Remember Me (Defiant MC) (3 page)

Maddox always loved the part where Meg pretended to get off right there in front of the crowd and then calmly took a bite of her sandwich. Cheryl shrieked louder but Maddox knew a fake when he heard one. 

“When you’re done,” he called, closing the door.

He wasn’t waiting on the other side long when Cheryl pushed through the door, breezing past him as she tried to shove her gigantic tits all the way back into her bra.  Abel followed a few seconds later, grinning sheepishly as he zipped up his pants. 

“Nice,” Maddox teased with a wink, shouldering the plunger and heading into the smoke-filled humidity of the bathroom. 

The two urinals seemed to be in order but the single toilet was obviously having a problem.  Maddox fiddled with the loose handle but the issue was with whatever had been shoved into the hole.  It was unbelievable what people thought they could dispose of in a toilet bowl. 

As Maddox got to work he thought about Priest.  Pipes and plungers always reminded him of his dad, who had taught him everything he knew about plumbing.  He used to ride along with him as a kid and sneak cookies out of the cupboards belonging to the fine folks of Contention City as Priest McLeod labored under their sinks and toilets. 

As Maddox snaked the clog culprit out of the depths of the Riverbottom, he shook his head.  The mess looked like a skunk which had died giving birth while tied to a cluster of condoms.  He couldn’t make any sense out of it and he didn’t want to.  He tossed the thing into the garbage can.  After checking out the flushing sequence and listening to the standard gurgle of the water, he was content that his work was finished. 

Mad washed off his hands and felt some remorse.  He needed to call the old man more.  Priest had sounded worse last time they’d spoken a few weeks back.  Tomorrow, definitely.  Tomorrow he would call and ask if there was anything he could do for him.

Maybe it was a premonition or perhaps the universe had a sense of humor about its disordered chaos.  But as Maddox left the Riverbottom Bar and stepped out into the night, his phone rang.  It was Priest’s number on the screen. 

“Dad,” he said into the phone with a relieved smile. 

“Maddox.”

The smile fell.  Mad nearly dropped the phone in utter disbelief.  It was him, the voice behind the nightmarish rage which still threatened to smother him now and again even after all these years. 

It was Jensen. 

Arizona Territory

1888

It seemed she’d been trapped in that damnable wagon for a century.  Annika had expected traveling by stage from San Diego across the desert would be uncomfortable but the reality was nothing short of ridiculous.  The plush, roomy carriages were still a luxury of the east.  Everything was rougher out here.  Her back felt stiff as a gallows plank after two days of hard travel. Of the other three passengers wedged upright on the board seat with her, each smelled worse than the other. 

Still, the complaints only registered inside of her head.  She had chosen this after all, chosen to leave an easier life in the green hills of Wisconsin in favor of something she couldn’t put a name to.  Every so often she peered out of the canvas cover of the wagon and beheld a strange world.  It was brown and parched, dotted with strange vegetation which seemed sharp and forbidding.  Annika thought it was all beautiful. 

Mr. Hayes, a newsman traveling to Mesa, waved his hat in front of his face and looked a bit sick.  “Endured this journey six times,” he grumbled with a wan smile.  “And every stretch is more hellish than the last one.” 

Annika nodded, trying to think of some pleasantry to respond with.  She was never good at such things.  Anyway, Mr. Hayes had seemed a little too interested in her ever since the carriage began the perilous descent out of the mountains west of San Diego.  It wouldn’t do to encourage him. 

Mrs. Tarberry was snoring against Annika’s left shoulder, her girth chafing against Annika’s side and successfully numbing her left leg.  When the wheels rolled over something hard, causing the carriage to lurch precipitously, she snorted awake and grinned when she saw Annika staring.  She was missing more than a few of her teeth.  

“Gettin’ powerful hungry,” she yawned, rubbing her belly.  The stout wife of a Phoenix mercantile owner, she had a good natured air about her in spite of her coarse ways.  Annika didn’t mind her company.  

