27

Logan urged Shamgar to greater speed, blurring past the cutoff that would have taken him home. The last place he wanted to be was at his cabin, where every room reminded him of her.

Why did she have to be so stubborn? So closed-minded? Did the time they’d spent together mean nothing to her? He’d told he loved her. Did she think those words came cheap? They’d been wrenched from his heart. He’d exposed his soft underbelly, and she’d kicked him. Called him a liar. A thief. Accused him of seeking revenge when what he sought was justice. Demanded he abandon his quest to heal his mother’s pain without even considering the role her brother had played in the wounding.

Shamgar’s hooves pounded the road with the same force that Logan’s anger pounded through his veins. Harder. Faster. He leaned over his mount’s neck and raced, sensing that if he allowed his pace to slow, the pain would catch him from behind.

Betrayal. Rejection. His.

Hers.

For that was what he’d seen in Eva’s eyes when he’d refused to forfeit his plans. When he’d chosen his mother over her.

Gritting his teeth, Logan sat up in the saddle and gently eased back on the reins, slowing Shamgar to a walk.

“Sorry, old boy,” he murmured.

Sorry to you, too, Eva. For everything. For using her to gain information on Zacharias. For destroying her illusions. For asking her to choose.

He never should have gotten involved with her in the first place. He should have kept his distance. Kept his heart locked away in his chest where it belonged. Then his resolve wouldn’t be weakening. His mind wouldn’t be fixated on the way she’d looked as she pleaded with him to let the matter go, the tears that had glimmered when his refusal stole the last vestiges of hope from her expression.

Maybe he was a thief.

A farm wagon approached from the opposite direction, and Logan guided Shamgar to the right side of the road, taking stock of his whereabouts for the first time.

Good gravy. He was nearly to Ben Franklin. He’d pushed Shamgar harder than he’d realized.

He tipped his hat to the farmer and grinned as if he were simply out for an afternoon stroll, but the moment the wagon rolled past, the fake smile fell away.

“Let’s get you to the livery,” he said, leaning forward in the saddle to pat the chestnut’s neck. “You deserve a good rubdown, some water, maybe even a feed bag of oats for putting up with me. What do you say?” The last thing Logan needed was a second coat of guilt painted onto his still-wet conscience. He might not be able to smooth things over with Eva just yet, but by thunder, he could make things up to his horse.

Logan counted at least five men lounging about the livery by the time he trotted into Ben Franklin. Kids draped themselves over the paddock fence, trying to coax a horse or two near enough to pet. Women bustled along the boardwalk across the way, shopping and visiting and whatever else town females did in the afternoons. The hum of a distant sawmill added a buzz to the air that didn’t quite drown out the yipping dog that had decided to dance around Shamgar’s hooves.

As if Logan’s head didn’t already pound enough.

He ignored the ache throbbing behind his temples and dismounted. Shamgar deserved some pampering. No yappy dog was going to dissuade him.

“Little early in the day for you, ain’t it, Logan?” Jack Simmons stepped out of the shade of the livery to greet him. A pair of graybeards playing checkers on a board balanced atop an old pickle barrel paused their game to stare.

“Didn’t come for cards this time,” Logan said, forcing a smile he didn’t feel. “Just out for a ride. Pushed Shamgar a bit harder than I intended. Thought I’d give him a good rubdown and maybe a few oats if you’ve got some to spare.”

“Don’t have any to spare, but I got some to sell.” The livery owner smirked as the old men guffawed. “Though it sounds like you might be the one needing the extra treat. Of the two of you, you’re the one looking like you been put through the wringer, not yer horse. That chestnut’ll be right as rain after a little water and a good brushing, but you, my friend, look like you could use another dose of that liquid refreshment I procured for you.”

Chuckles broke out around them. Apparently the men who frequented the livery in the afternoon were well acquainted with Jack’s moonshine connections.

“Sounds like quite a jovial gathering,” a more cultured voice said from behind Logan.

“Howdy, Lawrence.” Jack nodded a greeting to the newcomer. “Checkin’ on that bench spring you ordered for yer buggy?”

Logan pivoted, a polite smile in place. A smile that nearly curdled when he caught sight of the man behind him. Bald pate. Heavy build. Familiar black suit. The schoolmaster.

“Indeed,” Benson said. “I hoped to have the repair completed before my trip tomorrow.”

Trip? Logan’s interest piqued. If he knew for sure the teacher would be away, he could search the schoolhouse ahead of time. They’d still have to wait for the second ledger to come into play, but knowing the hiding place of the first would simplify matters a great deal.

“Where’re ya headed?” Logan kept his voice nonchalant.

