Pale Moon Stalker (The Nymph Trilogy) (40 page)

"He just grazed me," she said, burying her face against the familiar curve of her husband's shoulder and neck. It felt wonderful to be held. They were both alive. They had survived in spite of the odds! Then Max suddenly shoved her roughly away from him and drew his Smith & Wesson with blinding speed, firing toward the right side of the livery.

Again two shots went off almost as one, but this time it was Max's bullet that missed. McKerrish had crawled to the boardwalk, bloody and dying, yet filled with enough hate to stand and raise his single-action Colt. He'd intended to shoot Sky in the back, but he had hit her husband instead when Max pushed her out of the line of fire. Sky raised her Yellow Boy and fired into McKerrish's face, hitting him squarely in his false teeth and knocking him to the ground. She kept shooting until the rifle clicked on the empty chamber. Then she ran to Max, who lay flat on his back.

"Oh, please, God, please, don't let him be dead," she prayed as she threw down her empty rifle and dropped to her knees at his side. He did not move and his eyes were closed. "Max!" she screamed, frantically searching his chest for blood beneath the charred bullet hole in his buckskins.

Suddenly his eyes fluttered open and he looked up at her. "Always...check...to be certain they're...dead, Sky," he said, grimacing in pain.

"Oh, Max, I thought
you
were dead!" she cried.

"Rather...glad to...say I'm not...for whatever...reason," he replied.

She looked down once more at the round hole in the center of his buckskin shirt. Then she knew. With trembling hands, she unsheathed the skinning knife on her left hip and carefully slit his shirt down the front. "Oh, thank you, God! Thank you, Everywhere Spirit! Thank you, True Dreamer, you and the Powers of the Cheyenne!" All the while, she laughed and wept at the same time.

The brass medallion that the old medicine man had insisted Max wear "until the time was right" had a large bulge directly in its center filled with the lead of a flattened .44-40 slug from McKerrish's Colt. It had stopped the bullet from killing her husband. She clutched it in her hand, raising it so Max could see.

"Well, I'll be damned," he rasped breathlessly.

"Eventually, m'lord, but not today," she said between teary gulps of air.

A crowd began to gather, materializing from the storefronts, saloons and other buildings up and down the street. One of the first to arrive was Zeke'l Broom, who said, "I s-sent for a d-doctor."

"Your cousin?" Max asked.

"No, sir, Mr. S-Stanhope, sir. Dr. Abraham Broom is my uncle."

"Good. Let's...keep it...in the family," Max replied, then passed out.

Davie Broom and his younger brother Samuel came running from their livery with a detached door panel to use as a stretcher. Several men stepped forward from the crowd and placed the unconscious Limey on the wooden carrier as they talked excitedly among themselves, practically ignoring his wife.

"I knowed I's right, Jake. This here's the Limey, that Britisher whut shot them men down in Trinidad, like I's tellin' you 'bout."

"Heerd he walked into a saloon in Benton last year 'n shot one fella, then clubbed the dead guy's partner stupid, 'n drug 'em both off for the re-ward."

"Think McKerrish's gun hands is wanted anywheres?" a third townie inquired.

Sky followed behind them as they made their way to the Golden Promise Hotel. She had broken the fifth commandment. Killed three men, tried to kill three others. But now all she could think about was that Max had survived. Grandfather's medicine came from a merciful God, whatever name men, red or white, chose to give him. She would ask forgiveness for what she had done later.

You will know when the time is right.

Suddenly as the townsmen carried Max through the doors of the hotel, she realized what True Dreamer had really meant by those cryptic words...

Chapter Twenty One

Max felt as if one of Cass Loring's biggest mules had kicked him directly in the chest. Bloody hell, it hurt to breathe. That was when he felt the thick bandage wrapped around his upper body. He could feel that he had nothing on beneath the sheet covering his lower half. Blinking his eyes, he tried to think. The room spun in dizzy circles. He could see that he was in a hotel bedroom, sparsely furnished, unfamiliar. But it was not a jail. And the woman asleep in the large overstuffed chair at the foot of his bed was his wife.

