Mittman, Stephanie (18 page)

"The
old man was killing off all the shamans that couldn't save his people. Well,
everyone knows the Indian is a dying breed, and a couple years ago I'da said
amen to that, but anyway, shamans was being thrown off the cliffs with a
certain regularity, and the chief's son, who spoke English better than me,
which I guess ain't so hard, convinced his father to let the medicine men live
as long as they could keep me alive."

"So
they kept themselves alive by keeping you alive."

He
nodded. "It's late now, Sweet Mary. Go to sleep."

"I'm
sorry," she said as they tried to get comfortable. "About
before."

"Nothing
for you to apologize for," he said, wishing the poncho reached all the way
around him so that his back wasn't exposed to the fire. She couldn't help the
way she felt about his body, Sloan thought. He'd had over a year to get used to
it, so by now it didn't look like the insides of a dead coyote to him anymore.
But to her... well, he couldn't blame her.

"So
long as you know it wasn't you, back there in the pond," she said.

"I
didn't see no one else, Mary Grace. Now go to sleep."

He
waited, but she didn't say anything more. Ten minutes went by. Then ten more.
He tried to adjust the blanket, but it hadn't grown any longer.

"What's
wrong?" her quiet voice asked in the darkness.

"Fire's
hot on my back without the blanket there," he said. "But if I let it
go out we're likely to be mistook for a cougar's dinner."

"Oh."
Mary Grace paused. "Take more of the blanket. I don't need so much."

She
lay too far from the fire to be feeling its warmth. Without the blanket she'd
be freezing. He reached across Ben, searching for her arm. Whatever part of her
it was he came in contact with felt ice cold, and she jumped higher than a bull
frog at the touch of his hand.

"You
sure are one cold woman," he said. "Don't think I'll be takin' a
blanket offa you. Might be sleeping with a corpse, come morning."

"Maybe
we should change places," she suggested. It was one thought, but he had
another.

"If
the baby wasn't between us, and we spooned, there'd be plenty of blanket for
all of us."

"Spooned?"

He
told her to stay where she was and worked his way around her. He rolled her on
her side, facing the fire, and curled himself tightly against her back, pulling
her into his chest. He tucked his good leg against the backs of her knees,
forcing them to bend. She was stiff, cold, and silent. It was like holding an
icicle.

"I
ain't gonna do nothing, Mary Grace," he said, trying to keep the
disappointment out of his voice. "You don't have to be afraid. You could
always outrun me, you know."

"I'm
sorry," she said.

"You
say that a lot, but you never say what for."

"For
before. If I was a tease, or anything."

"Why'd
you run, Sweet Mary? You seemed to be liking what I was doing."

"I
did. I know I shouldn't have, but I did."

Things
were getting clearer. And her shoulders were easing some in his arms. Her skin
was warming slightly at his closeness, and he couldn't get over the fact that
it was every bit as soft as Ben's. He gently made little circles with his thumb
near the base of her neck, easing the muscles that led to her shoulders. She
was strung as tight as barbed wire. He was afraid to touch her, for fear of
making a bad thing worse.

"Were
you scared?" he asked. She nodded, her whole body shaking against him.

"Of
me?"

A
shrug was his answer.

He
swallowed hard. He'd been with so many women who gave themselves so easily that
he just hadn't thought that she wouldn't be like the rest of them.

"You
ain't never been with a man, have you, Sweet Mary? Is that it?"

She
shook her head. Did that mean she had? Or she
hadn't? He didn't know. He
tipped her back slightly, trying to see her face. She was fighting tears, her
lip quivering, her eyes all scrunched against the onslaught.

"So
then you ain't?"

She
nodded. He still wasn't sure.

"You
have?" he tried again.

She
nodded again, her shivering worse. It could only be one other thing.

"You
married, and goin' against your vows?"

But
she shook her head, thoroughly confusing him.

"Then
what?" he asked in the voice he used for calming frightened stallions,
stroking her hair, letting her lean against him without pushing his own body
back against hers.

"A
long time ago. Very long."

She
was a young woman. He'd seen her whole body and there wasn't a wrinkle on it.
He'd seen her climb mountains, carry Climber's saddle. "How long?"

"Thirteen
years."

Dear
God! Thirteen years! She'd have been a child. "Then it wasn't your choice,"
he said as delicately as he could.

"It
wasn't rape," she said, and this time it was him shivering.

"Still,
a horse oughta know better than to mate with
a rabbit...."

"I
told you. I was willing."

"Just
'cause a rabbit's got her tail raised, ain't no reason for a horse to indulge
himself, Mary Grace! You were a baby! No wonder you're scared to death of
me."

"I
wasn't a baby, not really. I was fifteen years old. Old enough to know what I
was doing, and what could happen."

"Fifteen?
Thirteen years ago? You sayin' you're twenty-eight years old?"

She
nodded in answer to his question. If she was twenty-eight, then he was no
lady's man. Getting her to say what was festering inside her was harder than
trying to push a bear through a prairie-dog burrow.

"And
what happened?" He wondered how much of what she said could be the truth.
All this nonsense about traveling through time and being nearly thirty. How was
it she could lie so blatantly and still he believed every word she said?

"I
got what I deserved."

"That
ain't tellin' me much."

"It's
all I'm gonna tell you."

"Suit
yourself," he said, taking his hand back from around her body and trying
to find a place for it on his" own. He rested it on his hip, flung it
behind him, then stretched it out over his head, denying to himself that it
belonged around the woman lying next to him, whether or not she wanted to tell
him all her secrets.

