Chapter Nine

As Samantha hitched Athena beneath the large oak and gave the horse a good scratch on her neck, she found her gaze drawn toward the barn where a man had stepped out to speak with Zachary. Samantha recognized the man as Timothy O'Neil. That must be who Zachary had been talking about helping to fix up the ranch.

Zachary's strength was plain to see as he hefted up lumber and strode toward that barn. She winced at the sound of the wood being thrown down. Clearly, whatever the two men were saying had Zachary's temper riled. Though, it seemed his temper was easily riled. Bristly. That was a good descriptor for Zachary Marston.

But there was more to the man. There was sadness, a kindness, and the hint of a sense of humor that the man seemed to want to hide and bury.

Samantha didn't know the details but she knew enough about Zachary to know that he had lived a dangerous life for at least five years. The weapons, the guarded emotions, the very air the man gave off spoke of danger. But Samantha had a feeling that he hadn't always been that way. She had seen hints of a kind, caring man. He had to have learned those traits somewhere. The family that had been murdered perhaps?

Her gaze went to the faded white farmhouse. She knew this had been his family home but exactly what type of family had he lost. A wife and children? Or parents and siblings? Who had been murdered? Where? Why? She would probably never know—Zachary definitely didn't seem the type to share anything about himself and she was not the type to pry considering she had secrets of her own she wasn't eager to share. The less people knew of Clinton Matthews obsession with her, the safer they were.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Samantha let her feet carry her to the house. It was nice—much bigger than the small home she had shared with her family. The two story farmhouse had faded white paint with a chipping black door and weathered black shutters. A porch wrapped around the bottom story lined with several rickety rocking chairs and benches.

A butter churn sat beside one of the benches as did a fabric covered box that looked a lot like a sewing kit. Samantha walked up the sagging steps and ran her hands over the flowered fabric before pulling the lid off and finding that it was indeed a sewing box full of stick pins, a pin cushion, a worn thimble, spools of thread, a threaded needle and a quilt square that had clearly been a project in progress.

Her heart hurt a little. Someone, most likely a woman, had once sat on this porch and sewed. Someone who had meant a lot to Zachary—someone who had apparently been murdered.

Closing the sewing box, Samantha went to the door and gripped the knob in a shaking hand. Taking a deep breath, she swung the door in and stepped inside. Instantly bumps covered her skin as a shiver washed down her spine. The dusty air inside seemed heavy and hard to breathe. Samantha stood still for several long moments as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light.

The moment they adjusted, she realized she was standing in a kitchen. To the left was a line of cabinets and a sink with dusty and dirty curtains that appeared to have once been bright yellow covering a window. In front of her was an oak dining table, a fireplace, and a cookstove. To the right was a sitting room with a small sofa, an armchair and a rocking chair.

But this home was like a moment frozen in time. Samantha swallowed hard. Evidence of a family once living here and their belongings were scattered everywhere There were two plates on the kitchen table with half eaten meals long since dried up and rotten sitting upon them. A dirty pot and pan sat upon the counter along with a sack of long rotten onions and a pan of dried up biscuits.

Knitting needles still attached to the wool they'd been working had been tossed on the floor. A cracked smoking pipe lay upon the floor in front of her feet. One of the kitchen chairs was toppled over and the glass in a cabinet in the sitting room was shattered. Pillows and quilts were tossed carelessly around the sitting room, drawers had been pulled open and there was even a crack in the plaster wall as if something had been slammed against it. What had happened here? Every bit of evidence pointed to a struggle. A struggle that had occurred a long time ago judging by the dust. Zachary's family had been murdered... had it happened right here where she stood?

The air grew heavier still and Samantha's heart raced as her hands shook. She stepped around the table and saw the staircase that led up. Her eyes went to the floor at the foot of the staircase and she froze. The floors were dusty, dirty and worn but it wasn't mud or dirt staining those boards beside the stairs.

The stain was dark and large as if a puddle of something had been left there to dry—and the color of that stain could not be mistaken. Blood. A puddle of blood had dried right there upon the boards. Samantha's stomach turned. She was standing in the very spot where Zachary's family had been murdered. And the more her eyes adjusted, the more she saw.

Blood was smeared across the floor in many places. There as a second large, dried puddle nearer to the kitchen sink. Boots had tracked prints of that blood into the sitting room and across the large thick rug that covered the floor there. More of those dried brown smears and spatters marred the cream-colored plastered walls.

Why in the world had that man sent her in here to clean the place? Had he realized it was such a horrific scene inside?

