* * *
The instant Zachariah McGovern disappeared and Kate felt assured he wouldn't come back, she dropped the hoe and went in search of Miranda. She found her child huddling behind a hay bale in the barn loft, knees drawn to her chest, arms crossed over her head. Kate's heart caught, and she sank to her knees in the soft hay to gather Miranda close.
"Oh, sweetness, it's all right. Don't be frightened."
"Is that scary-looking man gone?"
As she smoothed her daughter's hair, Kate recalled Zachariah McGovern's darkly handsome face and twinkling hazel eyes. Not everyone would agree that he was frightening. No wonder tongues in town were buzzing. In these parts, bachelors were a commodity in short supply, and McGovern was about as good-looking as a man came with that wavy, chocolate-colored hair of his and that fine set of shoulders.
In Miranda's books, any man was scary looking, Kate guessed. And who had taught her that? Kate knew she couldn't place the blame entirely on Joseph's head.
She massaged Miranda's narrow little shoulders. "He's not only gone, but I doubt he'll ever come back. He just came for his dog. Chances are the beast won't get loose again."
Miranda burrowed closer. "That dog dug in the roses," she whispered. "Great big awful holes. I was afraid you couldn't make him stop. And then that man came. He was so big, Ma. Bigger than Pa. Even bigger than Uncle Ryan."
Kate squeezed her eyes closed. "I love you, Miranda. With all my heart. You mustn't feel afraid. Do you understand? Not of Mr. McGovern or anyone. No matter what happens, I'll always take care of you." Kate tightened her arms. "I promise."
Miranda sniffed. "I know you will, Ma. No matter what."
Kate bit her lip and sent up a silent plea that this was a promise circumstances would never force her to break.
Miranda, unlike many children, had only one person to protect her. God forbid that something should happen to separate them. Miranda's only other relative, Ryan Blakely, who would undoubtedly be awarded custody of Miranda if anything happened, was as mad as his brother Joseph had been.
"Some of the crullers burned, but we have half a batch yet to fry," Kate murmured. "What say we go to the house? After I've repaired the rose garden, we'll have a party, just you and me. I'll tell you stories by the stove."
Miranda looked up. "Will you tell the one about when you was a little girl and your pa bought you a kitten?"
Another ache of sadness cut through Kate, so sharp it hurt. Of all the stories Kate had told, that one continued to be Miranda's favorite, probably because it allowed her to glimpse a world she had never known, a world in which little girls were protected, and loved, and cherished by gentle fathers.
Miranda's fantasy… It was one Kate knew would never be fulfilled.
Chapter 3
O ne afternoon nearly a week later, Henrietta the milk cow didn't come in from the fields. Henrietta supplied Kate and Miranda with milk, cream, butter, and cheese, not to mention the little bit of extra Kate sometimes made by selling surplus milk products. Left with no choice, Kate bundled Miranda up against the chill and set out in search of her.
"It's summertime, Ma. How come I gotta wear a coat?"
"Tell those clouds it's summertime, little miss. Besides, it isn't a heavy coat, just light serge."
Trying to spot Henrietta, Kate gazed off across the fields. In places the grass was so tall it could easily hide a cow. The men who first settled in the valley still told stories about having seen grass in those early days that grew over seven feet high. Kate tried to picture the orchards she hoped to plant and wondered if the stubborn grass would choke out her saplings.
"You think it might rain?" Miranda asked.
The sodden earth sucked at Kate's sturdy high-top shoes. "Just what we need, more rain. But, yes, I reckon it might."
"It's good for the roses. You watch. All this rain will make 'em grow like weeds. Purdy soon, they'll be so thick no ground will even show."
Kate settled a hand on her daughter's bent head, uncertain how to reply. Since the visit of Zachariah McGovern's dog, Miranda had become as obsessed with the rose garden as Kate was.
Miranda wrinkled her nose. "Pa'd have fits if he could see them roses. They're purdier this year than ever, huh?"
Miranda's observation made Kate's stomach knot. She tried to speak and couldn't. She knew the child needed to talk about Joseph, to purge herself of the memories, but it seemed to Kate that some things were best laid to rest.
