When a Texan Gambles (7 page)

Sarah had no idea if he was their father or why he hadn’t helped them. Maybe he married her so he’d have someone to take care of them. Maybe Malone’s message never reached Sam. Maybe it did, but Sam didn’t care.

She scooted into the corner of the wagon, next to the rifle, and curled into a ball. She didn’t want to touch him tonight, not even to get warm. So far every day she had learned more about her husband. And it was all bad.

As the night aged, she shivered and finally slipped beneath the covers and into the warm place at his side. But tonight there was far too much to think about to sleep.

The next day mirrored the last. Sam seemed to be sleeping sounder and his wound no longer bled, but he never opened his eyes or responded when she talked to him.

Dawn crept through the cottonwoods on the morning of the fourth day with Sarah wide awake. She’d made up her mind that there was only one thing to do. She had to take the children back to town and talk Denver into watching over them until Sam was at least coherent. Maybe he’d have some answers. If he had money for supplies, he might have money to hire someone to watch over the children for a while.

She woke him by pulling the buffalo robe off him. His eyes were rimmed in red and bloodshot, and his face looked pale beneath his weathered tan. He stared at her as though he were trying to remember where he’d seen her before.

He growled like a bear, but Sarah didn’t back down. “I can’t lift you out of the wagon, Sam Gatlin. You’ll have to climb out if you want breakfast.”

“Go away. I’m not moving.”

“You are if you plan to eat.”

“Forget breakfast,” he mumbled. “Where’s the whiskey in this bar?”

Sarah sighed, realizing he still talked out of his head. She wasn’t sure if he was drunk or in so much pain he didn’t care where he was. “The whiskey is a few feet from the wagon, along with your breakfast.” She’d made a table of water, whiskey, and jerky. It wasn’t much in the way of rations, but she thought it would keep him alive until she returned, or he got strong enough to look for the canned goods.

He didn’t seem to see anything but the bottle. When she didn’t offer to get it for him, he slowly moved to the back of the wagon under protest.

Sarah helped him down. When he slid off the gate, she almost buckled beneath his weight. Slowly they crossed the distance to a makeshift bed of leaves Sarah had arranged for him.

While he downed a long swig of whiskey, she told him her plan. “I have to take the children to town. With the nights getting colder, they can’t stay any longer.” She didn’t mention that they’d eaten half the month’s food supplies. “I left you food within easy reach. If I don’t get lost, I should be back by tomorrow night. It’s not the best of plans, but it’s all I could come up with. You can’t go to town in the shape you’re in, and the children can’t stay out here in the cold.”

“There are no children here,” he answered as he pulled the buffalo robe over him. “I’ll try not to be dead when you get back.” From the way he said the words, Sarah guessed he felt so bad he didn’t much care one way or the other.

“Good,” she answered without feeling. “Be alive. I don’t want to have the trouble of trying to bury you out here.”

“Bring a shovel back, just in case,” he said, already half asleep.

Sarah swore she heard a laugh beneath the blankets. An hour later, when the children were fed, cleaned, and waiting in the wagon, Sarah checked his wound. If possible, it seemed to have healed a week’s worth since yesterday. He didn’t open his eyes while she wrapped a clean bandage across him. His skin still felt hot, clammy, and she knew when she returned, she might just need that shovel.

She tried to cover him and make him comfortable before climbing into the wagon. He mumbled, “What children?” once but showed no sign of listening when she explained.

Ten minutes later, when she climbed onto the wagon’s bench and picked up the reins, Sarah turned around to make sure the children were still ready to leave.

All three were gone.

Frustrated, Sarah climbed down and called for them, but they had vanished. She tried everything, setting out food, yelling for them, crawling into the brush. Nothing.

After rebuilding the fire, she forced Sam to eat a few bites and began a quest to find where they had crossed through the brush. She worked her way into the foliage as far as she could and still there was no sign of them. Nothing.

They had simply slipped from the wagon while she was tending Sam and disappeared. She waited long after dark, but they never returned. Finally she unhitched the horses once more and sat down beside Sam.

To her surprise he looked up at her with unclouded eyes. “Back so soon?” he asked.

“I didn’t go. The children vanished, so I couldn’t take them to town. I can’t even find them.”

Sam looked as if his head had cleared of pain enough to follow the conversation. “You’re missing the kids that just appeared?”

“Yes!” Sarah answered, frustrated.

“Maybe you just imagined they were here.” He scrubbed his face as if fighting his way out of a hangover. “I’ve sure been having some crazy dreams.”

“Maybe I did.” Sarah set her chin on her bent knees. “And maybe I just dreamed we had supplies.” Her gaze fell on the empty boxes beside the wagon, then back at the bare table where she’d stacked Sam’s supplies. Only the half-full whiskey bottle remained.

SIX

SAM FORCED HIMSELF TO MOVE. THE PAIN IN HIS BACK competed with the throbbing in his head. Slowly, like a man laden with lead, he stood, letting the night’s cold add another measure of discomfort to a body he thought had already reached full capacity. His mind floated with the pain.

Move!
He took a step.
Keep moving or they’ll bury you!
With each stride he stopped and rested, bracing raw will against the desire to retreat. He’d faced this hell before and he knew the way out ... refuse to give in to the torture. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember where he was, or how he got to this place. If he lived, his head would clear in a few days. All that mattered was controlling the terrible throbbing that broke in waves across his senses.

Whiskey still clouded his mind, blurring dreams with scraps of reality.

Early morning drifted across the clearing without warmth. Hesitantly Sam staggered toward the water. He thought of bending down for a drink but knew the agony would be too great. He pressed his lips together, holding in a cry, as he unstrapped first his holster, then his trousers. Thankfully, someone had already removed his boots and Colts. He would never have been able to pull off his boots, and he’d not allow his Colts to fall into the sand.

