Donovan sat beside his and Rachel’s bed, holding her pale hand and praying she’d wake soon.

This was his damned fault. If he hadn’t wheedled himself into Sullivan’s life. If he hadn’t married her under false pretense. If he hadn’t been so entranced by her scent—her touch—that he failed to sense danger lurking. Rachel Hale would’ve been safe and sound in her own bed in New Dawn Springs.

Yes, she would be heartbroken over Sullivan’s death, but she wouldn’t have a bullet hole in her shoulder. She wouldn’t be struggling against the burning pain of a gunshot wound. Her breaths wouldn’t be so shallow that sometimes he thought she wasn’t breathing at all.

A shaky sigh escaped him as he brought her almost bloodless fingers to his mouth and kissed them. “Sweet Jesus, sunshine, what have I done?”

“Nothing, Sullivan,” Rachel’s father consoled from the open doorway. “This isn’t your fault. You saved her. If you hadn’t gotten her home and you and Nessa stopped the bleeding until the doc could get out here, my daughter would have died.”

“If I hadn’t taken her out there, if I hadn’t—”

Ethan Hale cut him off before he could finish. “Don’t do this to yourself, son. The doctor said she’d be all right. You heard him. She’s just weak from blood loss.”

Donovan jerked to his feet and stomped away from the bedside. He slung his arm toward the bed and growled, “Does she look all right to you?”

“Damn it, Langley!” Hale barked just as loudly, sounding as worried as his son-in-law. “Doc Weaver gave her something to help with the pain. She’s sedated!”

“Don’t coddled me, Hale! I took an innocent, beautiful woman and put her in harm’s way.”

“Thank you for the compliment, but could the two of you hold it down?” Rachel murmured from the bed. “I’m trying to sleep.”

Rachel’s father, still standing bedside, clasped her hand. “How are you feeling, baby girl?”

“Thirsty.”

Donovan leaned against the bed’s footboard and gave a quick prayer of thanks. She still looked pale as a ghost, but with her eyes open and a weak smile on her lips, he finally let himself believe Doc Weaver’s words. His wife was going to be okay.

But he might not. He’d gone and fallen in love with his wife.

Damn it to Hell and back!

* * *

While Rachel was napping the next afternoon, Donovan made his way to the old log cabin.

Grandpa Finn had built a one-room log cabin when he and Grandma settled in Oregon fifty years ago. As their family grew, they added onto the original cabin. Later, they built the main house on the other side of the creek from the cabin. The walk between the new house and the old cabin took about ten minutes.

When they were young, Donovan and Sullivan played frontier men fresh off the Oregon trail around the old place. That’s when they found the hidden escape tunnel Grandpa Finn had dug in case of Indian attack.

The boys promised to keep the passageway their secret, hiding special childhood treasures within its walls. They figured their pa knew about the escape route, but hoped he’d forgotten about it over the years.

Donovan stepped onto the front porch of the old log cabin. Dread and grief rolled in his stomach until he thought he might be sick. But along with his gut-retching dread and profound sorrow, something else churned in his gut. Something that told him to look deeper.

Something was off.

Squaring his shoulders, he walked inside the cabin. Everything was just as he’d left it. He could hardly look at the table where Sullivan had taken his own life.

He moved to the woven rug centered in the large living and kitchen area. Flipping the rug back, he glowered at the trap door in the floor. If Sullivan kept records of his illicit undertakings, they would be hidden inside the tunnel. He wasn’t sure what he wanted. Finding proof his twin brother was a coldhearted sonvabitch or finding nothing and always wonder what kind of man Sullivan was.

Bracing himself for whatever came, Donovan lifted the trapdoor and jumped into the shaft leading to the tunnel. A lantern and a box of matches sat on a short shelf just inside the burrow. He lit it and moved deeper into the passageway.

About halfway through, he spotted his and Sullivan’s stash of spoils. Squatting, he fingered the carved horse figure and train he and Sullivan had spent hours whittling with a knife they’d lifted from the kitchen. There were also two sling-shots in the pile. Memories flooded over Donovan, some good—some not so good.

Shrugging out the past, he stood and noticed a discolored rock imbedded in the wall just above the old toys. When he touched the large stone, it wobbled against his fingers. He pried the rock from the wall and looked inside.

Someone had hollowed out a shelf in the back of the rock’s cavity. On it lay a leather-bounded journal and a pencil.

Donovan’s hand shook as he picked up the book. He read by the flickering lantern light. A few minutes later, he slapped the journal shut and cursed.

It was all there. How his brother had saved Banker Roker from embezzling charges to practically owning the man’s soul. His brother had witnessed the barkeep Tom shoot the missing drifter because he was beating Tom’s best whore and then helped him dump the body into Reaper’s Ravine.

Evidently Tom had a shady past and had run to New Dawn Springs to start over. The barkeep’s mistake was telling Sullivan why he wasn’t willing to call in the authorities.

And finally, Donovan read the account of how Sullivan had purposely poisoned a bag of feed and gave it to George Jackson to feed to his prized studhorse.

Donovan paced in the dimly lit tunnel while fury and disappointment battled for dominance. Fury won out.

How could Sullivan do this to people? How could he smear the Langley name with his power-hungry schemes?

Yes, Donovan had stolen and killed, but only out of self-preservation—at least, in the beginning. When he’d finally found his footing and could return home, his pride wouldn’t let him. And then his reputation wouldn’t let him. He’d have put his family in danger.

Angry, he slapped the journal against this leg. A folded paper partially dislodged from between the pages. A letter. Holding its place in the journal with his finger, he read the letter. He felt the blood drain from his face.

Loretta Sewell—whoever she was—confessed her undying love for Sullivan and threatened to kill anyone who tried to take his affections from her. Even the sheriff’s daughter.

But it was Sullivan’s comments in his journal concerning the letter that renewed his fury into full-blown rage.

Sullivan admitted he was only marrying Rachel because she was the sheriff’s daughter. Sullivan needed the safety of having the lawman as his father-in-law in case something went wrong. Also, he was hoping to find some dirt on the man he could use later if the opportunity arose.

Then Sullivan went on to say he’d hold on to Loretta’s letter in case he needed a scapegoat for his wife’s sudden death. Had he intended to kill Rachel as some point?

“If you weren’t already dead, you son of a bitch, I’d kill you myself!”