Miranda looked up. "Why did Pa hate the roses, Ma?"
Swallowing hard, Kate said, "He felt flowers were a sinful waste of time."
"Are they?"
Kate wished the question away, but when she looked down, Miranda's big eyes were still demanding an answer.
"I reckon I'm not smart enough to answer that, sweetness."
"Why? If Pa was smart enough, why aren't you?"
Kate smoothed a lock of sable hair from her daughter's cheek. "I'm a female, and females are feeble—" The words caught in Kate's throat, and an unreasoning anger welled within her. Joseph was dead. Dead! He couldn't reach beyond the grave and chastise her if she dared to speak her own mind. Kate took a bracing breath. "I guess it's a matter of biblical interpretation." For once, Miranda didn't ask what that meant. "Your pa believed anything pretty was sent by Satan to tempt us to be frivolous and sinful. I believe God made beautiful things and gave them to us as gifts to lighten our load."
Miranda smiled. "I think you're right, Ma. How could Satan make somethin' as purdy as a rose?"
"That's a good question."
"I don't think he made you, neither, Ma."
Kate fastened a startled gaze on her daughter's small face. Sometimes it was frightening to realize just how much of Joseph's wild ranting the child had overheard.
As if she felt it might he necessary to back up her statement with fact, Miranda added, "You're not a rose, but you're near as purdy. If Satan couldn't've made the roses, he couldn't've made you."
Kate finally gathered the presence of mind to say, "Thank you. Just remember that pretty is as pretty does and that looks only run skin deep."
Reaching up to give Kate's hand a squeeze, Miranda said, "You're purdy inside, too. I bet you even got purdy innards."
Kate couldn't help but laugh. "That's a lovely compliment, I think."
Cutting a swath through the tall grass, Miranda skipped on ahead, her dark hair streaming in the wind behind her.
"Oh, look, Ma, this is where a house was."
As Kate drew near, she saw the tumbledown remains of a foundation and brick chimney. "I'll be." She seldom walked this far into the grazing pastures, and when she had, the tall grass and the rolling lay of the land must have hidden the structure. "I didn't know this was here. This must be where the previous owners built their first home."
"I could play house here."
Kate nudged the crumbling foundation with her toe. "You stay clear of that chimney. I'm not sure it's safe."
Miranda, who, out of habit and necessity, had learned to be more obedient than most little girls her age, made a wide circle around the cascade of bricks and went skipping away through the tall grass. Kate gazed after her, wishing every moment in Miranda's life could have been like this one, carefree and happy.
Suddenly, as if she were a mark on a chalkboard that had just been erased, Miranda disappeared. Kate blinked, not quite able to believe her eyes. "Miranda?"
No answer. For an instant, Kate thought the child might be playing, that she had deliberately sunk to her knees to hide herself in the grass. But that wasn't like Miranda. And there had been something unnatural about the way she dropped from sight, almost as if the ground had suddenly disappeared…
"Miranda?"
Kate broke into a run. How could she be so stupid, so careless? It stood to reason that where one found the foundation of a house, one also might stumble across an abandoned well.
* * *
Zach walked
down the mud-slicked slope between two rows of newly erected vine trellises. In his mind's eye, he saw not the tender little vines on this small patch of hillside, but mature vines, what grape growers called old wood. In his imagination, he envisioned acres of them.
Someday, he promised himself. Come next February, he would harvest these vines, grade them, and put them into cool sawdust storage until grafting time next spring when the vine propagation would begin all over again. It might take a number of years and backbreaking work, but one day he'd have plenty of fruit-bearing old wood and a vineyard to rival those he had seen in France during his honeymoon with Serena.
This climate would grow grapes. Even left neglected in people's yards, vines thrived here. By God, if they could survive and bear fruit when left to their own devices, he could make a success of this venture. He just knew he could.
Not that he had his eggs all in one basket. He already had several acres planted in wheat and several more in alfalfa hay. If the grapes failed or the market didn't support a winery, he'd have something to fall back on. He also had a substantial amount of money in the bank, if he needed it, proceeds from the sale of the first house he had built for Serena right after they married.