It
took a long time, during which he tried not to move a muscle, but finally Mary
Grace managed to fall asleep. Sloan tried to sleep too, but he was still awake
to see the rising of the sun. It was a peaceful moment, Mary Grace still in his
arms, his son beginning to stir just beyond. He stretched the moment for as
long as he could, and then he sneaked silently out from under the covers and
made his way back to the pond.

It
was still warm, despite the coolness of the night, and he checked on the
diapers they had washed, found them dry, and gathered them to bring back to
Sweet Mary and Ben, along with their clothes. Damn if they weren't beginning to
feel like a family to him. The last thing he needed was feeling saddled with a
wife and a kid. Bad enough he'd lost a year of his life because of the Tate
boys. He wasn't gonna lose the rest of it, too. Three dead men, and he would be
a free man again. And
he wasn't gonna be limited by anything more than his bum leg and a few scars.

He
waded into the warm water, wishing it was deep enough to dive. A quick dip
helped clear away the cobwebs, and then he donned his clean, dry clothes and
headed back to the campfire.

Mary
Grace and the baby were awake, she sitting like an old Indian with the blanket
wrapped around her shoulders, the baby in her lap playfully grabbing at her
breasts. She stood up, leaving the baby on the blanket and turned to look for
more firewood.

Sloan
stared at her naked body in the morning light. Her hands, sunburned at first,
were now a deep tan, which went a good portion of the way up her arms. Her
torso was stark white, interrupted by dusky nipples and abundant freckles. Deep
red hair curled where her legs met, and her ankles and shins were almost as tan
as her forearms. Beautiful as she was, Sloan found his eyes riveted on just one
place—her stomach, where the morning sun revealed several silvery stretch marks
across her belly.

She
threw onto the fire whatever sticks were left, hoping to take the chill out of
the morning. And yet, in a few hours she would surely be drenched with sweat
again and wishing for a breeze. The desert was full of extremes, not the least
of which was Sloan Westin.

He
was nothing she expected him to be. He could talk easily about killing another
man while wiping the dirty bottom of his little son. He'd been shot for messing
with Emily Tate and given Mary Grace the definite impression that it was hardly
the first time he'd been with a woman, and yet he was infinitely patient and
gentle with her.

They'd
lain under the blanket together naked all night, and he'd kept his hands and
other parts to himself. And yet in the pool he'd... She shook her head,
unwilling to think about it. And yet the thought of his hands on her breast
made her nearly dizzy. It was nothing like the furtive grabs she had tried to
put out of her mind for so long. The truth was she had liked everything
he had done in
the pond. That was what scared her more than anything else.

On
her feet, she arched, twisted, and stretched, her fists pressed against the
small of her back, her eyes shut tight. She was sore everywhere. Ben cooed, and
she glanced over at him. His attention was riveted on something behind her.

Whirling
around, she found Sloan staring at her, a pile of clothing in his arms. Her
cheeks grew hot as she dashed to the blanket, scooped up the baby, and covered
herself. He still stood, just where he was, staring as if she hadn't moved. The
man had a way of looking without seeing, as if it wasn't her body but her soul
he was trying to examine.

He
seemed to be figuring something out, and Mary Grace was afraid to ask what it
was. She held the baby more tightly to her, hoping to remind him they weren't
alone. Paddy objected and squealed, bringing them both back from some precipice
they couldn't name.

"Did
you find any food?" Mary Grace asked awkwardly. Sloan nodded.

"Put
these on," he said, handing her the clean clothing he had brought from the
pool. "I'll be right back."

She
waited until he was out of sight before dropping the blanket and donning
Emily's clothes. As she dressed the baby, she thought about the tone in his
voice. It said "We're not finished," and she braced herself for his
attack.

By
the time Sloan returned with some stringy-looking green stems, Mary Grace sat
stiff as a rod, the baby freshly diapered and fussing in her lap. He put the
greens into a small pan, added some water from their canteen, and set the
concoction in the fire without saying a word. For a while, he didn't even look
in her direction.

"Could
you watch Paddy for a minute?" she asked, and was surprised to see him
scowl at her. He'd never objected to taking care of the baby before. She
supposed the baby could come with her, but she preferred to do her business
alone.

"His
name is Ben," Sloan corrected. "This one's
my
son."

She
closed her eyes and wished the whole world would disappear before she opened
them. This was not a pain she could go through again. Her stomach cramped.
Without looking at Sloan, she snapped, "Then you shouldn't mind watching
him for a while," and stalked away from the campsite.

When
she returned, she found him feeding the baby the limp green stems, mashing them
with his fingers and squeezing them between the baby's lips. Unknowingly, he
played that old game of trying to land the airplane inside the hangar, hoping
to distract Paddy from the taste of his breakfast with some fancy hand
gestures. It was touching to see the big man sitting Indian style, his son in
his lap, trying to entice the boy to eat. He heard her footsteps and looked up
at her. Suddenly self-conscious, he gestured toward her plate, on which lay
three or four stalks and some lifeless leaves. She supposed she made a face,
because he laughed at her.

"It's
pokeweed. It won't kill you."

She
nodded and took a stem in her hand. She had to hold it above her mouth to reach
the end, and she steeled herself as she opened her mouth to try it.

"Eat
the damn thing," Sloan shouted at her. "Do you think we've got all
day? The Tates are stupider than a herd of cattle fighting for their place in
the slaughter line, but turning north means we're headed back into their arms.
Now eat!"

Mary
Grace quickly put the pokeweed in her mouth, surprised by its mild, sweet
taste. She ate the rest of what was on her plate quickly, rose, and stood
waiting for Sloan to finish so that she could rinse his plate along with her
own down at the pond.