Mittman, Stephanie (38 page)

"But
he told you the baby was his."

"Yeah,"
the sheriff allowed. "But he never told me nothin' about it bein'
yours."

"I..."
It was hard to blame the sheriff for doubting her. Even she was becoming
confused by her story.

"Told
me to keep an eye on ya till he got back. Didn't seem to trust that ya wouldn't
leave town."

"What
is this all about?" Ben Westin asked.

Oh,
it was simple. Ben's grandson, who wasn't really his grandson, was stolen by
Sloan, who wasn't really his father, from his uncles, the only ones who really
did have some claim on him. And now she, who wasn't really his mother, was
going after Sloan, who wasn't
really anything to her, to get back what was not
rightfully either of theirs. Somehow she didn't think her explanation would
help.

"Moon's
comin' out," one of the men said, and they all looked up. In front of the
round, smiling face that glowed at them, somewhere around the Man in the Moon's
chin, was the very rough outline of an eagle, its wings spread for flight.

"I'll
be damned," the sheriff said.

"To
the right," Mary Grace said, moving her horse into the lead. "The
eagle should always be to our right."

***

Sloan
had stationed himself near the outhouse, figuring that sooner or later, one at
a time, the men he had come to kill would be showing their butts. In the four
hours he'd been waiting, Harlin had taken two leaks by the front door, but no
one had made the trip to the privy. Sloan had planned out every possible
scenario for doing the boys in. More importantly, oh yes, much more
importantly, he'd heard Ben cry.

Never,
not in all his twenty-six years, not when the Havasupai found him, not ever,
had anything sounded as wonderful as Ben's lusty wail. He'd even gotten a
glimpse of the boy, sitting on Mason's lap on the front step for a few moments
while Mason had a powerful smelling cigar. Each time he inhaled, it glowed in
the dark, and then the glow was lost in a cloud of white smoke. When he was
done, he rose and returned to the house. From the way the door slammed behind
him, Sloan could tell that Mason's mood was as foul as his smoke.

The
waiting had been easy at first. Sloan just pictured the look on Sweet Mary's
face when he came waltzing into the Connor Hotel with Little Ben on his
arm. Later, a
million thoughts taunted him as he thought of other endings to the bizarre
drama they'd been taking part in. If he didn't succeed, Mary Grace would never
know Ben had survived and the child would be brought up by Mason Tate. She
might even think Sloan had willingly abandoned her. On the other hand, even if
he succeeded, he could return to Jerome and find her gone. The sheriff had been
wholly uninterested in keeping an eye on her, and he'd had to hint that she was
not to be trusted in order to get him to agree to watch her at all. If she
managed to leave Jerome, he couldn't guess at where to find her. Los Angeles?
Back East? And what about the little matter of her claiming to be from another
time?

A
screech owl whistled in the distance, a weird trembling sound that set Sloan's
teeth on edge and stirred up the night creatures around him. Wings fanned the
air, rustling leaves and whooshing above him. Rodents scrambled for a safe
hiding place, their sharp nails scratching on the rocks and dry ground beneath
their paws. There was a sudden rush of wind not far from him, and then the
scurry of activity quieted. The stillness of the night closed in around him. He
stretched out on the ground behind the outhouse, the stench filling his
nostrils, and tried to rest. It couldn't be long before nature called to one of
the boys, and he'd have to get himself standing quickly without being seen.

There
was no getting comfortable. His head was on his arm, his good leg poised to
spring him to his feet. He shifted. There was a slight vibration beneath him.
He slid his head off his arm and pressed his ear to the ground. Horses! Who the
hell was coming this time of night? Three adversaries he had a chance of
handling. More, he didn't think he could best.

He
inched his way back into the woods to
where Climber stood silently waiting
for him. The horse nickered softly, and Sloan rubbed his nose and muzzle. He
mounted up and led the horse toward the trail as silently as he could, keeping
to the trees for cover. Every now and then he stopped and listened. When he was
confident that he'd be able to hear what he needed, he eased off Climber,
grabbed his rifle, and moved into position.