Miss Cate was the wagon’s fourth passenger.  She rested stiffly on the other side of Mr. Hayes with her eyes primly closed.   The Territory was growing by leaps and Miss Cate was set to be a
teacher, as Annika was.  However, her post was up the Colorado River.  She intended to disembark in Yuma while Annika would be returning to the stage.   There were still hundreds of miles of rough travel which remained before she reached her destination.  Annika tried not to think about it.  The journey would end, as all things did.

Yuma appeared to be little more than a dusty outpost with a smattering of adobe buildings.  Annika ran an embroidered handkerchief over her face as she exercised her
stiff legs while the driver took the stage to the livery to change horses.  

She could hear Mrs. Tarberry huffing in the background as she stretched her stride but she wanted a moment alone.  Not for the first time since leaving Wisconsin Annika felt a twinge of uncertainty as she stared into the barren landscape. 

It hadn’t made sense to her at first, to travel further west to San Diego and then double back into the Territory. But the rail lines weren’t yet complete in the Territory and the circuitous route ensured less grueling overland travel.  She couldn’t imagine a more difficult place than the one she had chosen. 

Miss Cate was so slight that her absence made little difference once the travelers were on their way again.  At least Annika was now on the far end, with Mrs. Tarberry sandwiched between her and Mr. Hayes. 

Mrs. Tarberry was fanning herself with a tattered fan as the driver shouted at the horses and the wagon began its sickening motion.  “Miss Larson,” she turned, sweating.  “You got a fella?”

“Please, call me Annika.  And no.” She shook her head, noticing how Mr. Hayes craned his neck around and paid special interest to her response.  “I was engaged to the mayor of Crawford, Wisconsin, but that ended.”

Mrs. Tarberry’s hand fell her lap.  “He threw you over?”  She didn’t pause long enough for Annika to respond, patting her on the knee in sympathy.  “Hell, you’ll be just fine with your pretty face.  A fair woman like you won’t have no trouble makin’ a match in the Territory.” 

“I’m glad to hear it,” she responded politely, but finding a match was not among her intentions.  This was a new place, unbound by traditions, where even a woman might make her own way.  Here, there were possibilities which did not exist in the staid east which was ruled by oppressive tradition.

Henri would have still married her happily.  All she’d had to do was overlook his scandalous affair with the Madison girl.  Her left hand, now denuded of its ring, clenched into a fist when she thought about her former fiancé.  He’d made a damn fool of her and yet appeared stunned when she threw his ring back in his face.  If anyone figured Annika Larson would attach herself to a liar for the rest of her days for the sake of a comfortable home then they had badly misjudged her. 

Only Annika’s father was supportive when she announced her plan to light out for the fabled Arizona Territory.   All those dime fiction tales had done their work and no one in Crawford, Wisconsin could be convinced
that the Territory wasn’t just a den of gunslingers and fancy women.  But Annika had seen the advertisements begging for teachers.  Boom towns were cropping up everywhere, attracting men lured by the promises of gold or other fortunes.  Many brought families with them and schools were sorely needed for the children who were towed along in their wake.  It would be a different experience from her years teaching the children of dairy farmers in the gentle scenery of Crawford.  But she was already twenty two.  Lingering in her hometown in the face of a broken engagement was unappealing. 

Sven Larson had nodded thoughtfully when his daughter had presented her invitation to teach in the far off gold mining town of Contention City.   Mari, her mother, had exclaimed her disapproval using an old world tongue Annika wasn’t raised to understand.   Sven spoke sharply to Mari in Swedish, for once breaking his rule that the old language was not to be spoken in the American home of the Larsons.
  Mari Larson shrank back and said no more while Sven grinned in a pleased way at their daughter.   

Annika’s father was a complicated man.  His scars from the war weren’t just physical.  The loss of his right leg below the knee at Gettysburg had much to do with his bitterness. But the way he screamed out his battle nightmares so many nights during her childhood seemed to define Sven Larson most.  He’d burned his Union wool after retur
ning to Wisconsin and he was disdainful of those annual parades brimming with patriotism.  Sven like to touch his chest and declare that the love of his adopted country lived happily there.  On the inside, as it should be.