With grim determination he stepped into the river.

For a moment the blast of icy water outran all other pain. His knees buckled from the force, and he crumbled into the current like a warrior made of sand.

The cold water, rushing past his chest and face, made his legs, now somewhat accustomed to the temperature, seem warm. For several heartbeats Sam remained underwater, welcoming the feel of nothing but waves circling him. Finally a need for air forced him up. He planted his feet wide apart on the rocky bottom and stood, allowing a hundred streams to rush down his chest to where the river rounded his waist.

Plowing his fingers through his hair, he lowered once more. This time the current welcomed him as wet-warmth replaced the chilly air’s touch. He floated for a while, inches beneath the surface, enjoying feeling weightless. No time. No place. No problems. The thought crossed his mind that he could continue doing nothing. He’d drift downstream like a log, bumping against the shoreline, rolling in the current, until he reached the ocean.

A strange sound, like a bird’s cry or a woman’s scream, bubbled around his ears. He stood once more, pulling reluctantly from the peace of drifting.

“Are you crazy?” A shout echoed off the walls and bounced back and forth along the canyon.

Sam looked about, trying to tell where the noise originated. At first all he saw was the clearing, the trees, the water.

Then she came into view. A tiny, half-pint of a woman standing at the water’s edge with her fists on her hips. She looked every bit as if she planned to wring his neck when she got hold of him. He found it impossible to believe such a dainty creature could have created such volume.

“Get out of that water, Sam Gatlin, before you catch your death!” She paced inches from the shoreline. “I didn’t keep you alive for four days to have you drown yourself.”

Sam tried to bring her into focus, but water dripped off his hair into his eyes. The woman multiplied like ripples on the waves. Surely she was only in his imagination. She couldn’t be real. He’d never even seen a woman like her, curls the color of sunbeams tumbling across her shoulders and skin as pale as moonlight.

She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever encountered and obviously madder than hell at him. All he’d done was stand waist deep in a stream. The past few days were fuzzy in his head. She seemed like part of a dream he’d had, more wishing than real. He knew he could never do anything to hurt such an angel even in his dreams. So why was she so angry?

Maybe she thought this stream was hers and him a trespasser?

“Name’s Sam Gatlin!” he yelled by way of introduction.

She stomped her foot and, if possible, rage rose in her tone. “I know who you are, you idiot. Get out of the water!” She leaned closer to the edge, as if irate enough to come in and get him if he didn’t follow orders. “I swear, you’d think that knife I pulled out of you sliced right through your brain and not your back.”

Sam frowned. He vaguely remembered someone pulling a knife from his back. Someone said there would be a condition, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it was. Someone had helped him into a wagon, someone fed him soup. “Do I know you, lady?” He might as well ask before he got close enough for her to take a swing at him. If he’d seen her kind of rage in a man, Sam would have made sure his Colt was ready to pull.

“Of course you know me, Sam Gatlin. I’m your wife.”

She showed no sign of kidding.

“But if you don’t get back in that bed right now, I’ll probably be your widow by noon.”

Sam saw no choice but to head toward the shore. She looked as if she meant every word she said. Besides, he didn’t know how much longer he could stand. The river must have seeped into his brain along with some of the bottom mud, for his thoughts were muddled.

As he stepped up to the shore, he heard her sharp intake of breath and looked up.

She might be the one who pulled the knife from his back, she might even be his wife, but one thing Sam knew ... she had never seen him without clothes. She stared at him with a mixture of horror and curiosity.

Sam groaned. He’d seen the same kind of stare from folks looking at freaks at tent shows.

He wasn’t a man who thought of himself as modest, but if he could have vanished in thin air, he would have. She looked at him with huge round eyes, and it crossed his mind that this lady might never have seen a man before.

“What is the matter?” He tried to stand still and not act like he noticed her gaze moving over him. He never thought of his body being anything out of the ordinary, more scarred maybe than most. If she was his wife, as she claimed, surely she’d seen him naked.

“Are you all right, lady?” The edges of his brain were starting to clear. She did look vaguely familiar. The past and dreams began to separate in his mind. “Is something the matter with you ... or me?”

“Nothing,” she whispered. Her glance darted the length of him once more, and she added, “You shouldn’t bathe with your socks on.”

He looked down at the wool socks. “All right,” he answered, as if she made any sense. “I’ll try to remember that in the future.” If she was his wife, he must have forgotten how picky she was. A woman with white-blond hair sitting on a bed crossed his mind. He remembered she refused to put on a dress.

She marched back to the campsite. He followed, wondering if clothes often made her angry.

Without looking at him, she tossed a blanket in his direction. “If you’ll sit on the box, I’ll rebandage the wound. There is no telling how many bugs or how much mud got beneath the bandage. I’ve heard of folks getting infections from river water.”

“All right,” he answered, hoping not to make her angry or shock her again until he figured out who she was. He didn’t believe it possible such a woman could be his wife. First, he had no time or place in his life for a wife, and second, a lady like her would never give him more than a glance. But facts were muddled in his brain. He had no idea what day, or even what month it must be, but visions of her lined the corners of his thoughts.

He tried to think back before the pain. He’d been riding south, following a trail of cattle thieves out of Dodge. He remembered being bone-tired when he stopped at Cedar Point and deciding he might learn something about the men he was trailing if he had a few drinks. The sheriff there would loan him a cell for the night if he had too much. Sam could remember Sheriff Riley always kidded him about not being able to hold his alcohol. So why couldn’t he remember how he met this woman before him?