Mittman, Stephanie (2 page)

"Only
one place hunters would be headed around here," he said, going around the
counter to the cash register and ringing up Mary Grace's Coke. "You got a
map? Oak Creek Canyon's kinda tricky."

After
half an hour of recommending first one way, then another, Mary Grace left with
a pencil sketch of the area. With a wave, she climbed into the car once again
and pulled back on the road.

An
hour and twenty degrees later, Mary Grace finally pulled the car to the side of
the road. She'd driven straight through Sedona, its streets lined with tourist
shops that tried in vain to hide the view, and then left civilization for the
mountains once again. There she lumbered behind pink jeeps full of tourists
marveling at the spectacle of Oak Creek Canyon. She too had marveled, until she
realized she was hopelessly lost. It had been almost an hour since she'd seen
the last pink jeep. Since then, she hadn't seen a living soul.

She
grabbed the pencil-sketch map and walked to the road's edge. Below her lay a
canyon crisscrossed by half a dozen roads. By turning the map she saw the route
splayed out beneath her. Amazingly, she was almost there. Unfortunately,
though, she was about two hundred feet above where she was supposed to be, with
no visible means of getting to the roads she sought. Still, down there somewhere
were two men waiting for Benjamin to show up, and she fully intended to be
there when he and his father did.

In
the car she shoved her bush of curls up onto her head, not caring that she must
look like a red mop on its end, and fastened the hair off her sticky neck. Then
she put the car in reverse and slowly backed onto the roadway, looking for a
way down to the canyon floor. When she finally saw a cutoff sloping downward,
she turned off the paved road and followed it. After about
half a mile, it
was clear that the car could go no farther. She got out to take a look. About
thirty yards on, the path ended abruptly at a narrow natural stone bridge that
jutted out over the canyon, the result of thousands, maybe millions, of years
of rushing water carving an archway that led nowhere.

Wondering
what she should do now, she made her way toward the bridge to take a peek at
where she was. As she picked her way through the scrub, she slipped and cursed
her new cowboy boots. Having heard from the girls at the office about scorpions
and snakes, she'd ruled out her Nike's and gone with the boots. But how ever
did the cowboys get away from the bad guys in slick-soled shoes that didn't
give at the ankles?

One
foot on the stone bridge, she looked gingerly over the edge. Beneath her,
several hundred feet at least, lay a dried up riverbed. Stones and boulders,
every shade of red and orange and copper known to God or man, lay piled on top
of one another. The river had no doubt once stretched for miles. For as far as
she could see the scenery didn't change. So this was what they meant when they
talked about mystical Sedona. Despite being a skeptic at heart, she could feel
the energy around her.

People
who were into these metaphysical things claimed the area had some kind of
electromagnetic field, like the Bermuda Triangle or something. Even the man who
had given her the directions at the little store had carried on about psychic
energy fields and spiritual vibrations. He'd claimed his brother had seen the
face of an Indian in the rocks telling him to leave and never return. Too bad
some of the store owners in Sedona hadn't had the same vision. Mary Grace
thought it was a sin to be selling Vortex T-shirts and thirty-one flavors of
ice cream in the midst of the most glorious show nature had to offer.

A
stone loosened beneath her foot, and she jumped back away from the edge. It
fell, turning over and over, and she waited for the clink as it hit the rocks
below. When it didn't come, she bent slightly to look over the edge. The ledge
beneath her shifted, and her arms flew out like a clown on a diving board who
had changed his mind at the last minute. She tried to turn and thrust herself
toward the safer ground of the precipice, but her body refused to cooperate.
She jerked in a wild dance of arms and legs trying to propel herself to safety,
but not getting any firmer footing. And then it was too late.