“This place, you will go there,” he’d told Annika with certainty and limped out of the house on his wooden leg.  She understood.  That was the tough Swede’s way of offering approval.
  A fortnight later she was lurching her way to her destination.    

The driver lost the road as evening began to fall.  Scaggs was the name of the shriveled old man and he spat a wad of brown liquid, surveying the scene dispassionately.  His eyes narrowed dangerously when Mr. Hayes chose
to scold him. 

Scaggs’s voice was ice. “You jes’ sit on down, tenderfoot before I take a switch to that smart mouth.”  

Though Annika was bemused by the tiny man’s threat, Mr. Hayes shrunk back and quietly helped the women gather mesquite branches. Once the fire was underway it brought a little cheer to the makeshift camp.  Scaggs set a crude Dutch oven over the flames and handed Annika a battered tin plate, motioning that she ought to eat some of the contents.

“Arizona strawberries,” he chuckled with a grin and Annika took a cautious bite.  The speckled red beans were bland but satisfying.

When the sun rose Scaggs found the road again easily.   The rickety stage lurched its way to Phoenix by late afternoon.  Mr. Hayes gave Annika a regretful little bow before disappearing.  She was grateful to Mrs. Tarberry for the invitation to spend the night in her home.  The next stage bound for Contention City would not be leaving until the morning. 

Mr. Tarberry was bowlegged and missing his right arm, marking him as another casualty of the war.  The distinct drawl in his voice branded him as a man of the south, one who had fought on the side opposite Annika’s father.  Sometimes she marveled over how the landscape and people of her country had been so definitively altered by events which ended before her birth.  It had been a primary subject her entire life.  For so many of the walking wounded there would always be The War.  There would always be the dead and the battle screams and the hurt of privation, the stink of death. It was the still point in a turning universe. 

The warm affection between the middle aged Tarberry couple was pleasant to behold. They had one surviving daughter living in San Diego.  The birth of their first grandchild was the reason Mrs. Tarberry had made the journey to the coast. 

Mr. Tarberry was counting out piles of bullets for the store as his wife leaned back in a wobbly rocking chair and rested her feet on a worn pillow.  She was asking Annika about where she would be staying in Contention City.  Mr. Tarberry’s balding head snapped up at the name. 

“That yer destination? Contention City?”  He looked from Annika to his wife and back again.  Something about the incredulous tone of his voice made Annika a bit uneasy. 

“Yes,” she admitted slowly, her hands lowering the
double pointed knitting needles which had kept them occupied.  “I’m to teach in Contention City.” 

“Hmph,” grumbled Mr. Tarberry as his left hand rolled a group of bullets into a box.  “Bit of a rough spot for a lady.” 

“Alvin,” warned Mrs. Tarberry, shifting as the rocker groaned under her weight. 

Her husband shrugged.  “Gold fever attracts all so
rts.”  He nodded at Annika. “Y’all know about that there Scorpion?  The mine’s veins come and go along with a steady stream of dubious folks.”  He paused, obviously considering whether to say anything else.  “There’s been some trouble on that road too.  Highwaymen.  Thieves and murderers, worst in the Territory.  Call themselves The Danes.”  He shook his head with a grim chuckle.

Annika was curious.  “They’re Danish?”

“Naw.  That’s just the surname of their leader.  Cutter Dane.  Big fella who’s handy with the bone handle blade.  Ruthless, the lot of them.  Just this summer a travelin’ lady-“

“Alvin!” Mrs. Tarberry cut in and rose from the chair.  She shushed her husband with a stern look and he shrugged, returning to his count. 

Mrs. Tarberry tried to lighten the mood as she saw her guest settled in the tiny room which used to belong to her daughter. 

“You’re plum lucky you missed the hot season,” she panted.  “October is one of the only pleasin’ months in this hellhole.” 

“It’s very different from what I’m used to,” Annika admitted, pawing through the depths of her trunk for a nightdress.  “But it’s lovely so far.  To be truthful, I’m not sure what I imagined in Wisconsin.  I can see it’s a hard life.  I plan to meet the challenge.”