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She nodded.
He fell silent again before reaching out and poking the fire, heating the embers. “He loved her a whole lot. It was in his eyes, you know. Every time he looked at her, there it was, shining like a damn beacon.”
Ivy continued to watch him. He dipped his head and ran a hand through his hair. For some reason the action made her heart yearn. She had an uncanny urge to reach out and cover that hand.
“Didn’t matter though, he couldn’t make her happy. Died a fool trying.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. It was evident he was struggling with the past, with the recollections. “Ye don’t have to tell me “
And she thought he would stop there, but to her surprise he spoke again. His voice softer, lower. “She had a way of making your chest hurt real bad anytime you looked at her. For no reason, she would break down in a fit of tears. Sometimes rage. But she was just a tiny woman. Brittle, you know, like the kind if a gust of wind blew in, it would snap her in two.”
Ivy waited, not sure if he expected her to comment. But one look at his face, and Sam was far too deep into the past to even notice her sitting there.
“Ever since I could remember, she’d always been sick.”
At the crack in his voice, Ivy suspected it wasn’t only his father who had loved his mother dearly. “I’m sorry. I know how it feels to lose someone ye love.”
His jaw jutted a tad, but he made no eye contact and continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Folks kept telling my pa he ought to send her away. She was dangerous. But he never paid no mind. Said she was the gentlest woman he had ever met. Then one day she proved them all right. Took his life in a burst of madness. Shot him with his own rifle.”
The gasp slipped from Ivy’s lips before she could bite it back. Covering her mouth, she stared at him across the fire. Waiting for him to continue, hoping he wouldn’t.
It almost felt like eternity before he finally said, “Then she calmly crossed the room, tucked me into bed, kissed me on the cheek, and told me she loved me. Right before she covered my face with a pillow.”
“Oh me God!” Ivy was up and across the camp before she even realized what she was doing. “Yer mother tried to kill ye?”
He made a face as if to nonchalantly brush off her worries. “So much for motherly love, eh?”
“How did ye ever manage to survive?”
“I was smart enough not to struggle and played dead.” His voice gave another revealing crack and Ivy felt her heart constrict horribly. The urge—need—to reach out and touch him had her lifting her hand and placing it on his arm. Though what good it did as he didn’t seem to notice.
“It was the last time I seen her alive. Authorities stormed the house after neighbors alerted them to the sound of the gunshot. They said she confessed without remorse or lack of any emotion for that matter. They hung her the next day in the town square.”
“Oh God.”
“I was only six. Too young to be allowed at the event.” He paused, his voice cracking. “Odd, isn’t it? How folks view a hanging as an event. Entertainment. With no mind to the family left behind.”
Ivy thought of her own upcoming event and felt a spurt of sorrow at the realization no family members would mourn her death. She looked at Sam and wondered if he would grieve.
“Why did she do it?”
“I’ve been asking myself that same question for years. How could someone so sweet and tender do something so horrib
le? She was my father’s world. And she was mine. I can remember wanting to make her happy. Stop those damn tears. Just once see a smile light up her face. As a child, I didn’t understand. I thought it was me that made her so unhappy.”
“What happened to you?”
“I went from one foster home to the next. Made life miserable for the fine folks who took me in. But I was hurting and rebelling. When I was old enough, I went on the run. Preferring to be by myself than suffer the kindness or pity of others. It wasn’t until I was fourteen when I met up with Roy Emerson. He was a deputy marshal of the Oklahoma state at that time, but lived alone. No wife or kids. He let me stay on and the two of us gradually bonded over the years. Became more like a father to me than my own had ever been. Taught me about life and how to control my anger and hurt. And how to use a gun.”
“Is that how ye became a bounty hunter?”
“Was about the age of seventeen when heard about the capture and reward of a man accused of murdering a prostitute. Tracked him down and collected the hundred dollar reward. Never made an easier buck. Or felt so satisfied.”
“Because of yer mother?”
“Yeah,” he said. “She took an innocent man’s life that night and nearly a boy’s with no reason or remorse. It felt good removing cold-blooded killers from civilization.”
Wanting to find something reassuring to say, she said, “Perhaps that was why ye life was spared that night. Ye had a mission to fulfil, Sam Michalski. Ye were lucky she didn’t turn the gun on to you as well.”
