Mittman, Stephanie (27 page)

"Mason
won't hurt me," she said quietly. "And he won't let Wilson or Harlin
touch me."

He
studied her as though they had all the time in the world. "What makes ya
think that?"

She
shrugged and gave him a half-smile. "I think he likes me."

"Likes
you? Likes you how?"

"How?"

"Yeah,
how? Like you're a sweet young girl who don't deserve to get poked by the likes
of him or like he'd like to poke ya?"

"He
didn't touch me when I was at the cabin, Sloan," she said, picking up the
baby and moving to the chair
with him. "I won't be with him long. I'll keep
him at arm's length until I escape again with the baby and meet you in
Jerome."

"How?"

"How?"

"Yeah,
how?"

Again
with the "hows." Did he think she had all the answers? She hesitated.

Sloan
warmed to the idea. "I'll get the sheriff and we'll come after you.
You
don't try anything, understand?" He found a can of condensed milk and
held it up like a prize. He punctured it with his knife and let the liquid
spill into a cup. Then he added some water from the pitcher on the table. As he
handed it to her he gestured toward Ben, as if she didn't know what he expected
her to do with milk. It didn't distract her, despite what he might have hoped.

"Are
you crazy? If you come after us, they'll shoot you. The sheriff will shoot at
them. What if Ben gets caught in the crossfire? No, you'll wait for me."
She turned the baby on her lap and helped him with the cup. He squealed loudly
with delight, and when Sloan laughed she thought maybe she'd convinced him. At
least he seemed to be considering it.

"No."

"No?"

"Absolutely
no."

"Just
a few days."

He
sighed. "You don't seem to understand the men you're dealing with, Mary
Grace. While you're waitin' to make your break, Mason could decide you ain't
telling the truth. He could kill you. He could bury his sausage in your
smokehouse."

"Bury
his..." Her cheeks warmed, but she brushed off the idea. "Mason's not
going to hurt me. Just give
me a week. If I'm not in Jerome with the baby, you
can come after us."

He
was looking at her strangely, and she dropped her eyes from his gaze. It made
her uncomfortable to be stared at so unrelentingly. And Sloan had a way of
staring that gave away none of what he was thinking.

"How
do I know you'll show up?"

He
might as well have slapped her. "I guess you don't."

He
kept staring at her, taking her measure, as if he had any choices left to him.
Her patience ran out. Did he really think that now she'd run out on him?

"Look,
you can go get shot and leave the baby and me with no chance, or you can run
and let us come to you later. It's up to you." She wished she could
honestly say she didn't care which option he chose. She wasn't that good a
liar, so she didn't try.

"I'll
get a rope," he said dully, leaving the cabin door open behind him. The
sunlight streamed in and caught all the dust that rose in his wake. Mary Grace
looked down at the baby, contentedly chasing the air with his little fists,
trails of milk running down his chin.

"Nothing's
going to happen to you," she promised the baby. And then Sloan was back,
his mouth a tight line across his face, the rope dangling limply in his hand.

"It
kills me to do this," he told her as he led her to the table and sat her
down in one of the chairs. "I feel like some sissy, slinkin' away and
leavin' a woman to face danger alone. I'd rather stand in front of that door
and guard you both with my life."

"And
get shot for your trouble. That would be real useful. Didn't anyone ever teach
you the difference between bravery and recklessness, Sloan Westin? Haven't you
ever heard that little poem: 'He who fights and runs away, lives to fight
another day'?"

"It
ain't me I'm worried about, dammit! Don't you
know yet that I'd be willin' to
do whatever it takes to make sure you and Ben are safe?"

A
shiver went through her, and she bit her lip. She would never let him risk his
own life for hers. Her mind raced for another solution, but nothing came to
her. And so she put her hands out in front of her, offering them up to him. He
turned them palms up and kissed each one. There were tears in his eyes when he
looked up at her, but there was nothing left for either of them to say.

Slowly,
reluctantly, he tied her hands in her lap, making sure she could reach the baby
if necessary, then tied her torso to the chair. To protect the baby from
hurting himself or getting into trouble, he tied him to the chair leg. Then his
head snapped up, and he went perfectly still.

In
the far distance they could hear the sound of horses. He bent down over her and
brushed her lips with his own.

"You
taste so good, Sweet Mary," he said, pressing his lips more earnestly
against hers. "Even with the fear in your mouth, you taste so good. You
recall tellin' me you were eager? Remember?"

"You'd
better go," she said, the tears scratching at her eyes, making her voice
sound funny and her lip quiver. He caught the shaking lip between his own and
bit it lightly.

"Tell
me you remember the feelin', and I'll go," he insisted, waiting as if he
had all the time in the world while the horses' hooves became louder and
louder.

"I
remember," she said, feeling her cheeks color at the memory.

"I
can see you do." He laughed. And then his face went serious. "I won't
be far. Scream your bloody head off so they don't try to shoot into the cabin.
If they try
to hurt you, scream my name and I'll be back. You understand?"

"They
aren't going to hurt me. You've got to get as far away as you can. Don't hang
around here!"

"Are
you eager now, Sweet Mary? Was I right about fear bein' an aphrodisiac?"
His hand trailed down her neck and brushed her nipple underneath her thin
blouse. It stiffened at his touch.

"One
week," he warned. "One week, or I'm comin' after you both. And I
promise you, Sweet, Sweet Mary, we are all gonna be together and safe before
Ben cuts that new tooth of his."

He
kissed her soundly on the lips, his tongue invading the warmth of her mouth,
and then straightened.

"Count
to five, Sweet Mary, and then scream like
hell."

