Mittman, Stephanie (37 page)

"Stay
in our room except for meals," he instructed her, closing her fingers over
the money and allowing his hand to linger on hers. "This should last you
until I come back."

"Aren't
you coming in?" she asked, the key already in the lock.

"If
I do, I might never leave." He pressed the hand he was still holding to
his lips.

"And
if you leave, you might never come back."

He
didn't answer.

"I'll
wait for you," she said, her cheeks coloring with the admission.

"I
know." The dimples deepened and the money fluttered to the floor as he let
go of her hand. He tried to bend to get it, but it was too hard for him. How
was he going to fight the Tates if he couldn't even pick up a few lost dollars?

"I'll
get them," she said and bent to the ground. A dollar or two blew down the
hall a little and she reached to get them. When she looked up, Sloan was gone.

***

There
were no tears left for her to cry. She sat stony faced by the window in a
wrapper she'd bought with money Mason Tate had no doubt stolen in some train
robbery. The sun baked her skin, and the dust from the street coated her throat
and inflamed her eyes. He'd ridden out of town alone, as far as she could tell.
There'd been no posse, no
Gunsmoke
let's-go-get-the-bad-guys gang of
deputized men.

Lunchtime
came and went without note. Around four o'clock she pulled back the ruffle at
the end of her sleeve to glance at her hidden watch. As if time had any meaning
anymore. A train whistle rang out, and Mary Grace
could just make out the glint of
the sun on the metal wheels far in the distance. Tiny people ran around
frantically to and fro, climbing into wagons drawn by mules. From where she
sat, the mules appeared to sit down on their bottoms and slide down the
mountain into town. Shrieks and screams carried in the wind as if the ride were
the most fearsome thing that had ever happened in the travelers' lives.

Several
of them made it wearily to the Connor Hotel, most nearly hysterical as they
filed beneath her window. She'd missed her chance to dine alone, but by now she
was hungry enough to brave the busy dining room. With more diners she was less
likely to be noticed, anyway. After the scene at breakfast, a little anonymity
would be a blessing.

A
gentleman in a black suit with an apron tied around his middle hurried to seat
her, obviously not pleased that she was dining alone.

"We
prefer that females are escorted," he explained, searching the dining room
for a free table. "One moment, please."

"Never
saw anything like it," the man behind her said to his companion.

"It
ought to be against the law," his lady friend replied, and then they both
laughed. "But of course, it is!"

"Bringing
a baby to rob a train..."

"At
least it stopped them." She laughed again.

"But
that Pinkerton couldn't bring himself to shoot after them...."

"Well,
he could have hit the child."

Mary
Grace felt the room spinning around her. She reached out to steady herself and
caught a waiter's arm, upsetting a tray of fancy desserts and decorating
several customers with them. There was no graceful way out of
it. And
shouting "Shit!" didn't help matters. But she didn't care.

"Ben's
alive," she said to the people standing behind her. "The baby—he was
about six months old or so? Dark hair? Riding behind a young man with blond
curls?"

They
stared at her and then at each other. The woman nodded slowly.

"My
baby!" She tried to calm herself, control her breathing, stifle the scream
that was building inside her. "Sloan. Oh my God!" She grabbed the
maitre d' by both arms. "The police. I mean the sheriff, or the mar-shall,
or whatever the hell they call him—where can I find him?"

The
man shrugged her off, distancing himself from her. She didn't care if he
thought she was a maniac with a foul mouth. Ben was alive, and she had to get
to Sloan before it was too late.

The
waiter took her by the arm and led her to the front door, rather forcefully. He
pointed out the sheriff's office just a few feet away. Mary Grace hugged him in
thanks and left him with a smile of surprise on his lips.

Dodging
the heavy traffic of early evening on Main Street, which included drunken men
on mules, drunken men on horseback, and drunken men on foot, Mary Grace made
her way across the street and into the sheriff's office.

