Page 73 of More Than Meets the Eye

A loud crack pierced the air.

Christie’s eyes widened in shock a heartbeat before she crumpled to the ground.

“Christie!” Evangeline screamed and sprinted to her friend’s side. She fell to the dirt, sheltering Christie with her body as her brain tried to process what had just happened.

Someone was shooting at them. From where? She peeked behind her but saw nothing.

Then Seth roared out of the house, rifle in hand. “Get her into the house,” he ordered, his eyes harder than she’d ever seen them as he jammed the rifle butt against his shoulder. He strode forward into the yard, away from cover, planting himself squarely between the women and whoever meant them harm. “Move!”

Evangeline startled out of her shock and grabbed Christie’s arms. The girl whimpered. Only then did Evangeline notice the blood soaking her right sleeve.

But Christie was tough. She met Evangeline’s eyes with purpose as she scrambled to a sitting position. “Help me.” She grimaced but reached out with her good arm. “Seth won’t take cover until we’re inside.”

She was right. Not that Evangeline had any desire to dally. Draping Christie’s left arm around her shoulders, then wrapping an arm around her friend’s waist, Evangeline hefted them both to their feet. They dashed lopsidedly back to the porch and into the kitchen.

“We’re in!” Evangeline yelled to Seth.

He backed toward the house, scanning the yard, the buildings, any cover that could be concealing a gunman.

No further shots echoed.

Seth gained the porch, but before ducking inside, he aimed the muzzle of his rifle at the sky and fired three quick shots.

If Zach was within earshot, he’d come running.

Evangeline had wanted to bring her brother home, but not like this. Not with Christie paying the price.

30

Logan stared at the cards he’d been dealt. Three kings, a strong hand. His fingers itched to sort his cards. His mind buzzed with strategy. His heart pulsed with excitement, with the thrill of the challenge. But his soul? His soul whispered, no.

With a pang of regret for the royalty being sacrificed, Logan grimaced and laid the cards facedown on the plank table. “I’m not going to play, Hamilton.” He eyed the man across from him. “Or should I call you Mitchell?”

Hamilton’s jaw stiffened. “I don’t care what you call me,” he ground out, his lips barely moving, “so long as you pick up those cards.”

Logan sighed. “Look. This is my fault.” He leaned back and shook his head. “My ill-advised quest to reclaim a past that can’t be restored. I never should have started down this path. You were wrong to cheat. My father was wrong to wager our land. And I was wrong to harbor revenge in my heart. There’s plenty of blame to go around, and no card game is going to put any of it to rights.”

Something flickered in Hamilton’s eyes as he slowly lowered his cards to the table. “I need it put to rights.” The hoarse whisper was barely intelligible, but Logan pieced it together, and something resembling empathy stirred in his chest.

“I know what you mean.” Logan met the gaze of his nemesis and felt a kinship with him for the first time. The same ghost haunted them both. “That’s what has been driving me for seven long years. Needing to put things right. But this isn’t the way. I see that now.”

Logan blew out a breath as he contemplated what else he could possibly say. Then an idea materialized as if from vapor, slowly taking shape until he saw the story he needed to tell. Both for himself and for the man sitting across from him.

“When my dad came home from the card game that night, he ranted and raved about the man who cheated him, vowing he’d bring you up on charges for theft or fraud or whatever he could make stick. But the next day, when he took his righteous indignation to town to complain to the marshal, the lawman wouldn’t give him the time of day. None of the men who were there that night would back my father’s story, yet several were willing to testify that Rufus Fowler had been known to use his deed to lure men into deep play and then run off with their hard-earned coin. They were more than happy to see him reap some of what he had sown.

“That was what turned my father’s anger to despair—the realization that he had brought disaster upon himself.” Logan examined the memory with fresh perspective. “When he came home from town, he couldn’t look Mother in the eye. He barely spoke except to bark at me to leave him alone so he could think. The guilt must’ve worn on him. He’d always had a mercurial temperament, and when he sulked, he’d fall into deep melancholy. I suppose the depth overwhelmed him this time, and he failed to pull himself out.”

“Why’re you tellin’ me this?” Hamilton’s ashy face was drawn in tortured lines.

Logan leaned forward. “Because I want you to know that my father’s death wasn’t your fault.” He might have believed exactly the opposite for the last seven years, but that didn’t make it truth. “He made his own choices.”

Hamilton wagged his head. “He might have chosen to stampede off a cliff, but I’m the one who put the burr under his saddle. If I hadn’t rigged the—”

A distant sound, sharp yet faint, echoed behind his words. Logan swiveled toward the door.

“Was that a gunshot?” Hamilton asked.

Logan pushed to his feet and stepped into the open air beyond the cabin doorway. “Don’t know.”