1871 - West of Colorado City, Colorado

HER HAIR wasn’t the crimson sunset he remembered, her eyes no longer the deep emerald pools he’d longed for months to bathe in.  She wasn’t any less beautiful than when he left, but she seemed different now—almost faded.  It was something Grayson couldn’t quite put his finger on, but the sinking feeling in his gut told him the cave incident had left him a changed man.

"It be good t’have ya back safe, Grayson."

"Well, back anyway," he said, glancing down briefly toward his bandaged hand.  Her eyes followed his, and she reached down to gently remove the bandage.

"It doesn’t look too bad.  No stench of infection, to be sure."  She had always taken good care of him.  The nearest town was more than a day’s ride east, through the mountains.  Out here, there wasn’t time to call for a doctor if anything serious went wrong, so folks had to be self-sufficient to survive long.

"Cara," he started, "I…"

He didn’t have the heart to tell her what he feared. He could feel the poison under his skin, radiating from the bite wound on his hand.  There was a numbness creeping into the back of his neck, right at the base of his skull.  "It’s really good to be home," he said finally, unsure if he’d last another day.

Grayson had ridden through the night, and by the time he unsaddled and watered the horse, there was barely an hour left until sunrise.  He had tried not to wake her, but it was impossible to be quiet in the old house.  She met him in the kitchen as he was washing his face, removing the dust and grime from his journey.  It was a ritual he’d started just after they married, the first time he returned from extended time in the saddle. Cara helped him wipe the last of it away, and he was finally home.

He squeezed his eyes closed, then blinked hard and tried to focus on Cara’s face. At first he thought the color-parched world was from the dim lamp light playing tricks on him. But as the sun rose, daylight began to reveal the truth he’d been dreading—something was wrong with his eyes.

"Where did ya pick up the cat?" Cara asked, dragging him back from his half-dazed thoughts. Grayson hadn’t returned alone this time. Cara cautiously regarded the feline sitting quietly in the corner of the room, watching them both with one yellow eye as the tip of its tail flicked from side to side.  Its right eye and part of its ear on the same side were missing, as though it had been in a fight for its life.  

"He followed me.  I think he had a run-in with the same thing that bit me.  At least, that’s when he first showed up. With fresh injuries of his own."  He added that last part to assure her it wasn’t the cat that had bitten him.  He didn’t know what had, but he was certain it hadn’t been the cat. He told her about the cave, the strange lidless box he found there, and how he was bitten while reaching into a deep crevice in the rock.

Cara approached the cat and bent down to its level, stretching out her hand with the palm up. The cat sniffed her and butted his head against the back of her hand.  She seemed to be evaluating him, deciding whether he was welcome to stay. His gray fur was clean and smooth, and he arched his back as she stroked along his spine. Aside from his face, he seemed in good health. She turned her attention back to Grayson.  "Why did ya put your hand in that dark hole to begin with?" she asked, with concern and mild scolding.  

"Cara, I finally found it," Grayson said, relieved at the opportunity to change the subject from his grisly encounter.

Her eyes twinkled, and the corner of her mouth rose in an approving smirk.  "I knew ya would. All of that research, the interviews… t’was only a matter of time."  Here voice quivered with anticipation.  "Was it all there?" 

"All of it. Four sacks, fifty pounds each."  He handed Cara a gold coin. "Sixty thousand dollars."

For months, the town had been buzzing about the payroll coach robbed on the way from Cheyenne down to the army post at Fort Collins. Three members of the gang responsible had been caught, but the Sheriff had been unable to get them to crack.  Even the pair of Pinkertons sent out from Washington had gone back to the east coast empty-handed.  The men had been hanged, one by one, none of them willing to reveal where the gold was hidden or the identity of their leader.  They either didn’t know who he was, or they were too afraid to give more than a brief description of him.  Grayson wondered what kind of man could be feared more than death itself. It seemed he would never find out—the man had slipped into the shadows, if he existed at all. Fortunately for Grayson, someone involved had slipped up along the way, and he had a knack for asking the right questions from the right people.

"How much reward will there be?" Cara asked, her eyes still fixed on the heavy coin in her palm.

"Ten percent.  Added to our savings, it’s enough to start a proper ranch." Cara tucked an errant copper curl behind her right ear, looked up into his blue eyes and gave an approving smile.

"T’will be hard work, ranching," she said, never breaking eye contact, "but not as hard as seeing you ride off for the cattle drive every year."

His gaze locked with hers, Grayson examined the freckle pattern on her cheeks.  He really liked how they blended together, forming a solid mass on the bridge of her nose. "Before we invest in a herd," he said, matching her smile with one of his own, "I think I’d like to buy you a new dress."

After almost thirty years together, it seemed like Cara had always been by his side.  Even on the trail, sleeping under the stars, Grayson had never felt alone knowing she was waiting for him at home. At home alone, and apparently vulnerable. He blamed himself first for not being there to protect her from the intruder that took her life. 

The ranch they set up and ran together had been successful, but he didn’t have the heart to keep it up now that she was gone.  He’d decided to sell everything that wouldn’t fit on the back of his horse, and head out to someplace with fewer memories.  As the sun dipped behind peaks in the west, its final rays cast a salmon glow on her simple tombstone: 

                                          Cara Flanagan Clarke

                                                   1842–1897

Something brushed against his ankle, reminding him he wasn’t entirely alone. He wrenched his gaze from the stone, knowing that he would never be back, and turned his attention to the gray one-eyed face looking up at him. "Let’s go, Shade.  We need to find some answers."

Next Chapter: Chapter 3