Her
scream echoed against the canyon walls, a wailing that just went on and on,
bouncing from one boulder to the next, overlapping one cry upon another as she
drifted in free fall down into the canyon. She gasped for a breath but none
came, as though suddenly she was sucked into a vacuum. Her descent slowed until
she felt weightless, drifting like some discarded letter in a gentle breeze.
And yet there was no breeze, no air at all, not even to breathe. No sound,
either. As in some nightmare, her mouth was open, but nothing came out. And
nothing moved, except Mary Grace. She fell in slow motion, like some special
effect in a movie. Only it wasn't a movie, and she prepared herself to die,
waiting almost impatiently for her life to flash suddenly before her so she
could regret her mistakes and repent before she crashed to her death on the
rocks below.

And
then the air filled her lungs and she shrieked again, just as her body hit the
water with a tremendous splash. She sank through it until her arm hit gently
against the bottom and she rose, gasping for air, to the surface.

***

Sloan
Westin lay flat on his belly, blending into the rocks on which he lay, watching
the river. He knew the Tate boys were somewhere on the far side, along with
Emily and the baby, all holed up in that shack, comfortable and secure in the
belief that he was dead.

He
hadn't taken his eyes from the scene for a moment. He couldn't take the chance
of missing the direction from which one of the boys might come. How else was he
going to find a hideout that half the lawmen in the Arizona Territory and
twenty fresh Pinkertons hadn't yet uncovered?

So
when the shout pierced the calm afternoon, it was like a real bolt from the
blue. No one had come from either side of the river, and suddenly here was
someone bobbing like a cork at the surface, sputtering and dragging in great
breaths. And the splash! Like he'd jumped right off the edge of the canyon. Or
fallen.

He
had no way of knowing whether the kid had meant to jump into the river, but
from the way he was clawing at the rocks, it was clear he was sorry to have
found himself in it. Sloan considered helping, but weighed against that impulse
a bum leg, the steepness of the mountainside, and the time it would take to get
down there, not to mention the risk of being discovered before he was ready to
make his move. He decided to stay where he was.

The
California sorrel he had tied to a lone mesquite tree shook her head, rustling
the leaves. It sounded like the wind, and Sloan was sure no one would pay the
noise any mind, especially with the kid shouting as he fell into the water.
Sloan stayed where he was and watched. He had no intention of showing his hand
until it was too late for the Tates to do anything about it.

The
boy, whose red hair stood out from his head like a well-used oil-lamp wick, had
managed to pull himself
onto a flat rock just beside the river. The fool had on his boots, so he was
either planning on taking the "big jump" or had merely slipped and
was lucky to be alive. But the boots surely weren't making things easy for him
now, and Sloan watched with detached amusement as the boy twisted and turned,
trying to keep his balance on the rock while he got the wet boots off his feet.

Even
from a distance Sloan could see him shivering, running his hands up and down
his arms, wringing his shirttails, and then going back to the task of yanking
off his boots. It took great self-control for Sloan not to let out a whoop when
the lad finally succeeded in getting one boot off and throwing it on the river
bank. The kid used his free foot to help get the second boot off with more
ease, and it followed the first to the shore.

Stooping
to rest one hand on the rocks, the boy then eased his way toward the safety of
the solid shore. Sloan ducked his head quickly when the youth shaded his eyes
and looked up to the cliffs.

"Is
anybody there?" a high-pitched voice yelled. Sloan could hear the tears in
it and wondered just how young the stranger was. Suddenly he was glad the boy
had made it to the safety of the shore. The voice was quavering with the cold,
and Sloan wanted to tell him to get out of his wet clothes, but he didn't dare
give himself away.

Luckily,
the boy was smart enough to think of stripping on his own. When his cries
brought no answer, he began to unbutton his shirt. His back was to Sloan, and
as he removed the soaked shirt, Sloan caught a glimpse of strapping across the
boy's back. Wondering just what it was the boy had strapped under his clothes,
Sloan raised his head slightly, knowing his buckskin-colored Stetson blended in
with the rocks, as did everything else he had chosen to wear, ride, and bring.
The
boy was peeling off his blue jeans, probably store-bought Levis from the way
the sun glistened off the rivets. Beneath the jeans, instead of the usual
drawers, was some kind of small dark cloth that just barely covered the boy's
ass.