The
ridge banked Oak Creek on the Tates' side. Looking down, he would be able the
see the riders when they filed in beneath him. What a site the boys had chosen.
They might not be long on brains, but their instinct for survival worked from
sunup to sunup.

There
were five riders out there in the darkness, at least four of them packing
rifles. This was no tea party. A hatless rider was gesturing, pointing, and the
others were gathered close. Their voices were too low for Sloan to make out any
words, and so he just watched, his body hugging the ground, his rifle trained
on the rider leading the way.

He
could pick off two with his twelve-gauge Barker, but then he'd have to reload
and the other three would scatter. Even if he could get all five, the shots
would bring the Tates running, and they'd be up here on the ridge with him.
Shit.
He watched in silence as the little group made its way down the creek and
toward the hidden path that led to the Tates' cabin. And his son.

Of
course, Ben changed everything. If necessary, Sloan would have to defend the
Tates from the five men closing in on their hideaway so that he could ensure
Ben's safety. He knew that the baby's physical well-being was in no danger from
his uncles. These new men, this unknown quantity, could try to smoke the boys
out. If they were Pinkertons, they might lob one of those bombs like they did
at the James boys' house. Jesse's
mother had lost an arm, and another of
her sons was killed.

If
there was one thing to be grateful for in all of this, it was that at least
Sweet Mary was back safe in the Connor Hotel in Jerome. He only wished there
was some way he could be sure she would find out that Ben was still alive in
the event that he couldn't make it back to her.

A
strange calm came over him. If he didn't manage to get Ben, if he got killed in
the attempt, he knew for a certainty that Mary Grace would find a way to get
his son away from his uncles and raise him herself. He didn't know how. He
didn't even know what made him so certain. He only knew, as his eyes followed
the riders out of sight, that in some way she was with him, and between the two
of them they would save his son.

Cautiously
he went back for Climber. The area was becoming as familiar to him as the
saddle beneath his legs, and he guided Climber through the brush to the point
at which the lower trail turned steeply up. If the men were there, clearly they
were coming to, or for, the Tates.

***

"Make
camp?" Mary Grace hissed as quietly as she could at Sheriff Roberts.
"What if Sloan is attacking now? What about the cover of darkness?"

The
sheriff shook his head silently. He was not going to budge on this, either.
Every step of the way he had fought her. When she'd come out of the hotel in
her tight jeans, he had tried to order her either to change into decent clothes
or to forget accompanying them. When she'd mounted the horse, he'd gone on and
on about her sitting "clothespin fashion," until she'd nearly agreed
to riding sidesaddle just to get the show
on the road. And all the sheriff kept
harping on was that he couldn't guarantee her safety if she insisted on
displaying herself in such a manner.

She
couldn't figure who it was she needed protection from. There was the sheriff
himself, his deputy, an elderly gentleman whose wife had been injured during
the train robbery, and Sloan's father. No one else had been brave enough to go
looking for the Tates in their own nest, and in the end it was Ben Westin who
had convinced the sheriff that he would take responsibility for Mary Grace. It
was pointless trying to convince any of them that she was responsible for
herself.

Sheriff
Roberts refused to issue her a rifle and threatened to return to Jerome if Ben
gave her one. When she complained that his condition made her the only one of
them who had no weapon, the sheriff had simply nodded and said that was the
whole idea.

He'd
stopped to relieve his bladder more times than she could count but made no
accommodation when Mary Grace had found it necessary to go herself. Clearly
Sheriff Roberts did not trust Mary Grace O'Reilly, and the feeling was
unquestionably mutual.

