Mittman, Stephanie (7 page)

"The
idea was for me to grab the kid, but when you opened your pretty little mouth
and started screamin', I saw I really didn't have no choice."

He
shook his head and then shrugged, shooing a fly away from Mary Grace's face at
the same time. At the mention of the baby, she was all attention. So it was her
little Patrick the man was after, and not her. Well, it was a good thing she'd
screamed, then. And she wasn't sorry about the biting and clawing, either. She
would never give up that sweet child without a fight. If she was willing to
steal him away from his blood relatives, she wasn't about to turn him over to
some Roy Rogers wannabe.

"Leastwise,
I got the baby," he said, and Mary Grace wriggled herself around to stare
at him through narrowed eyes. A dirty blond beard covered most of his
face, but
through it she could see a row of shiny white teeth. He was smiling, the idiot,
as though he didn't have a care in the world.

"So
you belong to one of those Tate boys, do you? Or just watching the baby? Not
that it matters to me, mind ya. I'm just curious." He talked in a voice
just above a whisper, a soft voice that would calm a child or an animal but
which was driving Mary Grace crazy. How could he be having a normal
conversation at a time like this? The man had to be insane.

He
went on amiably, as if it were the most normal of situations. "Mason, I
think he's the most nearly human, though that might be stretching it a bit. And
he didn't seem all that cozy with you at the river yesterday. Harlin, now, he's
just crazy. Been crazy since... well, since always, near as I can recall. But I
don't know that he's crazy enough to let you go down by the river alone with
Wilson. Which brings us to Wilson, who's just plain mean. Meaner than a
grizzly."

It
was hard for Mary Grace to get a really good look at the man riding behind her.
It was hard for her to get a good look at anything but the horse's underbelly,
a fancy rifle with a hunting dog carved in silver near the trigger, and the
parched road as it passed beneath them, filling her nostrils with dust. No
place in the world was as dry as Arizona, and when she finally got Benjamin and
returned home she was going to spend a week in a cool tub with one tall drink
after another. After what she was being put through, she'd have earned it, she
thought.

Twisting
around, she tried to get more than just a glimpse of her abductor. He was
bigger than the horse, if that were possible. Maybe it was just the angle that
made him appear so large and fearsome. Or maybe it was the stark contrast of
the smallness of the child
pressed against his chest in the makeshift sling.
The man was staring at his hand again, opening it and then clenching it into a
fist as though he were testing it. For heaven's sake, she thought. It was just
a small bite. It wasn't as though she were rabid. She hoped it hurt him as much
as this ride was hurting her.

"I
guess you could hold your own with old Wilson, after all." He laughed,
putting his hand in his mouth and sucking on it.
Good,
she thought.
I
hope it hurts like hell.

At
least with his hand in his mouth he was quiet for a while. Only the horse's
feet made any noise as they rode on, higher and higher, the animal more
mountain goat than horse. The baby was sleeping against the man's chest, and
Mary Grace O'Reilly was waiting to see what would happen next.

The
rocking motion of the horse was lulling her into a dazed trance when the man
spoke again, startling her.

"You
got a name?" he asked. The effort of turning to look at what kind of idiot
would ask a question like that seemed too great. She stayed where she was.

"Want
me to guess? I'd bet from that red hair and that pretty little way you had of
screaming at me that it's Colleen. I think that means pretty girl in Irish,
don't it? Yup, Colleen is my guess."

He
paused for some reaction from her, but she gave him none. What way of
screaming? She'd hardly gotten a word out before he'd clamped his hand over her
mouth and shut her up. And she didn't care how many of her relatives had said
it. She didn't sound anything like her mother when she was angry.

"No?
Not Colleen? Then how 'bout Mary something? Mary Margaret? Mary Ann? Mary
Francis? You Irish always have more than one name."