Serena. Zach brushed his knuckles along his scarred cheek. Now that he had moved from the Applegate Valley , he seldom thought of her.
At the base of the slope, Zach left the vineyard behind and lengthened his stride, heading for the house. This was his favorite time of day, the grueling work hours behind him, the evening ahead. He looked forward to a good home-cooked meal, compliments of his new housekeeper, Ching Lee, a Chinaman who had finally given up on mining as a way to make his living. After supper, Zach planned to indulge himself by reclining in his rocker near the fire with a book, Nosy snoozing at his feet. No matter that he usually found the big house ominously quiet and lonely at night. Sooner or later, he'd find himself a nice, homely woman who looked for more in a man than a perfect face.
As he stepped onto his back stoop, a distant ruckus made him pause before opening the door. He turned into the unseasonably chill wind and gazed across the yard, glad for the turned-up collar of his sheepskin jacket. A buckboard bounced and careened up the road to his place, and unless his eyes deceived him, Kate Blakely was driving it, doing none too expert a job. If she didn't slow down, she'd break her damn-fool neck.
Something was wrong. A person didn't run a horse like that unless she had good reason. He retraced his steps into the yard and headed for the road to intercept her. When Kate saw him, she stood and hauled back on the reins, bringing her swaybacked old mare to a skidding halt. The buckboard rocked crazily, giving Zach reason to suspect it was so rotten in the seams that it was held together by a prayer and precious few rivets. The mare, clearly unused to such an abusive pace, wheezed and blew, her lathered sides laboring for every breath.
"You'll kill that horse, pushing her like that," he commented as he drew up beside the wagon.
Kate just stood there, her face deathly pale, her mouth working but no sound coming forth. Zach was about to ask her what was amiss when she took him completely off guard by jumping to the ground. He snaked out an arm to catch her.
"Mir–Miranda," she said between gulps of air. "An old well. I didn't know it was there." She clutched his jacket, her gaze clinging to his. "Please, you have to help me. I haven't the strength to get her out by myself. I was afraid if I tried, we might both be trapped."
For a second, Zach felt as though his heart stopped pumping. A loud pounding began in his temples. He didn't have to ask who Miranda was. Kate had the look of a mother terrified for her child. A picture flashed through his mind of her little girl's pale face and doelike eyes. An old well. Oh, Jesus.
"Is she conscious?" Zach asked.
Kate's face twisted. She swallowed and made a visible effort to calm down. "I—I don't think so. I called down to her, and she didn't answer."
Zach had to pry her fingers from his jacket. "I'm going to get my horse and a rope. You wait here for me, okay?"
Kate gave a jerky nod and reached to grasp the wagon for support. "Hurry, Mr. McGovern, please, hurry."
* * *
Zach had never been much for praying, but during the seemingly endless horseback ride over to the Blakely place, he sent up a plea to the Almighty with nearly every breath. Even if he had never seen Miranda, the frantic clinging of Kate's arms around his waist and the rigidness of her body pressed to his back would have made him afraid for her child's safety. Only six months ago, this woman had lost her husband in a tragic drowning. It might be more than she could take to lose her daughter.
When they finally reached the well, Miranda didn't reply when Zach called down to her. He took a penny from his pocket and let it fall, turning his ear toward the opening to listen for a splash when it hit bottom.
"It's dry, I think," he said.
Zach wasn't sure whether it was good news or bad. Miranda could drown if there was water, but without it, the fall could have broken her neck. By Kate's expression, he guessed he needn't elaborate. She was as pale as a freshly whitewashed picket fence. He had to admire her pluck. Most mothers would be hysterical by now.
After tying the rope to Dander's saddle and asking Kate to hold his bridle, Zach lowered himself into the dark shaft, acutely conscious of the silence. The dankness of the well closed in, the mustiness so thick he found it hard to breathe.