A sense of contentment washed over him. They had come through the nightmare alive and she appeared unhurt. He could see a narrow strip of gauze wound around her ribs through the sheer night rail she wore, although her thick hair curtained her lush breasts. He studied her beautiful face by the light of a flickering kerosene lamp. The dark circles under her eyes that had worried him on the trip seemed to be gone.

Then he noticed the white lawn had ridden up her slender legs, showing off the curves of calves and slender ankles. He feasted quietly on her loveliness for several moments. Had not True Dreamer's talisman been meant to save his life because they were fated to remain together? Just then, she stirred, raising her head and meeting his gaze.

His smile was wobbly from the painkilling narcotic as he rasped, "Where did you get that fetching little frock?" The effort of speaking brought a grimace of misery.

Sky was up and at his side in an instant. "From Neddie Broom."

"Another cousin?"

"No, an aunt. Dr. Broom's wife. She runs the hotel. They've both been quite kind."

"Now that the shooting's over," he said dryly, then realized that part of his difficulty speaking was caused by extreme thirst. "Might I have some water?"

Sky was already reaching for a pitcher and glass from the small table beside his bed. She poured and then very carefully lifted his head so he could drink. He felt the pain roaring through his chest and then realized the brass medallion that had absorbed the bullet must have made quite a dent.

"How do you feel?" she asked, lowering him back onto the pillows after he'd taken several swallows.

"Like a bull buffalo is sitting on my chest...wiggling."

"Dr. Broom says you have a severely bruised sternum." Just then a soft knock sounded and she walked to the door and opened it. "Yes, he's awake. Thank you, Mrs. Broom."

Sky closed the door and turned toward him with a large bundle in her hands. "What's that?" he asked warily.

"Another ice pack to take down the swelling," she replied matter-of-factly, placing the cold sack directly on his chest.

He sucked in a big gulp of air and immediately expelled it. "Flaming hell, that hurts!" he said, adding a string of guttural, breathless curses.

"It's supposed to," she said calmly, stroking his brow and planting a light kiss on his lips.

"You know, love, there are far pleasanter ways to relieve swelling than ice bags," he said after he caught his breath.

Sky looked down at the sheet covering his lower body. "M'lord, you are thoroughly incorrigible. But that is a truly impressive lodge pole you are...ah, erecting down there," she added with a tiny smile. "However, doctor's orders are for bed rest."

"Lots of ways to rest in bed, hmmm?" he whispered.

Sky shook her head. "If you try to use that 'lodge pole,' I guarantee you'll feel as if your buffalo has been joined by the entire herd. Rest." Her voice was stern now.

"How in hell am I supposed to rest when I awaken to see my wife's long, golden legs and then have her kiss me?" he asked in a surly tone.

Sky smiled broadly. "Grumpy and tepee building. You're on the path to recovery, I'm certain now."

"How long have I been asleep?" he asked, rubbing a bristly beard sprouted on his jaw.

"Since yesterday evening."

He blinked and looked out the window. "It's dark."

"Glad to see your eyesight hasn't been affected by your injury," she said dryly. "Yes, m'lord, it's nearly ten in the evening."

"Has the town marshal—"

"There will be no difficulty with the law," she quickly assured him. "McKerrish may have been powerful, but he was also hated and left no heirs, so we've been declared local heroes—by the marshal, Elijah Broom. I wired Jerome Bartlett about Phillip and explained everything...discreetly," she added.

"He'll be devastated to know how we've all been deceived."

Sky nodded. "I also wired the Lorings. Cass responded immediately. Steve is out of the city, but she'll track him down and he'll send his private car to Pueblo by day after tomorrow at the latest. If you rest properly and take your medication, you should be able to make the trip there in a specially sprung wagon that Hezekiah Broom has offered us."