Behind
a desk
with a placque that read James Franklin Roberts, Sheriff, sat a formidable man
with a bristly mustache and close-cropped blond hair. He was in deep
conversation with a gray-haired man whose back was to the door.

"I'm
tellin' you I ain't seen him since he brought in those three men," He
gestured toward the cells behind
him. "Claimed they set on him and
his woman. Sure as hell looked like the Sloan Westin I remember."

She
couldn't make out the men in the cells, but the voice was familiar as a man
shouted out that it sure was Westin, and if the Tates didn't get him, he'd see
him buried himself.

The
sheriff told the man to shut up and continued his conversation with the older
man who sat across from him. "Heard now that he's got some woman and
they're stayin' up at the Connor. Thought I'd mosey up there later myself. Damn
fine supper they serve, you know."

The
man slammed his fist on the sheriff's desk. "I been up and down this town
three times over and ain't caught sight of him. And who's this Mary Grace
O'Reilly I'm supposed to look after?"

Mary
Grace tilted her head to try to get a look at the man's face. The resemblance
was uncanny. "You're Sloan's father," she said. "I'd know you
anywhere."

The
men looked up, surprised at her presence. The sheriff rose and tipped his hat.

"Well
if it ain't Mason Tate's woman," Jackson yelled from his cell.

"Mason
Tate's?" the sheriff said, his hand going slowly toward his gun.

"Sheriff,"
Mary Grace said, trying to reassure him she meant no harm. "I'm Mary Grace
O'Reilly. But that doesn't matter now. Sheriff, we have to go after Sloan. He's
gone after the Tates thinking that Ben is dead, but Ben's not dead. There was
this train robbery, and we have to go after them both." She looked
expectantly from man to man.

"He
thinks I'm dead?" Sloan's father said.

"No.
Not you. His baby."

"I
knew it," Jackson yelled. "Didn't I tell ya it was his?" he
asked the other men in the cell.

"Just
hold it," the sheriff said and waited for quiet. "Now, you wanna run
that by me with a lasso on it, little lady?" Mary Grace smiled. Little
lady! Unbelievable. And Ben Westin was here. He'd have to help.

"Sloan
thought his son was dead. Well, that's because I told him he was. But I only
told him that because that's what Harlin Tate told me. So he went off to kill
the Tates for revenge, like Rambo or someone, but he doesn't know that the
baby's alive and could get hurt, and so could Sloan. We have to go after
him!" She stopped for a breath.

"Rambo?"
the sheriff asked.

"Are
you telling me my son is alive?" Ben asked.

"Your
son is most definitely, most wonderfully alive. And so is your namesake."
She was hopping from one foot to the other. "But I can't say for how long.
We've got to get out there."

"Don't
trust her, Sheriff," Jackson yelled. "She's Mason Tate's woman sure
as Sloan Westin ain't no man no more."

Mary
Grace's cheeks flushed. How could she have ever told them that? The sheriff
stared at her. Ben Westin couldn't. He stared at the floor.

"Please,"
she begged. "We've got to hurry. Sloan and the baby are both in terrible
danger."

"Now
hold it a minute, young lady," the sheriff said slowly. "Just who are
you in all of this?"

"I..."
She hesitated for a second and then dove in. "I'm the baby's mother. The
Tates kidnapped him and you have to help me get him back. Didn't you hear that
they took him with them to rob a train? I think I can find the cabin. God, I
hope I can."

"Come
on, Sheriff," Ben said, placing his Stetson on his head. To Mary Grace he
said, "How long ago did he leave?"

"Hold
it," the sheriff said, refusing to be caught up in the frenzy. "How
do I know this ain't some kind of a trap? She could be leadin' us right into
the lion's den. Delivering us up to the Tate boys like lambs to the slaughter.
If she's really Mason Tate's woman... and Tom down at the mercantile..."

"For
God's sake! Do I look like I could be Mason Tate's woman? Why would I come here
to you if I had Mason Tate on my side?"