Though the light from above provided feeble illumination at best, his eyes soon adjusted, and he spotted Miranda's pale gray coat several feet before he reached her. About halfway to the bottom of the shaft, she lay huddled on an outcropping of stone, knees drawn to her chest, head tucked. Even in the dimness, he could see how badly she trembled. She was definitely conscious, so why hadn't she responded when he and Kate called down to her?
With a quick glance, Zach gauged the distance from the surface of the well to the ledge. She hadn't fallen far.
Enough to bruise her, surely, possibly even far enough to break an arm or leg. But her rigid posture didn't indicate that.
Zach groped for a foothold on the dank earthen wall to steady himself and assess the situation. From his vantage point, the ledge looked sturdy enough to bear Miranda's weight, but he wasn't any too sure it would hold his. That meant he'd have to pluck the child off the outcropping with one arm while he somehow held himself suspended from the rope with his other.
Tipping his head back, he yelled. "I see her, Kate! And as near as I can tell, she's all right."
The instant Zach's voice boomed, a buzzing sound started up a few feet below him and slightly off to the left. He froze and peered into the dimness, scarcely hearing Kate's reply. Another buzzing noise began somewhere below his feet. Then it seemed as if the sounds began to come from all directions.
Zach's first instinct was to shinny up the rope as if the devil was on his ass. He had one phobia, and that was of snakes. Even a harmless garter snake could make his blood run cold. To hell with playing hero. But then Miranda squeaked, a tiny, terrified sound, and he snapped back to his senses.
Zach drew his boot from the wall and hung there on the rope for a moment, so paralyzed with fear that he couldn't move. Only a few feet below him were rattlers, a whole goddamned den from the sound of them, and to reach Miranda he had to lower himself into their midst.
Gripping the rope with his feet, he flexed his hands. Easy does it, one inch at a time. Sweat popped out on his face. It became more difficult to breathe. The muscles in his arms and legs started to quiver as he began the descent.
Don't think. Block out the sounds. The kid is all that matters. At last, Zach drew level with the ledge.
"Miranda, honey," he whispered.
The sound of his voice set the snakes to buzzing again. Zach expected them to strike at any second. No wonder Miranda hadn't answered her mother.
"Miranda, honey," he whispered again.
Though it was a strain to hang there on the rope, Zach knew
he didn't dare make any sudden moves to set the rattlers off. He also had to consider Miranda's possible reaction if he made a grab for her before he explained what he intended to do. She might try to elude him and fall from the ledge. In a ragged whisper, he said, "I'm Mr.
McGovern, the man you saw last week. It was my dog that tore up your ma's flower bed. Do you remember me, honey?"
An ominous rattling sound started up again to his left. Then another, and another. He fought back a wave of numbing, mindless panic. One wrong move, and he was a dead man. His skin shriveled, and he stopped breathing to peer into the darkness. After a moment, he made out the dim shape of a rattler coiled on a jutting lip of stone.
The snake was a giant. Six feet long or better, and as thick as a man's wrist.
With the shaking fingers of one hand, Zach slowly unbuttoned his coat. "Miranda, I'm going to grab you—real fast—and put you under my coat where you'll be safe. You understand? When I do, you grab onto my neck with all your might and wrap your legs around my waist. They can't bite you through the sheepskin."
She gave another terrified squeak. Zach knew exactly how she felt, but unless he acted, and quickly, she'd get bitten for sure. Probably more than once.
"I know you're scared," he whispered. "Just trust me, okay? I won't let them get you."
Zach prayed that was a promise he could keep. Slowly, ever so slowly, he angled a leg onto the ledge to help support his dangling weight. When he moved, something hit his thigh. It felt as if a fist had slammed into him, but when he looked down, all his worst nightmares became reality. A rattler had bit him, and the goddamned thing had its fangs snagged in the denim of his jeans. A crawling, thought-robbing hysteria swamped Zach, and he nearly turned loose of the rope.
"Son of a bitch!" Freeing one hand, he grabbed the huge snake, jerked it loose, and threw it away with all his strength. The pain in his leg spread like flames licking a spill of kerosene, down to his calf, then up to his hip.