“I have.” Tresia folded her arms across her chest. “It is said to be one of the biggest ranches in New Mexico.”
“Frances Emerson Comstock owns it. She’s Hannah’s mother, Avery’s grandmother.”
“I see.” Her expression didn’t change. She was upset.
“Frances has been running it since her husband died a year after Hannah was born. It takes a tough woman to do that, and she is tough.”
“I understand being tough, Devlin.” She folded her hands around her coffee cup, cradling the mug. “What I don’t understand is being mean to a child, a grieving child who had just lost her mother. And why would she cut Avery’s hair? Make me understand.”
Oh, he did not want to talk about this, did not want to bring up memories that still hurt, but he could see clearly that Tresia wasn’t about to give up without an answer. He doubted he could make her understand. He didn’t understand that kind of heartlessness himself. “The way it was told to me when I went out to the ranch was that Avery didn’t want to sit still so Frances could brush the knots from her hair. Frances lost her patience, which she did a lot…I witnessed that firsthand with Hannah, but instead of taking a moment and walking away, she simply grabbed the nearest pair of scissors and chopped off all of Avery’s long hair. I was devastated over what she had done to my little girl. And angry.”
“I see.”
And he supposed she did see—or at least, understood his anger. It was there in her expression. Hurt for both him and Avery. Anger at Frances who hadn’t had a little patience to deal with an emotional child who’d lost her mother. Her own granddaughter. Her grip tightened on her coffee cup. Any more pressure, and the mug might break.
“And Hannah? Was she like her mother?”
“No. In fact, she was the exact opposite, which is why I fell in love with her. Hannah was like…a fresh breeze after a spring rain. Sweet. Kind. Gentle. Generous. You would have liked her. It always amazed me how a woman as controlling, as mean as Avery says Frances is—and she is—could raise someone like Hannah. It defied explanation.” He smiled, unable to help himself. “I fell in love with her the moment I laid eyes on her. My deputy and I had been summoned to the ranch to investigate stolen cattle. I saw her coming out of the house, dressed in white silk, the sun shining on her almost as if she were the only one it did shine on. She was laughing with a friend. She saw me, too. It was like the world had stopped spinning.”
“Four months later, we snuck off to Socorro and got married. To say Frances was upset would be an understatement. I wasn’t good enough for her only daughter. And she let me know it as often as possible. Frances had big plans, which I, apparently, ruined. She wanted Hannah to marry the son of the rancher next toRancho Gran Cielo,even though Hannah didn’t want to.It was a political move more than anything else. Frances didn’t care that the man repulsed Hannah, didn’t care the man had ambitions that didn’t include being a faithful husband. He wanted the power and prestige marrying Hannah would have brought him.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged off her apology. She had nothing to be sorry about. “After Hannah died, I was lost, I guess would be the best way to say it. And angry. I didn’t know what to do, especially since it was my fault.”
“Your fault? How was it your fault?”
“I wasn’t there when Hannah needed me most.”
“I don’t understand.”
His throat constricted, making it difficult to speak, and yet, he had to try. He couldn’t have Tresia thinking the worst of him. He’d made mistakes, a lot of them, but he was trying his hardest to make up for everything he’d done wrong—or had been told he’d done wrong. “Hannah was pregnant with our second child. The baby wasn’t expected for another three months but Hannah went into labor early, or so I was told. She’d been staying atRancho Gran Cielobecause I was desperately trying to find Big Bill Cassidy and bring him in after he killed a rancher and his family. Frances’ people found me to tell me what happened. By the time I got there,Hannah was gone and so was our son.” He paused, thinking back.
“I missed the funeral by three days.” He stared at the coffee in his cup, the pain almost unbearable. “Frances blamed me for everything. I blamed myself for not being there.” He looked up and saw the tears in her eyes, which made his guilt worse. “If I had been there, it wouldn’t have happened.”
She cleared her throat but still, her voice came out hoarse. “How can you be so sure?”
“I promised I would always take care of her. And I didn’t. I let the job get in the way.”
“It wasn’t your fault Hannah went into labor early, Devlin. That happens, probably more than you know.”
He shook his head, refusing to allow her to take the blame from him, the guilt that sometimes brought him to his knees. He rose from his seat and began pacing, walking the length of thekitchen, unable to look at her and see the sympathy in her eyes, on her face, on the lips that trembled so slightly as if she held back her tears.
“Frances convinced me that it would be best for Avery to stay with her on the ranch, considering how dangerous my job was—is. I agreed though it broke my heart not being able to see her every day. Big Bill was still on the loose, still evading capture, coming out of his hide-out only to wreak more havoc. I was angry—angry at myself, angry at him. Even angry with Hannah, though I knew that was unreasonable.” He stopped, leaning his hands on the sink, looking out into the dark yard illuminated by shafts of moonlight. “I left the Marshal’s Office under the control of my deputies and went after Big Bill. It took months to find him and bring him to justice, months of lost time with Avery, months of sleeping on the hard ground, existing on bitter coffee. There were days when I didn’t speak to another human being. By the time I found him, I was just as wild, just as desperate, as he was. And in the end, it didn’t work. It didn’t bring Hannah or our son back.”
He turned to face her, only to find her standing there, her expression one of pain, her eyes filled with tears that rolled silently down her cheeks. Whatever anger that had caused her to ask him about Frances seemed to have disappeared, replaced with sympathy and compassion. And it was the last thing he wanted to see.
“I’m sorry, Devlin. I didn’t know.”
He gave a brief nod, too choked up to speak, and left the room without a word, caught up in the pain that seemed to be never-ending. He heard her gather her things and leave the house, the kitchen door closing softly behind her. He felt overcome with doubt, doubt for telling her about Hannah, doubt about Avery, and worse than doubt, guilt over leaving his daughter with a heartless, cruel woman like Frances.
He stood in the parlor for a long time, staring at nothing, until his vision blurred. All the grief and guilt he had been carrying for so long poured out of him, much as his story had poured out of him to Tresia. She was the first person he’d ever told about what he felt, the pain he carried. His shame. He took some deep breaths, one…two…more, until his breath was slowed and even and calm and he felt as if the weight of dark feelings was slowly lifting. He went upstairs, suddenly exhausted, and laid down on his bed. He was asleep as soon as his head touched his pillow.
CHAPTER 9
Afew days later, Tresia noticed the change in Devlin. He seemed different since he’d told her about Hannah. Lighter, if that were possible. Perhaps, he’d forgiven himself…or at least, seemed to have come to terms with the fact he hadn’t been there when Hannah needed him.
Tresia hoped she’d never meet Frances Emerson Comstock. If she did, she’d give the woman a piece of her mind. No one had the right to treat a child the way the woman had treated her own granddaughter, especially not a sweet little girl like Avery Goodrich. It didn’t matter how tough one had to be. There was always room for kindness, no matter the circumstances, but some people had no kindness in them. She certainly had no right to blame Devlin for what happened to Hannah and his son. Whether Devlin had been there when Hannah went into labor or not, the outcome might have been the same.