"And he would be?"

"The mayor, of course. Now, would you like something to eat?"

His stomach gave a loud growl, answering for him. "I trust Mrs. Broom is a better cook than I?"

Sky smiled. "Any sentient being is a better cook than you, m'lord," she said with a chuckle. As he harrumphed, she added, "I'll fetch you a tray and your medicine. You need to rest and heal."

The meal was decent, a bowl of chicken stew with fresh vegetables, accompanied by a slab of freshly baked bread slathered with butter. She watched him eat, knowing every swallow was costing him dearly because of the pain in his chest. Just sitting up had been an ordeal. By the time he had finished the food, a fine film of sweat moistened his face. She tenderly wiped it with a cool cloth and then held up a spoonful of laudanum.

"Now, time for some rest."

"I don't need that. It makes me muzzy-headed," he protested, but when he tried to raise his arm to fend off the approaching spoon in her hand, the sudden pain in his chest made him relent. He took two teaspoons of the nasty stuff and allowed her to help him lie down. In moments he drifted into a deep sleep.

Sky watched through the night, dozing fitfully in the big chair, listening for him to stir. Near false dawn, she came fully awake when the old familiar nightmare began once more. She had been waiting for it. His voice commanded, "First rank, preesent. Fire! Second rank, preesent. Fire—"

"Max, wake up, darling," she said, cradling his head in one arm while she replaced his right hand on the mattress. She sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to bump his painfully injured chest as she crooned to him, "The nightmares are going to end now...forever."

You will know when the time is right.

Max slowly came out of his dazed vision, blinking disorientedly as his eyes swept around the room. Bloody hell, his chest hurt. Had he been hit? Who would take over the command? Then he realized he was not in Africa, but America...held in the arms of his wife.

Sky could see him returning to the present. That was when she issued the command, softly. "Now, tell me about Rorke's Drift." She was relieved that her voice did not break. But would he answer? She could feel him stiffen in her arms. For several seemingly endless moments he did not speak. "Now, my love. It is time," she urged him.

"It was a missionary station...with a hospital. Located on the Tugela River...bordering the Zulu kingdom." He paused, going back to another time, another place. "It was late January...or maybe early February of '79. General Lord Chelmsford took an army across the border to confront the Zulu king. Damned fool thought to teach the benighted savages the superiority of
civilised
fighting men." He scoffed bitterly. "They taught
him
a lesson before he died...or perhaps he learned nothing."

"I don't believe you were like Chelmsford...ever," she said softly.

"I wasn't. At least not after what I'd already learned in service to the empire. I'd been seconded from my regiment as liaison to the Natal militia."

"Natal militia?" she echoed.

"Native and European chaps...free-roaming scouts, no spit and polish at all."

"They taught you to track," she said, understanding why he fit in so well here, was so skilled as a man hunter.

Max nodded, his eyelids heavy with the laudanum. "Yes... They also taught me that good men come in many colors, from many nations. But when Chelmsford was instructed to invade the Zulu kingdom, I was ordered back to my regiment and given command of a company in the Second battalion...Twenty-fourth regiment of foot."

"Is that a lot of men?" she asked, guessing it was.

"Eighty soldiers... I was ordered to secure the station at Rorke's Drift. When my men and I arrived, the place was already under the command of an engineering officer named Chard who had twenty men building a bloody bridge—in the middle of a flaming war! Orders from central command... I'm surprised they didn't demand a gazebo as well."

He laughed and started coughing. She gave him a sip of water.

"There were about one hundred forty souls at the Drift...missionaries, a medical contingent...and wounded. Since Chard's commission was a few days older than mine, he was in charge..."

"But he was an engineer," Sky protested.

Max tried to laugh again, but it came out a hollow sound. "And a damned good one, luckily for us...the survivors, that is. That afternoon two riders reached us with word that Chelmsford had split his command. His smaller force of sixteen hundred men had been wiped out..."