Benson raised a folded white handkerchief to his forehead and dabbed at the moisture glistening there. “Down to Cooper for the weekend. I’m meeting with some investors. We hope to gain sufficient funds to purchase new schoolbooks for next term. The children will be out for the harvest in another month, and I want to be able to promise them there will be new books when they return this winter. Our current materials are sadly outdated.”

So he’d be gone the next two days. Good.

Logan fiddled with Shamgar’s bridle strap. “You’re the schoolmaster, then?”

Benson offered a reserved smile while something intelligent and guarded flashed in his eyes, like a cardsharp who suspected a skilled player had just entered the game. “That I am.” He held out his hand. “Lawrence Benson. And you are?”

“Logan Fowler.” No need to keep his surname hidden any longer. Holding it back would only cause suspicion.

Jack pounded Logan’s shoulder blade as he invited himself into the conversation. “Logan’s from Pecan Gap. Comes by every few nights for a game of cards.”

Wishing he could muzzle the chatty liveryman, Logan restrained the glare itching to burn a hole in Jack’s forehead and shrugged. “The Gap’s a little too tame for my taste. I prefer the entertainment in these parts.”

“Yeah, he’s taken a real shine to us.”

One of the graybeards at the checkers table snickered. “Good one, Jack.”

Logan bit back a retort. He was seriously regretting striking up a friendship with this yahoo.

“Well, Ben Franklin certainly has more to offer an enterprising young man like yourself than Pecan Gap.” Benson sold the town as if he were the mayor. “And speaking of enterprising . . .” He nodded toward Shamgar. “You wouldn’t be interested in selling that animal, would you? We don’t see too many beasts of his size in Delta County.”

Jack Simmons raised a brow. “I, uh, think this might be a bit too much horse for you, Lawrence.” The livery owner had lost his irreverent humor, hesitating over making his recommendation as if worried about the teacher taking offense. Miss Gilliam had been right. Benson had clout in this town.

The rotund man chuckled off the warning with a wave of his handkerchief. “I’m not asking for myself, Mr. Simmons. Mercy! How ridiculous would that be? I’m sure I couldn’t even mount the creature. I won’t be trading in my buggy any time soon.”

Jack grinned, obviously relieved that no offense had been taken.

“No, it’s my nephew I’m thinking of. The boy’s nearly as tall as Mr. Fowler here, and he loves to race.” Benson leaned forward and winked at Logan. “I spied you on the road earlier. Running like the very wind, you were.”

Logan kept his mien pleasant despite the fact that this weasel watching him while he’d been too caught up in his own head to notice churned his stomach. Benson must’ve been traveling on the crossroad that led from the schoolhouse. Logan had been so stirred up over his conversation with Eva that he’d paid little attention to his surroundings until that farmer had passed him.

“Shamgar’s a real goer, all right,” Logan said. He gave his gelding a pat. “But he’s not for sale.”

“That’s a shame. I would have been the boy’s favorite uncle for certain.” Benson shrugged and stuffed his handkerchief back into his coat pocket. “Can’t blame a fellow for trying.”

Not unless his trying involved drowning a young woman. Logan could blame him all day for that. But of course, he kept that accusation to himself.

“You have a good eye for horseflesh, sir.” Logan tugged the brim of his hat. “I’ll take your offer as a compliment.”

“As it was intended.” Benson smiled, then turned to the liveryman. “Now, Simmons, how about that bench spring?”

“I’ll get right on it,” Jack said. “Should have it to you by the end of the day.”

As Jack followed the teacher out to where he’d parked his buggy, Logan took the initiative to lead Shamgar to a back stall. Away from the teasing. The noise. The need to pretend.

In the dim recesses of the stable, Logan inhaled to settle his nerves and his mind. The familiar aromas of hay, manure, and horse liniment filled his nostrils as the voices faded. He moved to unbuckle Shamgar’s cinch and eyed the schoolmaster over the horse’s back. Benson was leaving, speaking to each fellow as he went, even going so far as to raise a hand in farewell to Logan, his gaze finding him at the back of the livery as if he’d been fully aware of his location the entire time.

A shiver snaked down Logan’s nape, but he grinned and raised a hand in return.

That was not someone Logan would choose to sit across from at the poker table. Too calculated and ruthless. Even if Logan hadn’t been aware of Christie Gilliam’s story, Benson’s bearing and mannerisms proclaimed his traits. This was not a man you crossed.

He probably had the best behaved students in the county.

