Mittman, Stephanie (34 page)

Mason
stood up and took Mary Grace's arm. "Wilson, you watch the baby, I gotta
talk to Miss O'Reilly alone."

Wilson
looked at Horace. Then he opened and closed his hand slowly, testing it for
pain and wincing. "I got my own problems. You watch him, Harlin."

In
her room, Mason held her by her arms and looked down at her face. "I
didn't want to say this in front of Wilson, but this is the way I got it
figured. I seen you with the kid. The way you love that boy is what made me
want you for my wife. A mama ought to feel the way
you do. So if I
keep the kid here, you'll be back, no matter how you feel about me."

She
opened her mouth, but he shook his head, silencing her.

"I
ain't got no dumb hopes that you love me, or nothin', so don't go sayin' what
ain't so. You're willin' to let me under your skirts and you'll carry my seed,
and that's enough. I ain't no prize, so I'll take what I can get. You're better
than I thought I'd wind up with, but that ain't here nor there."

"Mason,
I..." she began.

"No.
I don't deserve no love or affection from ya, and I ain't askin' for it. Now as
to me takin' you myself, I wouldn't mind, but you can see how it is with the
boys. Wilson don't give no mind if that kid joins his mama or not, and
Harlin... Well, ya seen Harlin yourself. He ain't got the brains of a pissant.
If ya want, I will, but leavin' him with Horace..."

She
nodded. If one of them had to be in jeopardy, Mason was right that she'd choose
herself instead of the baby.

"Ya
gonna pick out your weddin' dress while you're in town?" he asked. "I
don't think so."

"Remember
this, Mary Grace. If you're trickin' me, you're gonna get what you
deserve." The scar on his cheek pulsed. "Maybe you'll learn to love
me."

He
was leaning down toward her, and she knew what he expected. He tipped up her
chin and kissed her gently on the lips. His hands reached behind her, cradling
her buttocks and lifting her against him so that she could feel his hardness
pressing into her belly. His tongue pushed its way into her mouth, running
across her clenched teeth.

He
shifted her weight so that he could hold her to
him with just one hand, and with
his other he pressed on her cheek until she opened her mouth. His tongue
plunged in, nearly gagging her.

"Maybe
you won't," he said huskily. "It don't much matter."

***

Waiting
wasn't easy for a man like Sloan Westin, used to taking action and going after
what he wanted. Now, suddenly, he was not going anywhere and not sure of what
it was he wanted. He only knew what he didn't want, and that was any more of
Jennie Banter's girls. And it didn't have anything to do with his leg, or not
being any better than Daniel Jackson and his boys, or the memories he could
never recapture.

It
was one damn redheaded, small-waisted, little woman with more guts and brains
than any ten men he knew, who had willingly walked into the Tates' lair to save
a child who should have meant nothing to her. He had thought about little else
since he'd taken care of recovering his horse, his guns, and his pride. He'd
nearly managed to forget the sight of her in Mason Tate's arms, and the doubts
he might have had about her bringing Ben back to him.

He'd
almost forgotten what she felt like in his arms, what her voice sounded like
when she sang to the baby, what her body looked like wet from the pool,
glistening above him. Almost, but not quite. When he lay alone in his bed at
night, the memory of her cold behind pressed up against him came crawling back.
When he heard the raucous laughter of the saloon girls on Main Street, the
strains of her high, clear voice singing a lullaby floated by. And when he
bathed, oh, when he bathed, he could feel her hands on him and remember the
slick wetness that was a woman.

"You
gonna pass or bet, Westin?" Garner Thomas asked. "I ain't never seen
someone so lucky at cards and so unawares he was playin' 'em."

Sloan
looked at his hand. A pair of queens and a pair of deuces. He bet and took one
card.

"So,
Westin," a gambler with a fancy pipe full of tobacco said. "Heard
from Fannie last night that you had quite a day. Seems you organized a parade
down Main Street complete with ribbons. That right?"

Three
queens. The stake the miner had left him was growing beyond his wildest
expectations.

"Guess
so," he said.

"Fannie
said you got yourself a kid, too." The man with the pipe looked at his
cards and tried to read Sloan's face.

"Could
be."

"Everyone
thought he was dead, you know," Garner Thomas told the gambler.

"Maybe
that's why he's having so much luck," the gambler said, throwing another
chip in the pot.

"How
do you figure?" Thomas asked.

"Well,
way I see it, we got the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!"

The
men at the table kicked back and roared with laughter, Sloan included. His full
house was a low blow, which he softened with drinks for everyone. They sat
cordially around the table for the better part of the afternoon, oblivious to
the rumblings beneath them of the mining blasts, unmindful of the transactions
that went on in the assayer's office, unaware of Mary Grace O'Reilly as she
asked around town for a man in a full beard and long blond hair whom nobody had
seen.

The
pile of chips in front of Sloan grew steadily until the gambler pushed back
from the table and pulled out a pocket watch from his vest.
"Four-thirty." He sighed. "Down
a lot of money for only
four-thirty in the afternoon."

Sloan
eyed the watch. He really had to send a telegram to his father. And he had some
thoughts on how to spend some of the money he'd just made, too. Promising the
men a chance to win back some of their money another time, he bade them good
day and headed out of the saloon. When he reached the door, he turned and
pulled out a few silver dollars, tossing them to the bartender.

"Drinks
on me," he said to a shout of approval. There were some things about his
old life worth reclaiming.

This
time, the wire to his father took but a moment, his thoughts clearer than they
had been at his last attempt. Then he headed for the mercantile, visions of
Mary Grace in something clean and pretty sashaying before his eyes. The shop
was full of useful, sturdy goods that didn't interest Sloan at all. He wanted
something frilly, and he stepped up to the counter and told the clerk so.