She
grimaced, as much from the pain as from listening
to the stranger who straddled
the horse behind her. Her skin tingled where the firmness of his thighs rubbed
against her side, despite the layers of clothing she wore. The gentle resting
of his rein hand against her buttocks was an added indignity. If it weren't for
his incessant chatter distracting her, she thought she might have gone mad.

"Well,
if it ain't Mary something, it's something Mary, right? Close enough. So, Mary
love, which Tate is it?"

She
wrenched herself sideways and probably would have fallen right off the horse if
he hadn't pulled her firmly against him. She had a choice: the saddle pommel,
or the inside of his thighs and what lay between them. Talk about being caught
between a rock and a hard place. If she hadn't been so frightened about what
their captor had in mind for her and the baby, she might have found the thought
amusing.

"Whoa
there," he ordered, and she was unsure whether he was directing his
command to his horse or to her. He secured her squirming form, tucking the
skirt she had borrowed from Emily beneath his leg to hold her in place.

"Don't
like talking about the Tates, then?" he asked, and gave the horse a kick.
"Damn slow going with all this weight." Well, she certainly hadn't
asked to come along. The first ripples of anger began building within her,
replacing the fear and giving her strength.

"Can't
say as I blame you. I loved a Tate myself once, and all it got me was a bum
leg."

He
paused a moment, and Mary Grace treasured the silence. She had noticed his leg
was stuck out at an odd angle for a rider. She had a good view of it, thrown
over the saddle the way she was. It was ramrod straight, as though he were a
Christmas nutcracker with no knee, at all.

"A
bum leg and my son," he added.

Mary
Grace stiffened. So that was it. He was the father Emily and her brothers had
talked about. The
dead
father. Then presumably he at least meant the
baby no harm. As for her, well, that remained to be seen.

She
was pressed up against the saddle horn, finding it impossible to relax her body
enough to ease her aching hip off the protrusion. Her captor's hands moved her
like a rag doll once again, making her only slightly less uncomfortable. How
long had they been riding? The sun hadn't moved more than a millimeter in the
sky. It was still morning. It felt like she'd been in this position for hours.
Days. Forever.

The
baby stirred, probably aroused by the change in position. She felt the horse
come to a halt, despite the fact that the man had not directed it to. She
refused to look behind her.

"Damn,"
he muttered, shifting in the saddle.
"I don't know what I musta been
thinkin'. Guess I can't put this off forever, can I, Mary love? Or should I
call you 'something Mary'? Sweet Mary? How would that be?"

He
put his hand on Mary Grace's bottom, squeezing gently. She stiffened with fear.

"I'm
real sorry to do this," he admitted, and she held her breath.
"Especially not even knowing your name, or nothin', but I'm afraid I've
got no choice. I don't suppose waiting would make it any easier."

He
ran his hand slowly down her hip and followed the line of her thigh. This was
ridiculous. He couldn't. Not with a baby strapped to his chest, on a horse, out
in the open.... He reached her ankle and pulled up slightly on her skirts. Oh,
dear God! He intended to! The bravado which had stood her in such good stead
over the last week broke as the cool air tickled her skin and sent shivers up
her legs.
Hail Mary, full of Grace,
she prayed.
I know it's been a long
time.
She could feel his warm hand on her bare leg and her breath caught in
her throat.
No. No. No!

His
hand inched higher, burning a path upward until it stopped suddenly and she
heard the fabric ripping beneath his hands. All those years at St. Andrew's
School and the words wouldn't come to her. Nothing came to her except the
memory of nights in the dark and groping hands.
Hail Mary, full of Grace...
Hail Mary... Oh dear God!

She
twisted around and stared at him in horror, tears threatening in her eyes. The
son of a bitch looked at her and shook his head pityingly. She couldn't believe
it. Quickly she turned away, looked back at the ground, not wanting to give him
the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She could feel him still fumbling behind
her and pictured what he was doing. Just like the last time, she had to imagine
and suppose in the dark. Yes, her knowledge of men and women was limited, but
he'd have to get her off the horse, put down the baby....