But it was his intent toward Miss Gilliam that caused Logan the most concern. Pleasing his pupils’ parents would keep the schoolmaster in check in the classroom, but Earl hadn’t seemed particularly distraught about his stepdaughter’s disappearance. The only scuttlebutt Logan had picked up the last two weeks over poker games was a comment or two about the idiot girl who had finally run off. No one seemed surprised by the news. Some figured she had tired of dodging the backside of Earl’s hand, while others speculated she’d wandered into the woods and was too dull to find her way home. The marshal’s fliers were the only evidence that anyone harbored a concern for her whereabouts, and those could have been posted as easily at Benson’s behest as Earl’s. If Benson was behind them, that meant no one would notice, or even care, if the girl never returned.

Logan really needed to discuss the situation with Seth. Fine-tune the plan. Nail down the specifics. If Seth would even give him the time of day once Eva revealed Logan’s true agenda.

Logan sighed and lifted Shamgar’s head from the water barrel. “Not too much, now.” He distracted his horse by slipping his bridle off to give him a break from the bit. “We don’t want you cramping. Enough things have gone wrong today already.”

Eva. Were things really over between them, or was there hope for reconciliation? Logan grimaced as he hefted the saddle from Shamgar’s back.

Lord, I don’t want things to be over. She means too much to me. But I’m stuck. Gaining justice for my mother means hurting Eva’s family, and letting go of my quest means hurting my own family. What am I supposed to do?

No answer spoke to him from the rafters as he slid off the saddle blanket and started rubbing the gelding down with an old towel. Instead, pieces of his conversation with Eva came zinging back to land like mosquitoes on his skin. Pricking and stinging and leaving an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

Have you asked your mother what she wants?

Logan grabbed the back of his neck. So what if he hadn’t asked her outright? She was so withdrawn, she barely spoke to him at all. She’d just stared out the window of his aunt’s house and knitted baby blankets for the poor box at church. He’d even bought her an apple tree sapling with some of his first winnings, hoping she would perk up and find purpose in gardening again, but she’d made him return it. Said she had no use for it.

He wanted his mother back. The woman who smiled at him and nurtured fruit trees and scolded him for bringing muddy shoes into the house. He’d thought restoring what had been lost to her would restore what had been lost to him.

Vengeance doesn’t heal pain, Logan. Love heals pain.

But it didn’t. He loved his mother. He’d shown it in a hundred different ways, yet she still clung to her grief. To her despair. Where was the healing in that?

Where is the love in what you are doing?

“I don’t know!”

Shamgar tossed his head and craned his neck around with a scold in his eyes for interrupting his nap and massage. Logan grabbed a currycomb and worked through the chestnut’s coat, but his mind refused to settle.

That was the problem. He didn’t know. Didn’t know how to help his mother. Didn’t know how to keep Eva in his life. Didn’t even know how to leave this town without looking like a complete imbecile for riding here in the first place.

“There is a way which seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death.” The proverb, spoken in his mother’s voice, echoed in his mind.

“Remember this, Logan,” she had said as the two of them walked hand-in-hand to the stagecoach after visiting his father’s grave for the last time. “Your father never took this verse to heart. I don’t want you making the same mistake.”

Why was that memory suddenly popping into his head? He hadn’t thought of that conversation in . . . well, not since it happened. To be honest, he’d been too angry to think about anything beyond making the man who’d cheated his father pay.

Making him pay . . .

The currycomb dropped from Logan’s hand and thudded to the floor. The livery walls faded. Even Shamgar ceased to exist as the curtain veiling Logan’s heart finally fell away.

All this time, he’d convinced himself he sought justice. That his quest was righteous. A noble sacrifice that he’d dedicated seven years of his life to achieving. The wrong would be made right.

All this time, he’d lied to himself.

Deep inside, he was still that angry boy who wanted to make someone pay.

Dear Lord. Logan staggered backward until his spine pressed into the wall behind him. Eva was right. He was seeking revenge.

He raised a trembling hand to his face and rubbed at eyes that suddenly itched. His jaw clenched, and he banged his head against the wood planks supporting him, disgusted by the ugliness inside him. The anger. The hurt. The thirst to inflict pain.

“Thou shalt not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people, but thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself: I am the Lord.”

The verse rammed into Logan’s gut like a sucker punch. “I am the Lord.” Those last four words left no room for arguing. For diverting blame. For rationalizing.

“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”

Logan sank down the length of the wall, his hands covering his face. Covering his shame. His heart throbbed as truth chiseled away its petrified outer layer. How had he ignored this voice for so long? Had his heart really become so hard?

“He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.”

The chisel dug into another layer. Breaking him. Bleeding him.

“I hear you.” The whispered acknowledgment fell from Logan’s lips like a prayer. “I hear you.”