Again
the boy called out, asking if anyone was out there, and then he reached back
and unfastened the strapping that wound around his back and shoulders. He laid
each of the garments out on the rocks to dry, and then sat down himself.
Reaching up into the mass of red hair, he pulled out some pins and let loose the
curls.

A
curious feeling began to rise in Sloan's stomach, and he slowly turned to make
sure there was no one coming up behind him. That gut knotting always meant
something was amiss, but until the boy stretched himself out on the rocks to
dry, and Sloan looked down to see two creamy white breasts with deep rose
nipples attached to what he had thought was a young man's chest, he didn't know
what was wrong.

She
spread her hair out around her head like a halo, and except for the tiniest
triangle of cloth, which appeared to be attached to a ribbon and which covered
only her most private of places, she lay in the sun, naked as the day God made
her. She lay there for the better part of what was left of the afternoon,
sleeping on and off, sitting up and checking on her clothing every now and
then, always looking around, and not dressing again until nearly dark. Sloan
knew just how long she lay there buck naked because he didn't take his eyes off
her once during the course of the whole afternoon. Of course, his mind was on
the Tates, no matter where his eyes might happen to roam.

She'd
gotten back into the still damp clothes as though that would solve everything.
Well, at least she was alive. After falling hundreds of feet, that was no small
thing. But where the river had come from was anyone's guess. She was sure there
had been only rocks when she'd looked down from the bridge.

And
what was she supposed to do now?

Nothing
like a brush with death to throw a crimp in your day, Mary Grace. Your car is
several hundred feet above you, your map is in the car, you're somewhere in
no-man's-land, and it's getting dark.

Her
boots rubbed against her feet through her very soggy socks, and she knew she'd
be facing blisters long before she found a bed to tuck her boots beneath. Her
damp jeans chafed her inner thighs and felt cold and clammy as the sun played
peek-a-boo with the few trees that lined the ridge above her.

On
the map there had been two roads that converged like a squat
X,
and the
house she was looking
for was somewhere up the left fork. She couldn't see anything that even
resembled a road now that she was down on the floor of the canyon. Had she not
been a grown-up, had she not learned to be brave and resourceful and strong,
she might have given in to the tears that threatened to flood her vision.
Instead she sniffed loudly and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

Feeling
not a whit better but refusing to give in, she squared her shoulders and headed
off in what she hoped was the right direction. Soon the stars would be out, and
she could use them to guide her.

How
could it have gotten so cold when it had been over a hundred just a few hours
ago? It was just like everyone always said about the desert. As soon as the sun
went down, all the heat disappeared. When she'd stopped the car she'd been
sweltering, and now she couldn't stop shivering.

The
world had never seemed as quiet as it did while she walked toward nowhere in
the darkness. Only her steps, echoing against the rocks, kept her company. Each
time she stopped, there was only the wind. So far from civilization, she
couldn't even hear the sounds of a highway or the roar of a plane. And if the
silence was frightening, the darkness was terrifying. When night fell over the
canyon, it didn't do it gradually. One moment she had been overwhelmed by the
beauty of the mountains against the pinks and purples of the sunset sky, and
the next there was nothing in front of her, nothing behind her, a million stars
above her, and the creeping fear that at any moment there could be nothing
below her. The thought of falling off the earth twice in one day stopped her in
her tracks.

Fine,
she
thought, trying not to give in to her fears. Benjamin would still be there in
the morning and she could find him then. The best thing was simply to sit
down and wait
it out until dawn. More with her hands than her eyes, she made out the shape of
a small boulder and leaned against it. As she sank slowly to the ground, her
stiffened jeans cut into her inner thighs and against her calves. Man, it was
cold.
How cold is it?
she joked with herself.
It's so cold that...