His smile faded. "He's a good kid. Just needs some guidance, I think." It was true, all of what he said, but there was something about the boy that troubled him, somehow. "Did he say something? Do something?" In truth, Sam's familiarity with his pepperbox .22 at such a young age didn't sit well with him. It had nagged ever since the boy had helped come up with the plan to carry it in his boot when they went to the line shack earlier.
A cold stone formed in Brandon's stomach. "Don't tell me he did something earlier to provoke Abe Johnson. Did I – come into the middle of something he started?"
"No, no," Allie said quickly. She bit her bottom lip, sitting up. "No, you saw everything, and there was nothing else. But when we were in Anderson's Mercantile, there was something he said. Zach was afraid you'd come after him. In his typical fashion, he was trying to back track, cover himself. He wanted us to tell you no hard feelings," she said in a wry tone.
Brandon gave a short laugh. "Right. Asshole. I'm glad to know there are no hard feelings." He pushed himself up, leaning against the smooth side of the rock wall behind them.
"Well, those are the very words Sam used, too."
"Good for him. It'll do Anderson good to spend a few sleepless nights wondering."
"If he'd understood what Sam said, maybe he would. But Sam spoke in Comanche."
Brandon watched her. Something else. Something she was finding it difficult to tell him. "No secrets, Allie. Let's hear it."
She looked up, meeting his eyes directly. "He told Zach you're his…brother."
Brandon sat forward slowly. His brother. Comanche. He stared into the darkness over Allie's shoulder. So that was it, this odd connection between him and this boy who'd only just entered his life. Sam was his brother. Was it true? No need to wonder. He pushed that doubt away as quickly as it formed. His stomach and chest felt empty, hollow. He knew it was true. The boy had known it early on – from the moment they'd been introduced.
He had a brother. One he'd never even known about. His father…his father – well, no matter. No telling how many half-brothers and sisters he had running around out there in the world. It was laughable, thinking of having a family he never knew about. Especially, when he remembered how, in the early hours before dawn came, he used to lie awake and wish for that very thing. A real brother, or sister. He'd never thought—
He shook his head, not in denial, but in amazement. "Do you believe him?"
She didn't answer right away, and he realized belatedly that she was being cautious because she didn't know how he felt about it. "Yes," she answered finally. "I do."
Brandon shrugged, considering all the possibilities. He had to be certain it was viable. "Could just be he admires the way I handle a gun. Maybe he needs the special attention—"
"I think Sam is bursting with it, Bran. Wanting to tell someone – wanting to tell…you." Allie was quiet a moment, then went on softly. "He's not sure how you'll react. He…reminds me a lot of you. Even before I knew, I thought so. And…I think you've felt some connection to him too, haven't you?"
Yes. No doubt. But at first, he'd thought it was because Sam was at a crossroads in his young life that he himself had stood at long ago. He understood. It had been so much more, he realized now – the blood they shared – their father's blood.
"Yeah." Brandon relaxed, looking down. "I guess I did, Allie. Just didn't realize—" He sighed. This changed his world yet again. Coming to Spring Branch to take the job of ridding the town of the Claytons had set his whole life spinning in a different direction. The changes had been good – but fast. Adapting to what life threw at him was something he was used to – but he felt like he was still catching his breath over everything else.
The one thing that still tormented him from his past was his lack of a father. He'd pushed it back, dealt with it through the years, but was wise enough to realize that it colored everything in his existence – and had, from the time he'd been born.
He'd lived between two worlds, never fully accepted in either. The Comanches had treated him with as much disdain for his white blood as the Anglos had for his Indian half. His grandmother had shown him small crumbs of kindness, when he was small, but even she had told him it would be best to go to the nearest town of any size, Kellyville, to live on the streets – she could not take care of him.
She'd left him at the edge of town early one morning, sorrow in her aged face.
"Where is my father?" he'd asked. The despair he'd felt lay in his memory like a weight.
"Dead," she'd answered, with no hesitation. "Dead, like your mother."
But he'd never believed her. Now, there was living, breathing proof. His father had not been dead at all – at least, not at that point. He'd been with another Comanche woman, bringing another unwanted son into the world. For all Brandon knew, his father might still be alive. Maybe Sam knew where he was. In the instant he thought it, he mocked his own hopefulness. Meeting the man who had fathered him and his new-found brother was likely to be a huge disappointment.
The uncertainty was better than the knowledge, in this instance. But it chafed his soul.