Mittman, Stephanie (9 page)

"I
gotta go," he said, deciding he'd just have to do without the petticoat.
He took one last look at the woman. She was shaking her head, looking
frantically around. Suddenly she turned away from him, and he could hear her
heaving. He felt the bile rise in his own throat at the sound and stood by
helplessly until she finished.

"Here,"
he said, handing her the canteen. "Rinse your mouth."

The
woman took the canteen, but her hand shook so badly that Sloan had to help
guide the container to her mouth. She drank and then spat.

"Now,
I really gotta go, Sweet Mary. Just tell Mason the truth. It'll be all
right."

She
grabbed onto his sleeve, and he turned to her, cursing his stupidity for ever
bringing her along. He should have just tied her up and left her there. He'd
have gone twice as fast without her on the horse with him, and he wouldn't be
standing here now, knowing the Tates were on the way, and unable to leave her
on her own.

"The
truth?" she said. "The truth is that it can't be 1894. That's a
hundred years ago. I can't be here. I have a job, an apartment, a car with a
phone in it. It can't be 1894. It can't."

Sloan
thought about the first time he had seen the woman. He'd been watching the
river carefully and suddenly she was there, out of nowhere. A nagging suspicion
crept slowly up his spine. Impossible. A year with the Havasupai and he was
believing in their legends. She simply had to be confused. She couldn't be from
1994. That was ridiculous.

He
felt the woman's forehead. She didn't have a fever, wasn't delirious. The baby
was fidgeting, no doubt hungry, and he knew he had to get a move on.

"I've
got to leave you, now, Sweet Mary. I've got to go." Still she held on to
his shirt. He tried to take a step toward his horse, and she took one, too.

"You
can't come along, Sweet Mary, and I ain't got time..."

"Then
are you going to waste it arguing?" she asked as if she'd suddenly come to
her senses.

"No,"
he said. "You can't come." He set her away from him, but when he got
to the horse, she was there.

"They're
murderers. Are you really going to leave me to murderers? And you need me,
anyway. You don't know the first thing about taking care of a baby."

She
put her foot gently on the instep of his good leg. It threw him off balance and
he leaned against her for a
moment. For all her thinness, she was softer than
he'd expected. She snatched the baby out of the sling and hugged him to her
body.

"You
need me," she repeated, reaching out and pushing him softly. He nearly fell,
but caught himself against the horse, who shied away. If she hadn't got off his
foot and grabbed his arm, he'd have fallen, and she knew it. What a sorry
excuse for a man he'd turned out to be. Before Emily Tate there weren't ten men
in the whole damn territory that would have dared push him, let alone a woman.
Now some little wisp of a thing could knock him off his feet. But need her?

"Damn
you! Don't you know better than to anger a gimp?" He pulled away from her
and grabbed the horse's reins.

"And
I'll be riding upright this time," she informed him with that slight Irish
lilt to her voice. She left her hand on his arm; with the other, she cradled
his child.

He
debated the idea in his head for just a moment, and then he put his left foot
into the stirrup and hauled his stiff right leg around with a low curse.

"Hand
me up the kid." She moved closer to the horse but then hesitated. She held
his son protectively, as if she could shield him from the elements with her
arms, alone.

"You
can't get up here with the babe in your arms, now can you?" He raised his
eyebrows.

"And
if I hand little Paddy up to you, what's to say you won't just ride off with
him in your arms and leave me here?"

"Little
Paddy? I thought you said his name was Horace," Sloan responded, thoroughly
confused.

"I
couldn't stand it, either," she admitted, a girlish giggle escaping with
the admission.

"Well,
if you don't hurry up onto this horse, all three
of our names'll be followed by
'Rest in Peace,' honey. Let's go."

The
sound of horses' hooves echoed against the mountains surrounding them. Sloan
reached down, grabbed the baby, and tucked him back against his chest. The
woman stared intently at him, daring him to go back on his word.

