything unusual, but he still reached for his gun and went to the
door.
As he expected, there wasn't anyone lurking in the hallway. He shut
the door and crossed to the window to look down at the street, thinking
that someone who had had too much to drink had made a racket. The
street was deserted.
A faint breeze brushed his face. He let out a loud yawn and thought
about going back to sleep, but then he saw the faint orange glow in the
distance and realized it was already dawn. The sun was slowly making
its way up into the black sky. Damn, but morning had come quick. He
was still sleepy, and it seemed to him that he had only just closed his
eyes.
He was getting old, he supposed. He stretched his arms and went to get
a drink of water before he got dressed. Because it was still dark in
the room, he lit the kerosene lamp. His pocket watch was on the
dresser next to his compass, and it wasn't until he happened to glance
at the time that he realized it was still the middle of the night.
"What the hell? " he muttered.
He turned toward the streaks of amber light once again . . . and then
he started running.
He was pulling his shirt on and trying to button his pants as he ran
into the hallway.
"Wake up, Daniel. We've got trouble." The door opened a second
later.