A framed photograph on the mantle drew Samantha's attention away from the blood. Was that Zachary's family? Stepping across the dusty wooden floorboards, she went to the photograph and lifted it from the scarred wood. Swiping her hand across it to clear the dust, pain clogged her throat when she recognized Zachary standing proudly—though he looked so different. Clearly, he was younger than now, probably not even twenty but that wasn't what made him hard to recognize. As he stood there with his handsome features and his dark hair a wild pile atop his head, it was the openness on his face, the carefree smile curving his mouth, the brightness in his eyes that seemed so very unrecognizable.

Seated in chairs in front of Zachary were a man and a woman. They were clearly his parents. Zachary bared a striking resemblance to his father but had his mother's eyes. And sitting upon their father's knees were two young girls—probably ten or so—and they were clearly twins. They had light hair, braided pigtails and crooked smiles.

Some of her questions had been answered. Zachary had once lived here with his father, mother, and sisters and those people had been murdered right here in the place that had once been their home.

Gingerly, Samantha placed the photograph back upon the mantle. A door in the kitchen drew her attention but opening it revealed only a pantry full of old cans of food and sacks of dried goods that it was clear mice had been making their own. There was also a broom, mop, bucket and duster. Those would certainly be needed.

Stepping out of the panty, Samantha glanced around. There was one other door off the sitting room but a quick check revealed it was a water closet. There were no bedrooms down here. They must be upstairs. Did she dare explore the house further? Or should she go tell Zachary this was something she could not manage? Should she tell him it had been horrible of him to send her into such a gruesome scene?

That thought gave her pause. Something told her Zachary did not know. The dust covering everything had not been disturbed anywhere and her footprints were the only ones leaving fresh tracks on the dirty floors. Zachary hadn't been in here. That didn't mean he didn't know the home was covered in blood but something inside Samantha told her that he did not.

Zachary had gone above and beyond to protect her since they had met. Not only that but he was a private, quiet man who kept his thoughts and emotions locked away. He would not have sent anyone—especially her—into this house to see what had happened here. He wouldn't want her seeing the evidence left behind and asking questions he wouldn't want to answer.

After everything Zachary had done for her, Samantha would swallow her own fear and discomfort, her own pain and the memories being stirred within her own tortured mind, and she would clean up the evidence of these horrors and make Zachary's family house a home once again.

Now to see what was waiting upstairs. Her heart dropped when she saw more of those dry bloody boot prints leading up the staircase. Please, let there be nothing horrific to be found on the second story. She would already be seeing those pools of blood and splattered walls in her dreams—right beside the images of that bullet striking her fathers' face.

Samantha's grip on the handrail was tight as she went up the stairs. At the top there was a hallway that led in two directions. Straight forward led to one door and to the right led to three. She contemplated a moment before going to the right.

The first door she opened revealed a large bedroom with a four poster bed, two wardrobes which had been opened and rummaged through, a chest of drawers, and hope chest (all of which had been ransacked), two armchairs and personal mementos through the space. A dress laid over one of the chairs, a pair of worn work boots tossed haphazardly in the corner, a brush, perfumes, a shaving kit—a family's entire life lay in this house and Samantha felt as if she were intruding.

Closing the door to the room that must have been used by Zachary's parents, Samantha moved to the next room. This was a much smaller bedroom with only enough room for the brass bed, chest of drawers and floor chest that sat inside it. A dusty rifle sat in the corner, a pile of discarded clothes beside it, and a hat on a hook by the door. Other small personal touches were here as well including a set of antlers, some wood that had been being carved into something, and a tin of tobacco with rolling papers.

Samantha knew that this must have been Zachary's bedroom. Her gaze dropped to the unmade bed, the white sheet, and twisted green blanket. It felt oddly intimate to be seeing into this part of his life. Part of her wanted to go through his drawers to see what clues she could learn about the man, but she also did not want to snoop. Stepping out of the room she closed the door and headed to the third. This door opened to reveal an office that had been ransacked and torn upside down—though the dust covering everything made it clear that the intrusion had happened long ago.

There was only one door left and that was down the other hallway. Those bloody footprints that ran throughout the house were darker coming back from that final room than they were going in. That did not seem good. Blood was smeared on the wall as if someone had bumped against it making their way down the hall.

The air was so heavy. So thick. It felt oppressive as it pushed down around her. Squaring her shoulders, she made her way to that final door. Pushing aside memories of her father and Charles, memories of some of the horrible things she had seen during her two years running for her life, Samantha swallowed hard and pushed that chunk of wood aside.

True horror filled her. Looking inside this room it was easy to tell that it had once belonged to the two young girls—and easier yet to see what had happened within it. Two small brass beds sat in either corner beside windows with frilled pink curtains. The walls were papered halfway up with flower patterns and the floors were adorned with soft green rugs. The furniture was white and delicate, dolls, stuffed toys, and toy horses lined shelves on the far wall. It looked every inch the perfect room for two perfect girls—except that every single bit of this room was splattered, smeared, drenched in blood.