Reluctantly,
his hand went down and clasped hers. In one easy stroke she was seated behind
him.

"You
weren't kidding, were you?" she asked. "About it being 1894?"

He
shook his head. The land bridge had been right near where he had lain in wait.
What was it the Indians called it? The Bridge to Somewhere Else?

"It's
1894, Sweet Mary," he said.

"My
name is Mary Grace O'Reilly," she corrected. He liked Sweet Mary better.

"Sloan
Westin," he replied, as if they were introducing themselves at some church
social.

The
clatter of hooves grew louder still.

"If
we can hear them..." Mary Grace warned in Sloan's ear.

"Shit,"
he replied.

***

"Will
you be able to keep him quiet?" Sloan whispered in the darkness.

Mary
Grace nodded, then realized he couldn't see her, and made a tiny affirmative
noise. Fear sent goose-bumps up and down her arms, and if she hadn't had the
baby to cling to, she might have hugged herself until she broke in two.

She
felt Sloan's arm go around her, guiding her against his warmth. "You're
shivering." He ran his hand up and down her arm, trying to warm her. "Put
your hand in
here," he said, taking one of her hands and putting it inside his shirt.

Tentatively,
she unclenched her fist and rested the palm of her cold hand against the coarse
hair of Sloan's chest. The heat of his body warmed her hand's chill.

They
could see nothing in the darkness of the tiny room, hidden in the bowels of the
Indian ruins, all dry and cold and so very empty. Mary Grace had followed Sloan
down the ladder at the last moment, not wanting to be hidden in the dark kiva
any longer than necessary. Hundreds of years ago this had been an Indian sacred
place, used for ceremonies.

Mary
Grace could swear that the spirits still inhabited the room as she huddled on
the floor listening for human sounds. She heard instead the scurrying of some
small animal and flinched instinctively. Sloan patted her arm gently, pulling
her still closer against him.

"God,
you're stiff, woman," he said. "I'm just offering you the warmth of
my body."

He
reached across her to scoop her into him, and she felt his hand touch her naked
legs. At the contact, she jumped away like a frightened jackrabbit, banging her
head against the hard stones behind her and gasping loudly.

"No
wonder you're cold! What the hell are you doin' with your damn skirts up?"
he asked, tugging at them to no avail and tracing them until he could tell that
they were wrapped snugly around his son.

"Don't
you know how to talk?" he said through gritted teeth, barely controlling
his temper. "He's my son and I can see to his needs." He took his arm
off her shoulder. Even in the dark she could tell he was removing his shirt. He
tried to pry the baby from her arms, but she refused to let go. The baby was
nearly asleep. Jostling him now could make him cry. Besides, she
needed to keep
him pressed tightly against her to keep her pounding heart from breaking
through her chest. With a sigh, he put his shirt over her legs and leaned back
against the cold stones.

"Thank—"
Mary Grace began, but Sloan quickly put his hand over her mouth. It tasted
fairly salty as she quickly closed her lips and nodded that she understood. He
moved his arm around her and pulled her tightly to him. His body felt
remarkably warm despite the coolness of their hiding place. His other hand
moved at his side. She heard the gun slip quietly out of his holster, metal
against leather, as if it had made that trip a thousand times before.

Boots
on rock and adobe floors made a hard, cold sound that echoed off the stones
around them. In the room above them, a piece of furniture scraped against the
floor, and footsteps stopped above their heads. Mary Grace inhaled sharply.
Sloan smelled of sweat, the baby's pee, and something undefinable. It was a
sharp, pungent scent not all that unpleasant. Mary Grace burrowed deeper
against him, and his arm tightened around her protectively. The tension in his
body was overwhelming, and Mary Grace knew from the feel of his taut left leg
beside her that if he'd had two good legs he'd have been up on them. Now, it
was suddenly too late.

"Harlin,
what the hell ya doin'?" Wilson Tate hollered, the words reverberating in
the clay cavern in which Mary Grace and Sloan hid.

