bargain.â
âOr try to.â
âAnd then?â
âItâs war, Hannah. We can blow the dam. Simpson can knock down fences, run off cows, and shoot the bulls. Heâll try to isolate you, pick off your friends one by one.â
âHeâll come for you first.â
âNo, last. Heâll want me to watch. Itâs you and the children that are most vulnerable. Heâll go after you.â
She shuddered, and he let her lean against his side. His great strong hand held her tightly, and for a second the clock moved back. It was spring and they were thirteen again. But it didnât last. She wriggled free and walked toward the door.
âIâll see whatâs keeping the boys,â she told him.
He stepped down from the veranda and stumbled over beside the swing. He felt his eyes moisten. Itâs strange, he thought. How can two people who shared so much, loved each other so completely, have ever come to this? He wiped his eyes and stared out across the creek, toward the Diamond S and the town of Simpson, toward the white-haired old man whoâd been the cause of so much pain.
Blake hadnât shed a tear in thirty years, not since the winter of 1850 when his mother died. At this moment he could have, possibly should have. For if all their buried dreams and grand plans for a boundless future werenât worth crying over, nothing ever would be.
A door slammed, and he shook himself out of the gloom. Two boys appeared on the steps, a tall, solid fourteen-year-old with straw-colored hair and a thin, somber-faced boy of thirteen. Blake felt his legs wobble a bit as he walked toward them. The boys stood frozen to the steps, unable or unwilling to move.
âCarter? Zach?â Blake called to them.
The eldest, Carter, nodded his head. Zach backed away a step.
âIâm your father,â Blake announced.
âOur fatherâs inside,â Carter said. âYou left us years ago.â
âZach?â Blake asked, reaching out for the younger boy.
âWhyâd you come back?â Zach asked, moving behind his brother. âWe donât need you. We donât want you.â
The words cut like daggers through Blakeâs heart. Never had he imagined they wouldnât want him. Didnât they remember the mornings theyâd spent in the pond, the long rides into the hills, the nights heâd stayed up fighting their fevers or dosing a cough?
He wanted to grab them both, hold them tight and try to explain. He longed to tell them he wanted them, he needed them. But it wasnât in him. He stepped back and stared at them. His sons. How could he tell them heâd come back to help them?
âMa said we should see you,â Carter said. âWeâve seen you.â
Blake reached out his hand, but the boys backed away.
âI wrote,â Blake mumbled. âEvery birthday and each Christmas.â
They stared at him with blank looks.
âI sent money, all I could spare.â
âItâs hard to go hunting with a Yankee greenback,â Carter said. âYou couldâve come for a visit, even a short one.â
Now it was Blakeâs time to stand silently, searching for words. How could he explain something he himself didnât fully understand?
âHow could you run from them?â Carter cried out with tearful eyes. Zach said nothing, but the smaller boyâs eyes were just as moist.
âIâm not runninâ now,â Blake said stiffening his spine. âMaybe after a time, youâll find a way to understand.â
âUnderstand what?â Carter asked accusingly. âHow you left without so much as a good-bye? How you never once cared enough to ride by?â
Never cared? Blake felt all the brightness, all the warmth within himself die. How many times had he stayed up wondering how they were faring, imagining what they looked like? How many sleepless nights came when a winter blizzard struck,