"I
need something special, for a lady. She's about yea tall." His hand waved
somewhere around his shoulder. "You got anything that don't look like my
mama ought to be wearin' it?"

"Did.
Sold it earlier this afternoon." The clerk stood smiling at Sloan, waiting
to offer some other service.

"And
you ain't got nothing else?"

"Oh,
sure. Just that one really did fit your need, I think. Good for an occasion.
Lady who bought it asked for a wedding dress. Pretty redheaded girl. Tried to
convince her to get a hat to go with it to keep from frecklin' so, but she
wasn't interested."

"Another
dress? Have you got one?"

The
man put up a finger and headed for the back of
the shop. He returned carrying
two dresses Sloan thought appropriate for washday or maybe working the fields.
"This the best you got?"

"I
told you. Had just the one you wanted. Lady was in such a hurry she didn't even
wait for her change. She sure was a strange one."

"Well,
what about some pretty underthings? You got any of those?"

"Sure.
Tried to sell her a corset straight from Paris, France, but she acted like she
never saw anything like 'em." He opened a long box and pulled out
something that looked like an instrument of torture. Sloan couldn't imagine
Mary Grace in it, though he tried pretty hard.

"It
doesn't look very comfortable," Sloan said fingering the practical cotton
fabric. "Nor too pretty."

"You
know what she said?" The clerk held up the corset to his own torso, trying
to show Sloan how it might look on the body. "Said she was glad they
didn't wear 'em no more where she came from."

Sloan
felt the familiar prickles he'd begun to associate with Mary Grace. "Say
where she was from?" he asked as nonchalantly as he could.

"Somewhere
back east, I think."

"New
York?" Redheaded, freckled. The right height.

"Coulda
been. Don't rightly remember. You want this?"

Sloan
shook his head. "She was buying a dress?"

"Said
it was for a weddin'. Why you so interested in this woman?" The clerk
pulled out another box and held up plain cotton bloomers. "You just like
lookin' at women's underthings? We don't usually like to take these things out
for the menfolk."

"Did
she say anything else? Did she mention a baby, or the Tates, or..."

"Said
she was waitin' on the doc. Seemed real nervous."

"The
doctor? Why the hell did she want the doctor?" He ran his hands through
his hair. It had to have been her. He could feel it, sense it. He just knew it.
"Was she sick? Did she have a baby with her, maybe half a year old?"

"No,
sir, no baby. That I'm sure of."

"Then
Ben's all right. Thank God. Do you remember anything else she said?"

"Let
me see," the man said. "While I think, maybe you want to see
something else?" He stood waiting for Sloan to catch on.

"You
got cigars?" The clerk nodded and pulled out several trays. "I'll
take a box of these." They were narrow little cigarillos, just the kind he
used to like so much.

"Yes,
sir." He put the cigars near the register. "Anything else?"

Sloan
reached over the counter and grabbed the man's shirt. He pulled him until they
stood nose to nose, the wooden table between them. "What else did the
woman say? Did she seem ill?"

The
man stammered. "She seemed sorta nervous, lookin' over her shoulder and
the like. Oh yes. She was lookin' for someone. A man. Long blond hair and a beard,
I think. Scruffy lookin', she said."

His
mouth opened, but no words came out. At least Ben wasn't worse or she'd have
brought him. What the hell did Mary Grace O'Reilly need with a wedding dress?
Or a doctor? Only one possibility came to mind.
I'd a married her if I knew,
he'd said to Mary Grace about Emily. And now Mary Grace was seeing a doctor
and picking out a wedding dress. But where the hell was she? And where was Ben?

"Where's
the doctor's office?" The man's feet were no longer touching the floor.

It
wasn't easy for him to run, not with one bad leg and the town being on the side
of a mountain, but run he did, only to find a note on the doctor's office door:
"Back tonight."

The
doctors had said he couldn't father a child. Well, probably not, anyway. But
then they'd said he couldn't have fun trying, either, and look how wrong they'd
been.

***

"I'm
so very sorry about this," Mary Grace said after she and the doctor had
ridden out of town. "I really wanted to bring the baby to you, but, well,
that wasn't possible."

"Where
did you say your place was?" The doctor had taken over the driving of the
buckboard, much to Mary Grace's relief.

"A
little bit farther down this road." She searched the horizon for any sign
of Harlin or Wilson but saw none.

"Young
lady," the doctor said, pulling the horses to a stop, "there are no
houses out here. Now what is this all about?"

"Howdy,
Doc," Wilson Tate said, materializing from thin air. His eye was swollen
nearly closed, his jaw hung at an odd angle. He glared at Mary Grace for a
moment and then returned his attention to the doctor. "Ain't seen you in
quite a while."

"Well,
well, well. What the hell happened to you, Wilson? Somebody finally give you
yours? You've been askin' for it long enough."

Mary
Grace didn't think Wilson wanted to tell the doctor that his own brother had
beaten him to a bloody
pulp. Besides, Wilson wasn't why the doctor was here. She hurried to explain.
"It's the baby. He was bitten by a snake, and it seems to be
infected."

Harlin
came riding toward them, not very quickly, and they all turned and watched him
take his time.

"Took
you long enough," he scolded her. "Get your weddin' dress while you
was there?" He eyed the box behind her in the buckboard.

"Mason
told me to," she said very quietly, embarrassed. "I had to wait for
Dr. Woods so I went to the whatchamacallit, the mercantile."

"Well,
while you did, I went home and checked on Horace." He looked at Wilson and
his eyes watered.

"He's
worse!" Her heart beat wildly in her chest as if it wanted to escape its
prison.
No!
it thundered over and over.
No! No!

"He
ain't just worse," Harlin said. He brought some phlegm up into his mouth
and spit not inches from where Mary Grace sat. Quietly, almost without emotion,
he studied her. "He's dead."