"Look
here," he answered, and they heard a second set of boots cross over their
heads. Once before she had huddled in the dark with a man's arms around her,
waiting for voices to pass them by and leave them alone again. This man sat as
rigidly as the other one had. This one's hand had covered her mouth, touched
her leg, just as the other one's had. She took shallow little gulps
of air,
fighting the rising panic within her. In her head, voices rang out from beyond
a closed door:
Have you seen Father Dougan? Is anyone in there?

"I
found me a lady's whatchamacallit, Wilson. Think it's whatshername's?" The
voice belonged to Harlin.

"All
that stuff looks the same to me. The only difference is the woman in it."

"Look,
Wilson, it's ripped. Do you suppose Mason's right and it coulda been Westin,
and he got up into her panties? 'Spose they did it right here on this
floor?" He stamped, and Mary Grace felt dizzy and sick to her stomach.
Sloan sat rigidly against her. "Mason'll sure be mad if she's gettin'
poked."

"Well,
if it is Westin what's got her, I'd be surprised if he could do much with her.
But if he's still alive, he mighta been willin' to poke anybody what wants
what's left of 'em. I'd guess between her looks and his remains, it wouldn'ta
been much to see."

"You
suppose she's got them freckles even where the sun don't shine?" Harlin
asked.

The
baby stretched in Mary Grace's arms and made a sucking sound. Sloan tensed, and
she felt his hand move by his side. Was that the click of the hammer being
pulled back? The baby smacked his lips again, and she pushed her knuckle
against his lips. Accepting the substitute, he rubbed his sore gums against her
finger noisily. It was the best Mary Grace could do. She just had to hope the
Tates couldn't hear through the adobe floor.

Another
set of footsteps joined the others. Mason Tate's voice filled the ancient ruins
and echoed in the musty cellar around the hidden threesome.

"From
the looks of it outside, they was here. I'd guess Sloan Westin isn't takin' off
his boots behind no pearly gates, Harlin. I found this," he said, and Mary
Grace wondered what he was showing his brothers.

"S.
W. And that's her hair, all right," Wilson agreed. She could feel Sloan
nodding in the dark.

"And
look here," Harlin said, apparently showing him the petticoat. "And
it's ripped, too."

"And
Emily not cold in her grave.
I thought you gelded him, at least, Harlin. Ain't
that what you said?"

"I
guess I shoulda aimed better when I run 'im off. If Emily hadn'ta been
screamin' so 'bout how sorry she was, I'da been sure to get 'im in the balls.
Still, I musta done him good. Ain't nobody caught 'im with their woman since I
found him between Emily's legs...."

Mary
Grace could feel the heat rising from Sloan's body, despite the fact that she
leaned away from him. His body was taut, the breathing controlled. She
shivered, but he was lost in the moment, his body rigid in the face of danger.

"What
are we gonna do now?" Harlin asked.

"We're
gonna go rescue Horace and Miss O'Reilly," Mason answered calmly.
"Then we're gonna cut off what's left of Sloan Westin's privates and feed
them to Dukeboy."

"Yeah!"
shouted Harlin, his voice covering the sound of Mary Grace's retching.
"Let's get 'em."

They
waited for the clatter of horses' hooves before Sloan threw back the trapdoor.
Light and fresh air streamed into the kiva, and Mary Grace gulped in big
breaths of it. Upstairs, Sloan cleaned out a cup with a whisk of the forgotten
petticoat and filled it with water. He handed it to Mary Grace, who took it
gratefully with both hands.

"Drink
it slowly," he warned her. "I don't know where the next drop'll be
comin' from."

Sloan
was
surprised
at how easy it was to convince Mary Grace that the safest place for them to
spend the night was in the Sinagua Indian ruins. After all, the Tates had
already been there and moved on. The poor girl must have been too tired and
confused to argue. But not too tired to mash up the green squash he had been
fortunate enough to find and to feed it to his very hungry son.