When
he opened the front door, the horses' hoof-beats were filling the canyon,
bouncing off the mountains. She could feel the vibrations within her, her heart
beating as fast and hard as the horses' steps, thundering in her ears, racing
in her blood.

She
screamed and screamed, yelling for Mason. The baby caught her fever and began
to wail as loudly as she, and it was a comfort to hear herself and the child
and not the horses nor any gunshots that might have echoed in the canyon. By
the time the door burst open, she was hoarse and exhausted and hardly coherent.

Even
Mary Grace herself
couldn't tell how much of her confusion was acting
and how much was pure fear and fatigue. Wilson had slit her ropes easily,
Harlin had grabbed up the baby, and Mason was trying to get her to take some
water from the canteen he offered.

"I
went to the creek," she kept repeating, trying to convince them that she
hadn't been running away and trying to steal Emily's baby herself. "And he
was there. He grabbed the baby and I shouted for you, but he put his hand over
my mouth and then there was this thing in my mouth...."

Mason
nodded, the deep scar on his cheek pulsing just inches from her face. "We
found the handkerchief a ways back. How long has he been gone?"

They
hadn't gone over that. How long would be believable? How long would be too long
to go after him with her and the baby?

"I
don't know," she hedged. "I'm so confused. I
don't know how
long I've been gone. One day ran into the next. He hardly let me sleep."

Mason
had risen to look around the room, and now he turned sharply away from whatever
it was he was looking for and stared at her. Harlin giggled, and Wilson smacked
him on the side of his head.

"What
do you mean—he wouldn't let you sleep?" Mason was staring at her chest and
she looked down. The fabric was wearing away from being worn day and night
through storm and sand. She thought he might be able to see right through it,
and crossed her arms over her breasts.

"We
walked. That is, he rode and I walked. If I angered him, he made me walk behind
the horse." She wasn't sure she was convincing them. She lifted her skirt
to reveal the scrape on her knee from that day by the pool. "Once I fell,
but he made me get up and keep going."

"I'm
goin' after him," Harlin announced, heading for the door.

"You
can't," Mary Grace said. "Because of Horace. That's why he left us.
Horace got bitten by a coral snake. See there on his thigh? That was last
night. For some reason the man didn't want to kill him by moving him and he
didn't want to stay still and let you catch up to him, so he left."

"Westin!"
Wilson said. "Why else would he take the kid, and then care whether he
lived or died?"

Mason
shrugged. "This man—can you describe him?"

Mary
Grace nodded. "He was tall. Very tall. Of course, I'm pretty tall, but he
was taller. Much taller."

"Yeah,
yeah," Harlin said impatiently. "He was tall. He got blondish hair?
All short and fancy lookin' like he just came from some barber shop?"

She
thought of the mess that grew from Sloan Westin's
head. His hair flowed past his
shoulders and he had a full beard and a mustache. She told them so.

Wilson
suggested that he might have let it grow, and this was greeted with serious consideration.

"Did
he say his name?" Mason asked.

They
certainly hadn't planned out her answers very well. "Is Horace all
right?" she said, changing the subject. "I tried to keep him upright
so that the poison wouldn't get to his heart, and the man made those cuts and
sucked on his leg, but then he started to run a fever...."

Horace
handed the boy to Mason, who looked him over. He pressed on the incision and
the baby cried out. "Looks a little swollen," he said. "Might be
infected."

"Let
me see," Mary Grace said when she realized she hadn't checked the wounds
in hours. They'd been living in the dirt, sleeping in it, resting in it,
rolling in it. She'd been so concerned with the snake's venom, she hadn't even
thought about the cuts themselves. How she had failed to consider the
possibility of infection, she didn't know. The two straight lines were
surrounded by very reddened skin that puffed around the cuts, making them
appear indented.

"We're
going to have to clean it," she told Mason, who nodded and looked around
the miner's cabin. The two bottles of whiskey he found were empty, and he
cursed under his breath and went outside to his saddlebags.

While
he was gone, Mary Grace looked around for some clean cloth to wrap the baby's
leg in. Her own clothing was beyond use, and the Tate boys' didn't look a lot
better. Then she remembered the miner's wash hanging on the line. Harlin went
to get it while she gently rocked the baby in her arms, crooning to him that
everything would be all right.

They
poured the whiskey onto the two cuts, and when Ben didn't cry, Mary Grace knew
they would
have to pick open the scabs to drain the pus and let the alcohol get at the
infection. She gagged at the thought, and Mason sat her down on the bed and
poured her a shot of the whiskey.

"Drink
it," he ordered, handing her the dirty cup.

"I
don't drink," she said.

"You
do now," Mason replied.
"I got enough on my hands without you fainting.
If you'd taken proper care of the kid to begin with..."

Through
the open door of the cabin, she heard the sounds of Harlin's raised voice.
Clearly, he was arguing with someone not very far away. There was only one
person Mary Grace thought that could be. Without even realizing it, she gulped
the liquor she was holding. It burned the roof of her mouth, her tongue, and
all the way down her throat to her stomach. It was like swallowing a burning
match that ignited her insides until she thought she would explode.

Wilson
drew his gun and smashed the window with it, peering outside and yelling,
"What's your damn problem, Harlin?"

"Man
doesn't like sharin' his things," Harlin answered back.

"We
ain't sharin' 'em," Wilson said, smiling and baring his two gold teeth.
"We're takin' 'em."

"Oh,
that should clear it up," Mason said. "Bring 'im in here."

An
old man nearly fell into the small cabin, now grossly overcrowded with Mary
Grace, the baby, the Tates, and the cabin's owner. Behind him strode Harlin,
looking incongruous, his little-boy face ringed with blond curls, his gun
trained on the old man.