Chapter 1

© Copyright 2011 by Elizabeth Delayne





“I really appreciate this, Rachel,” the Judge stood in her kitchen, hat in hand as he struggled to leave. In the fifteen years that she’d known him, Rachel had never seen him hesitate. He was always a man with the burden of a mission, never seeming to think twice about heading out to deal with a crisis. He was one of those people who made quick decisions, not based on emotion, but on clear analysis of facts and his own wisdom.

His wife had been faithful enough to encourage and embolden him on his way. They had always been a team, certain in their mission together and a part.

Now...

Rachel pictured the stalwart woman, with firm lips and strong hands, practical above all else. She’d had a firm handshake, an unshakable will, and beneath both a well spring of love. The last time Rachel had seen Betsy she’d been so alive.

It was so hard to believe she’d died from an illness; that the illness had taken her so quickly. Even after two years, it just didn’t ... seem real.

“You know Crystal is welcome here with us for as long as you need her to stay,” Rachel stepped forward, put her a gentle hand on his arm. The sadness there in his eyes broke her heart. “But you need to take care of yourself, too. You have to promise me as you did her.”

He’d lost his wife, his right arm—those were his words. For the two years since he’d tried to take on a job as a sheriff in Cartersville. He wanted to stay at home, be near his daughter as she finished school and entered adulthood.

It should have been a time where the men came to court her. Sixteen first, then seventeen, and now moving on toward eighteen, Crystal had long graduated and emerged as a beautiful young woman.

But the men had not come, not in the way Rachel would have expected. The Judge wasn't one to explain such things. She didn't know if the suitors had stayed away out of fear of the gruff father or because of the disposition of the daughter.

The Judge wasn't the only one who had changed since his wife's death. Crystal maintained a quiet dignity, and a sweet manner, but there was just something different. Rachel hoped that in inviting Crystal to come live under her roof she would give the girl a chance to grieve, because it just didn't seem like she could grieve with her father. Maybe it was because she needed another woman's understanding or maybe it was because she'd just been raised to understand the Judge's calling. There was a reason he was called the Judge. Maybe it was a talent, more than a gift.

As her own husband had pointed out, it was quite possibly a curse.

The Judge didn’t just know the land, the towns and the people. He understood it: the way the wind blew, the way sound carried. He’d partnered with the native tribes. He led posses. He understood the criminal mind in ways that Rachel would never fathom. He studied and he listened.

He always ... usually found his man.

Except Shatler.

The nightmare of a man who had threatened her so long ago had eluded justice now for a long fifteen years. Stories came of his handiwork, bringing only relief with the fact that he’d moved further and further away with time.

She reached up to her face, felt the small line of a scar that the madman had left on her own face. For whatever reason Shatler was still free. He still was known to leave his mark: a slash on the faces of his victims. He didn't steal for survival. His acts were always punctuated with terror.

It was time for the Judge to resume his chase. He'd been summoned by the governor himself. There had been another murder. The madman had come out of hiding.

Still, going back into the Marshall's Service meant leaving Crystal behind and Rachel knew the Judge was worried.

The Judge held out a hand and gently took Rachel's from her face where she had been tracing the scar. “I’ll take care of myself. You’ve nothing to worry about. Just—“

His throat constricted.

Take care of my girl.

Rachel knew he’d say it, knew it was what caused him to hesitate.

“We’ll take care of Crystal.”

The Judge nodded then. It was what he needed to hear. Hat in hand, he turned and called for his daughter.



On the other side of the door, Crystal hesitated. She'd been standing there waiting for his call, knowing it would come.

It had been the pair of them, her and her father for the last two years. It had not been easy. For most of her life he had been almost a dream, passing in and out of her life. She loved him, with all of her heart, but he was lost.

She'd been a gift to her parents, they said, when they were older than most. They had been used to their ways, affectionate only in their own ways. They were hard workers, bread and thriving in the bitter territories of the American west.

Still, she wanted to tell him not to go even as she knew it was needed. She wanted to keep her promise. She wanted Shatler found. She wanted justice. She was not sure there was a way to achieve it all.

If her mother was right? If her father had a gift? If he was called to this work? If it was his job to bring a madman to justice? If it was her calling, as it was her mother's, to let him?

For her mother, for the look in her father's eyes--she prayed for strength and for peace and for wisdom.

Crystal stepped into the doorway and faced her father. Be brave. Her mother had said those words so many times. She knew as her mother had known that she would let her father go.

The Judge stepped forward. He stood awkwardly before her. He turned his hat around in his hands.

“I’ve got to go.”

She swallowed, her lips pinched a little before she spoke. “I know.”

He ran his big hand over her hair. “I don’t have to tell you to be good. To be good for the Foresters and to help out around here.”

“I don’t have to tell you to be safe. You’re not allowed to be anything but safe.”

The judge smiled a little. His lips trembled, for they knew—they all knew—that his job took him away from safety and into the heart of danger.

His arms trembling, the Judge reached out and in an odd show of affection pulled his daughter close for one last hug.


Rachel turned away, blinked back tears and stared out the kitchen window. There in her view was the barn and the coral. She watched as her step-son Matthew stepped out of the barn, turned around and looked back inside—then laughed so easy and free.

Seconds later, he moved to the side just before a horse—Ferocity—stormed out. Aptly named, Ferocity had been born to them, in their barn, and yet acted as if he’d roamed the open land on his own.

But Matt knew what to do. James stepped out of the barn and watched his son get to work.

Her men were meant to raise horses. They both had a quiet, gentle demeanor, their spirit connected with the animals. When they worked together, it was in tandem.

They rarely spoke. They didn’t need to.

As much as they were meant to raise horses, the Judge was meant to be justice out here in the west. It was in his eyes, in his wisdom.

Rachel heard the Judge sigh. “I’ve got to go.”

She turned around and he nodded at her, then put his hat on his head and left.

Crystal walked to the window and watched him go.


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