The
men just kept taking her measure.

"Fine,"
she said, "I'll go myself. Where can I rent a horse?"

"Rent
a horse?" The sheriff said, his eyebrows coming together across his
forehead like one big hairy caterpillar.

"Hire
one. Lease one. Whatever you say to borrow one for money."

Ben
Westin seemed suddenly to make up his mind about her. "I'll get you a
horse," he said. "The livery's down at the south end of town."
His hand was on the doorknob.

"And
I'll need a gun," she said before he left.

"Now
wait just a minute," Sheriff Roberts ordered. "I ain't havin' no
woman goin' off half-cocked with a gun in her hand after the Tate boys.
Specially when she might be Mason Tate's woman. Can you draw us a map?"

"It's
a trap, Sheriff," Jackson warned. Mary Grace ignored him.

"Sheriff,
I got told once today I wasn't going out to the Tates, and I'm not about to
make that mistake again. Sloan left me with some money. I'm sure I can buy a
gun."

"No,"
the sheriff said. "I can't take that risk."

"Look,"
she countered. "Those idiots left me in the
desert with Sloan Westin tied
up. If I was on the Tates' side, would I have untied him? Wouldn't I have just
left him to die the way they did?" Tears clogged her throat at the memory.
"Sheriff, a baby's life is at stake. An infant who has no chance but us.
He's counting on me. Can he count on you?"

Sheriff
Roberts sighed. His shrug said it all. She had won. "Get her a horse. I'll
find my deputy and anybody else with a grudge against the Tates."

She
left the office on Ben Westin's heels. "I thought it might be some kind of
trick," he said, "when I got the telegram."

"You
didn't know he was alive?"

"Not
until the day before yesterday," he said. "Don't know what got him to
finally tell us he was alive. Guess he still had some growin' up to do. What's
this about a son?"

Mary
Grace smiled so widely she was sure Ben Westin could see the fillings in her
molars. "You mean Ben? I guess we'd better call him Little Ben, now."

"We'd
better hurry, little lady. I thought I lost Sloan once. I'm not about to lose
him again. Let's go."

It
looked different at night. She'd been so careful to memorize the landmarks,
despite being deathly afraid of Wilson, concerned about Ben, and preoccupied
with Mason's plans for her. Yet she'd still had the presence of mind to note
the trees, the boulders, the turns in the road.

"Which
way?" Sheriff Roberts asked, guiding his horse so close to Mary Grace's
that it brushed her leg and caused her horse to shy sideways. She yanked on the
reins, and the horse beneath her shook his head and jerked right back. Even in
Girl Scout camp she'd been a lousy rider, and the intervening years hadn't
helped any. While she could now ride behind Sloan with relative ease, handling
her own horse was a challenge.

"There
was a boulder with a rock that looked like an eagle," she said. Someone
groaned, and she quickly apologized. "I made the trip once, and it was
light. I know it better from the river. I went that way a few times."

"Why?"
the sheriff asked. "Why what?"

"I
mean, what was you doin' at the Tate place more than once?" There was a
murmur behind him that came toward her like a wall.

"Mason
Tate wanted me to marry him. He kept me at the cabin, but I escaped."

"Without
yer baby?" someone said.

"No.
It wasn't like that, exactly. I took the baby the first time, and that's when I
met Sloan...."

"I
thought he was your baby's pa," the sheriff said.

Oh,
what a tangled web, Mary Grace.
"He is. I mean, he found me, and we
tried to get away together, with the baby. But Sloan's horse was stolen in the
desert...."

"Yeah,
he told me about that when he brought in

Jackson
and his men."

"Then
why didn't you believe me when I came to your office? Don't you believe what he
said?"

"Oh,
I ain't got no trouble believing Sloan. Know'd him before he disappeared off
the face of the earth. But just 'cause he believed ya, ain't no reason for me
to."