She
was trembling all over. Even the horse was aware of it as he stomped his feet
impatiently. Well, he'd have to untie her to get at her, and then she could
defend herself. She could run. She felt incredibly stupid and vulnerable. Where
could she run? With what could she defend herself? The man and his horse were
in their element, obviously. And she was at their mercy.

"Now
there, Sweet Mary, it's just a petticoat. Nothing to cry over. I'd offer to buy
you another, but I'm sure we won't be together all that long. Besides, seems to
me it isn't even yours, is it? Didn't wait long before layin' claim to
everything she had, did ya?"

A
soiled diaper fell to the ground with a thud, its ammonia fumes rising up
toward her and making her gag. Relief warmed her body and she sagged against
the horse,
surprised to find that she had been as rigid as a corpse.

"Lucky
thing we brought along Sweet Mary, huh son? Sweet Mary and her supply of these
rags. Looks like providence and your mama's gonna provide just fine for
you."

The
baby, oblivious to all but his own comforts, made the usual baby noises. His
gurgling reassured Mary Grace that the experience hadn't harmed him any, so
far. For a fleeting moment, it occurred to her to warn their captor what would
inevitably happen now that the crisp April air was hitting the baby's little
acorn. But a string of curses told her it was too late, even if she'd been
willing to alert him. Or able.

"Shit!"
the man yelled out, trying to aim the child away from him, spraying her still
bared leg in the process, dampening her satisfaction only slightly.

"What
are you doing, you little..."

Mary
Grace felt the shaking before she could recognize its origin. The horse pranced
nervously beneath them, and the baby stopped the jabbering he had begun.

Dear
God, if he hurts that child, I'll rip his putrid eyes out of their sockets and
shove them down his bloody throat!
And then she heard it, quiet at first,
and growing louder till it filled the valley around them. He was actually
laughing, a belly laugh that shook against her, nudging her sore side against
the saddle horn.

"Well,
I've gone and produced a goddamn water fountain, haven't I? Don't feel bad,
kid. Same thing happens to your old man when the cold air hits his privates,
too. Good to know we've got something in common, already."

Then
Mary Grace felt the baby resting on her back, and grimaced. Nice of him to
think of her as a piece of furniture. So she was to provide the diapers and the
changing table both, apparently.

"OK,
son. I admit I don't have no notion how to put this on you proper, so this'll
have to do. Try to go back to sleep and I'll wake you up when there's somethin'
for you to eat."

Miraculously,
the baby complied, and they rode on for a while in silence, Mary Grace trying
to think despite the overwhelming nausea that being carried in this position
produced. What she wouldn't give to sit upright for five minutes!

"Sweet
Mary? You asleep?" The voice was quiet, nearly tender.

She
pretended she was in hopes that he would stop his talking, but he shook her
gently, instead.

"Miss?
I figure I can let you go as soon as we get near that clump of trees. We're
well out of the canyon and I can make better speed now without your extra
weight. If you start heading back now, you can reach the place where I found
you before dark. I figure whichever one of the Tates it is you're attached to
will be out looking for you and you won't have to go all that far on foot. I
really am powerful sorry to have had to drag you along like this, but I can't
see as how you left me much choice."

Now
he was going to leave them here? What was the point of that? Unless he meant to
leave just her and take the child. Well, if that was what he meant, he'd have
to think again, wouldn't he? She was not about to let him go off with her baby.
Not little Paddy.

"Now,
you can make this hard, or easy," he told her as they neared the bushes.
"I'm gonna put you down and untie your hands. I figure you can do the
rest."

He
lowered her off the horse and tried to set her on her feet, all without getting
out of the saddle. She fell in a heap like a rag doll, the dust of the road
rising around her in a puff. She scrambled about trying to right herself,
aware of how
close the horse's hooves stood ready to stomp her beneath them.