Mittman, Stephanie (21 page)

Fussing
from a wet diaper, Ben awoke and managed to disturb Mary Grace at the same
time. Her body glowed with a thin sheen of sweat, and as she sat up, the sun
danced off her breasts and her hair.

"Take
a quick dip," Sloan said when she reached for the crying baby. "I'll
see to Ben."

She
slid into the water, and he looked again at the little green garment crushed in
his hand. He tossed it into his own pile of clothes and then turned to Ben.

"Well,
what do you make of that?" he asked the baby as he undid his diaper and
lifted him out of the makeshift cradle. The baby grabbed a handful of his hair
in answer and yanked it hard.

"Hey,"
Sloan chided the boy on their way to the water. "You know what we do to
bad little boys? We
give them a good soaking, that's what we do. Water 'em till they grow."

He
slid into the water, the baby held in one arm, and made his way over to Mary
Grace. She was nervously rinsing her hair, her trembling bottom lip giving her
away.

"There's
nothin' to fret over," he told her. "I didn't leave my seed, if
that's what's got you doing your eyewater dance."

"I'm
not gonna cry," Mary Grace corrected, wiping a stray tear and trying to
smile.

"Course
not," Sloan replied, handing the baby
to her and diving into the water. He
touched her ankles, then her knees, and let his hand run up her buttocks as he
came to stand behind her and the baby. She looked properly shocked, despite the
pleasure she couldn't hide.

"Sloan?
Whatever else happens," she said, her voice low and tears glistening in
her eyes, "I want to thank you. I..."

He
put his finger
to
her lips to silence her. He was a man again. He'd satisfied a woman, a
frightened, timid woman at that. It wasn't the way it used to be, but he felt
damn good. "Thank you."

There
was that shy smile again, the high color on her cheeks. Damned if she wasn't
the shiest of women. It was hard to believe she was the same woman who had just
been panting and squealing with pleasure on his bucking bronco.

"That
thing you were wearin' underneath everything?" he asked, trying to ease
her shame. "That got a name?"

"My
panties? Is that what you mean?" He nodded, taking the baby back from her,
letting his arm brush against the wet, slick skin of her breast. He
couldn't help
but smile when her cheeks turned pink at his touch. Hell, she'd just rode him
and now a little touch had her coloring with embarrassment.

She
submerged and came back up, her hair glistening, her eyes shining brightly like
a woman who'd been made love to good and proper.

"What's
El Salvador?" he asked her.

"The
country? What are you talking about?"

Her
breasts floated on the surface of the pond, and she kept bending her knees to
hide them. Each time she did, he took another small step toward the shallow
end, and as she neared him and the baby her breasts would come to the surface
once again.

"Where'd
you get them... panties?" he asked, uncomfortable with the word. It was
almost like talking about a woman's time, or something.

She
shrugged. "I don't know, probably some discount store—Ross's,
Marshall's.... What is this all about? How come you're so interested in my
panties all of a sudden?"

"I'm
not just interested in your..." He reached through the water and touched
her intimately. "I like what you keep in them panties, Sweet Mary. Now how
could they get them... you knows... to Arizona from El Salvador? And how could
El Salvador know how to make something we can't make here in the greatest
country in the world? They ain't making 'em here, they ain't wearing 'em here,
'cept you, of course. I think they don't really exist here, do they?"

She
shook her head. "Not yet, anyway."

"Well,
I'll be matin' jackalopes and sellin' their skins! Did you do it on purpose?
Are there more of you? Can you prove it?"

She
smiled, that smile that made the day brighter, lit up the night, lightened his
heart.

"I
fell. That's all I did to get here. I don't know if there are other people who
did it. People disappear everyday. We guess they're lost, or murdered, or
kidnapped. Sometimes they're found."

"And
that's what you do? Back there in 1990 something? You go searching for all them
missing folks? Kinda like a bounty hunter?"

"No,"
she said. Her eyes clouded over with a sadness that made him sorry he'd asked.
"Only children. I go looking for children."

Her
fingers were shriveling from the water. She suggested they get out and dry off,
and Sloan agreed. Since the previous night Ben had dirtied a few diapers, and
Sloan set the sleeping baby down and went up to get them, knowing her eyes were
following his naked body. Damn the scars, he thought, reaching for his long
underwear. Returning, he leaned against a boulder to dress, but her hands
stopped him.

"I'd
rather we dried off before we put on our clothes, wouldn't you?" she
asked. In her voice was a coyness he'd never heard before.

And
then, while he simply stared, she knelt before him and kissed the two scars on
his rib cage, then sank to her knees. She looked up at him, and he touched her
chin. Dipping her head, she kissed his palm and then went back to examining his
scars, first with her fingers and then with her lips.

She
followed the trail lower and lower until only one raw scar remained between his
abdomen and his mangled knee. Why he wasn't aroused, he'd never understand,
except maybe he was just too scared of what she might do, too embarrassed about
what she was seeing.

Gently
she touched the soft sack that hung behind his manhood, her finger tracing the
scar line where the best of the Havasupai shamans, A'mal, had cut him
open and
removed the bullet meant to end his life as a man. A'mal had sucked out the bad
spirit from within the wound, and when Sloan had recovered sufficiently, A'mal
had suggested testing his work.

Sloan
flinched, remembering the shame of being watched by others who shared the
wickiup while A'mal instructed and encouraged him.

"Does
it hurt?" came the small voice beneath him.

He
sucked in his breath. "Only the memories," he admitted.

"I
should stop," she said quietly, but she didn't stand.