Blood had clearly soaked the white floral blankets, it was sprayed upon the walls, dripped across the floor, splattered upon even the ceiling! The dolls, the stuffed animals, the dainty vanity in the corner—everything was at least touched in some way by that dried brown evidence of murder.

The girls had clearly been in bed when they had been attacked. A knife with a rusty blade lay on the ground between the beds.

Tears burned Samantha's eyes. Her stomach rolled. Her heart raced. The air was too thick—too heavy! Turning on her heels, she made a run for it. Racing down the stairs and turning toward the sitting room to take the back door out of the house. She wanted to avoid Zachary if she could.

Stumbling off the porch, Samantha fell to her knees upon the grass in the yard and retched—losing the contents of her stomach among the weeds. Straightening herself, Samantha sucked in gasps of air and tried to erase the horrible images burned into her mind.

Those girls that had been sitting so sweet and innocent upon their father's knees, blood and brutalized upon their beds in their perfect room amid their dainty furniture. True, she had not actually seen them but Samantha had always had a healthy imagination—just now she was wishing it could be a tad less robust.

"Ma'am?"

Samantha's head whipped around to see Timothy approaching her with worry in his green eyes. He rushed her way and reached out his hand, grabbing her arm and pulling her to her feet as her legs shook. "What happened? Are you sick?" he asked, putting his wrist to her brow.

Samantha took several moments to steady herself before pulling away. "I'm fine."

With a shake of his head, Timothy pulled a bandana from his pocket and began to clean off her face. "You're awfully pale," he stated as Samantha attempted to swat his hand away. "I'm gonna go get Zachary."

"No," Samantha quickly countered, wiping dirt off her skirt and tugging at her sleeve. "No, I'm okay..." Her gaze went back to the house.

Timothy followed her gaze and frowned. "Is something wrong in...." He stopped speaking suddenly.

Samantha was sure he would be able to read her emotions when she once again looked in his eyes. He paled considerably. "Zachary paid folks to clean that place up after...." His throat bobbed. "What did you see?"

Samantha had to pull herself together. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and raised her chin. "It would seem Zachary wasted his money."

"Oh hell..." Timothy rubbed the back of his neck. "He's gonna be mad. I'll go tell him..."

"I don't want Zachary to know. He seems... haunted when he looks at that house and it's my job to turn it back into a home, not make it worse in his eyes."

Timothy frowned as he studied her. He scratched at his chin. "Haunted is one word for it."

"How long have you known Zachary?" Samantha asked quietly.

"Nearly my whole life."

"What happened, Timothy?"

Timothy's eyes took on a far away look and she knew he was seeing the past. "They were murdered by some men riding through about five years ago. Zachary and I had been gone doing what nineteen year old boys do when they get some time away from their parents." Samantha saw him blink tears from his green eyes. "Those folks in there were good people. That was the best family I'd ever known and they took me in as their own when my own family didn't want me. Zachary buried his family without letting anyone see their bodies, other than the doc in town and Marshall Oxley—and that was only because he hoped the Marshall might help and the doc needed to sign death certificates. As soon as the bodies were buried, Zachary was gone. We figured he'd gone chasing after the killers but none of us heard from him again until he showed up that night in the saloon when he helped you."

Samantha wrapped her arms tight around herself as she took in what Timothy said. Part of her knew she should let Zachary be the one to tell her these things but another part of her truly wanted to know what had happened—especially after seeing the inside of that house.

"I found a picture inside of all of them. They looked happy—even Zachary."

Timothy seemed to understand. He sighed and shoved his bandana back in his pocket. "I reckon he was. He's always been a little on the quieter and more reserved side but he knew how to laugh and have fun." Gazing toward the horizon, Timothy shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "I reckon my best friend has lost that now."

"Maybe not." Samantha wiped a bit of sweat from her brow. "I don't want you to tell Zachary about this. I will get that house turned back into a home and wipe away any visual reminders of that tragedy. There's an office inside where I'm sure I can find paper and pen—I'll make a list of what I need and tomorrow you can find an excuse to get Zachary away so I can dispose of some things." Samantha knew she'd been supposed to start her new job with Gavin tomorrow but she would have to tell him it would be another few days before she could start. She had to help Zachary. After all he'd done for her, it was the least she could do.

"Ma'am, if you don't mind me asking... why? Why go through all that?"

Samantha gave a tiny shrug. "Zachary showed me kindness and saved my life when he did not have to. I will do this for him now."

A/N: Tough chapter to write! Next chapter will have more Zachary/Samantha interaction! I promise!