The
men had all got off their horses and were waiting for her to dismount, Ben
holding her reins and offering her a hand down. He nodded encouragingly, and
she threw her leg over and slid down the horse's side. In the process she
managed to jab her breast with the horn. Her wince brought a snort from the
deputy. The sheriff shoved him toward a small clearing, and Sloan's father
diplomatically pretended not to notice anything that had taken place.

Taking
her hand, Ben pulled her slightly away from the other men and whispered,
"You know how to use a weapon?" He was bending down, and she knelt
beside him.

"No."
She couldn't help it. The man was so much like his son, it was impossible to be
less than honest with him.

"Didn't
think so." He pressed a hard small object into her hand. "Still,
you'd better take this. Find a place to hide it."

It
was one of those small guns that women pulled out of their purses in old
movies. A derringer, maybe. "How do I..." She wrapped her hand around
it and felt for the trigger. A sense of power surged through her. Life and
death sat in her hand, and all she had to do was aim and squeeze. No more
Wilson, or Harlin, or Mason. She pulled her finger out from the trigger guard
and opened her palm. "I couldn't..."

"Hide
it. Use it if you need to defend yourself." Ben lacked Sloan's easy way of
talking, but the sound of his voice was still comforting. Her shirttails, never
tucked in during her hasty exit from the hotel, covered her pockets. She
reached under her shirt and slipped the gun into her left front pocket. It was
a tight fit, but she wedged it in.

"I'll
take the first watch," the sheriff whispered. Then he nodded at Mary
Grace. "And I want you where I can see you."

"She'll
bed with me, Sheriff," Ben said. When the sheriff looked up, surprised,
Ben asked, "You got a problem with that?"

"It's
your neck," Roberts said, as much to himself as to Ben. "But it don't
add up. Why'd the Tates take your baby, ma'am?"

"Because
they're thieves and murderers," the elderly gentleman answered. He'd been
quiet throughout the journey, following along slightly behind, lost in his
thoughts, or so it seemed. "Why'd they bother my wife? Plenty of pretty
young women on the train. Why'd that
scarface slap my wife, rip her dress?
All she said was we were on our way to our daughter's wedding."

"OK,"
the sheriff said, putting the man's comments aside. "You say this baby's
yours and Westin's? I heard Emily Tate had a kid before she died. Rumor says it
was Westin's. The way I figure it, that baby's his all right, but it ain't
yours, unless... Where're you from, Miss O'Reilly?"

"What
are you getting at?" Ben seemed annoyed at the implication and moved his
body between hers and the sheriff's.

"I
ain't never seen Emily Tate, myself," Roberts said. "Any of you seen
her?" His eyes met with everyone's in turn, ending with Mary Grace.

"I
saw her die," Mary Grace said. "And be buried. There's a grave near
the cabin."

"How
do we know that ain't some kind of trick and we ain't just sitting here with
one Tate who's fixin' to take us to the rest of them?" The deputy pulled
out his gun and aimed it at Mary Grace.

"Because
I say so," a familiar voice drawled. Mary Grace spun around to see Sloan
coming toward them out of the darkness, his rifle only waist high but aimed at
the deputy.

"Sloan!"
A choked whisper escaped Ben Westin's lips as if he couldn't let himself
believe what he had hoped for so long.

"Pa?"

Mary
Grace nodded wildly, assuring him it was indeed his father. With a quick glance
at the sheriff, she jumped up and ran to Sloan's side, her body molding itself
to his like the right piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

"Ben's
alive. I don't know how he is, but Harlin took him to rob this man's
train." She pointed at the old man.

"He's
fine," Sloan said, hugging her to him. "I saw him on the porch with
Mason. He don't care much for cigar smoke, though."

Ben
Westin was standing where she had left him, watching their exchange. She could
see Sloan's eyes on him and pushed him gently toward the older man.

"You're
wounded," Ben said as Sloan limped toward him, hurrying to aid his son.

Sloan
stopped and turned around to stare at her in utter disbelief. "You didn't
tell him?" His fury was barely contained.