He
couldn't imagine the courage it had to be taking for her to be so forward with
him. She was trembling so much that he thought she might fall over if he even
moved. He wanted to tell her not to stop, but that was for his sake, and he
couldn't bring himself to make her suffer further humiliation for him. Silently
he stood stock-still while she lowered her lips to his scar and kissed it so
gently that had he not been watching, he might not have been sure of what she
had done.

"We'd
better get going," she said, looking up at him from her knees. "The
Tates won't settle for just wounding you next time, will they?"

He
thought of what would happen to Mary Grace if Wilson or Mason Tate ever got his
hands on her. For the first time since he had woken up with the Havasupai and
seen his wounds festering, he felt overwhelmingly nauseous.

"You're
one wanton woman,
Mary Grace O'Reilly," Sloan said as he kicked the
horse and they moved slowly forward, Sloan leaning to see around her hair, Mary
Grace bending into the baby and calming him.

"Hey,
you were the one who suggested
I ride up front," she said.

"I
thought that poor little excuse for a fanny needed a little cushioning,"
he said, rubbing her bottom gently with his left hand while guiding the horse
with his right. Beneath her soft bottom, Sloan had already begun to grow hard.
It was difficult to keep his mind on his plan. And his plan depended on perfect
timing and constant alertness. There would be no outrunning the Tates should
the boys ever catch sight of them. He had to leave enough of a trail for three
morons to follow, and still get Mary Grace and Ben to Jerome before they caught
up to him.

"That
looks easy," Mary Grace said, taking the reins
from Sloan's
hand. Climber, sensing the change, immediately strayed from the path and began
nibbling at some greenery that had the fortitude to poke through the sandy
soil.

"Like
this," Sloan instructed, putting his hand over hers and showing the horse
who was boss. Climber responded at once and returned to his slow pace, always
seeking higher and higher ground.

"He's
a nice horse," Mary Grace admitted. "But he doesn't seem to think
much of me as a rider. Lucky thing I don't have to depend on him myself."

"Don't
knock 'em, Sweet Mary. Never forget—a man's horse is his lifeline in the
desert. Take his horse, might as well just kill him on the spot, instead of
lettin' him die slow."

He
was merely thinking aloud, but her breathing changed, and he could have cursed
himself for scaring her. There'd been no sign of the Tates, or anyone else,
since the flood. So what if the hackles on the back of his neck were beginning
to twitch. That didn't mean anything.

After
all, they weren't all that far from Jerome anymore. Another day or two of hard
riding, and Mary Grace and the baby would be safe. There was no reason for him
to be getting those damn centipedes up the spine, and no excuse for scaring
Sweet Mary.

"Why
are you stopping?" Mary Grace asked when he brought Climber to a halt and
turned to look behind them. Why
was
he stopping? For as far as he could
see, across the flatlands, up into the mountains, nothing seemed amiss. Wary
eyes looked into his, and he searched for words that would calm the woman in
his arms.

"Leg's
fallin' asleep," he lied. "Could do with a little stretch."

Her
eyebrows came down as if she didn't quite believe what he said, but she nodded
and let him help her off Climber's back without argument.

Once
Mary Grace had been lowered to the ground, he handed her the baby and swung off
the horse,
as
well. As long as they were tempting fate with a stopover, they might as well
make use of the time and fill their bellies. He was riffling through his
saddlebags, looking for something that didn't require cooking, when he heard
Mary Grace singing to Ben.

She'd
sung to the boy before. Sometimes the songs were ones Sloan remembered his own
mother singing to him as a small child. Sometimes they were just pretty
melodies he was sure he'd never heard. This time it was a song full of strange
words and sounds, all about something called a bus. It was a city song, all
about the noises a bus would make.

When
she began a new stanza with "The wipers on the bus go swish, swish,
swish," he stopped her. He'd never seen a bus, never seen a wiper,
whatever that was.

"What's
it like, where you're from?" he asked, handing her a slice of prickly pear
and fixing one for Ben.

He
was keeping one eye on the horizon at all times, but he stole a glance at Mary
Grace, only to see her smile wistfully.

"You
mean
when
I'm from? It's so different I can't begin to tell you. There
are cars that can go a hundred miles an hour—more, even. There are airplanes
that can fly you around the world in less than
a day. Telephones—you have
telephones now, don't you?" she asked, pausing.

He
nodded. "They got 'em in the bigger cities. Once I was gonna try one in
Denver, but there was no one there to call."

"Why
didn't you call some other city?" she asked.

"Don't
know no one in another city. Denver's as far as I've ever gone. It's always
been far enough."

"Well,
telephones are everywhere, and there are machines that you can leave messages
on, and you can send letters through them—"

"Like
telegraphs?"

"No.
You put the paper in where you are and an exact copy comes out where you want
to send it."

He
smiled at her. Just how much of this did she think he'd believe?

"And
there's television! When we have time, I want to tell you all about that. And
computers, and—"

"Is
anything the same?" he asked.

A
grin split her face, and she patted Ben's head while he happily devoured another
piece of the cactus fruit. "Men and women still fall in love, although, to
be honest, so do men and men and women and women...."

"Then
nothing's changed," he laughed, "unless you mean that it ain't a
secret anymore."

"They've
come out of the closet," she answered, confusing him. "Anyway, men
and women still get married and have babies, although not always in that order,
and some are single parents...."

He
looked at her dubiously, and she amended her statement.

"Single
in that they don't marry the child's other parent. It still takes two—of
different sexes—" She paused and her eyebrows knit together. "Do you
believe me?"