An Outlaw in Wonderland (21 page)

She preferred not to have a private conversation involving money—and name-calling,
no doubt—in front of everyone.

Cora lifted her pretty, pointed chin. “No.”

Annabeth’s hands clenched, and she moved closer, crowding the woman back. “I have
the money; I’ll give it to you inside.”

“And if I refuse?” The woman raised her voice so everyone could hear. “Will you hit
me again?”

“When did I hit you?”

“You slapped me in the face.”

Understanding dawned. “You were hysterical.”

Cora sniffed. “So you say.” Then she spun and stalked into the shop.

Annabeth risked a glance at their audience. A few discovered fascinating particles
of dust just above their heads. The rest stared at Annabeth with accusing, disappointed
expressions. She saw how the situation appeared. The tiny, petite, and lovely seamstress
threatened and abused by the looming, large, unlovely woman who’d deserted their beloved
doctor.

As there was nothing she could say to disabuse that opinion—it was largely the truth—Annabeth
followed Cora inside. She placed the greenbacks on the counter. “That should be more
than enough.”

“You’re unfamiliar with what dresses cost these days.” Cora let her gaze wander over
Annabeth from hat to boot, and her lip curled. “Obviously.”

“You didn’t adjust it as promised,” Annabeth said. She didn’t bother to add that the
dress was ready for the ragbag after a single wearing. Though she’d like to blame
the woman for everything, Annabeth’s wearing it to a birthing had not been the fault
of Cora Lewis.

“You think I’d work for you?”

Annabeth slapped a few more dollars onto the counter and stepped toward the door.
She paused with her hand on the knob. “Tell Ethan . . .” Her throat closed, and she
had to swallow several times before she could speak again. “Tell him I’m filing for
divorce. He should see the lawyer.”

“He remembers?”

“Yes.” Annabeth waited for a cry of joy; when it didn’t come, she glanced over her
shoulder to discover Cora’s face wreathed in a frown.

“Everything?” she asked.

“I assume so.”

“How?”

Annabeth wasn’t going to explain. She wasn’t sure she could explain. All she knew
was that Ethan was himself again, or close enough, which meant she had to leave.

She’d warned him of danger; he’d denied there was any. He believed the shot that had
hit him had been meant for her. So did the marshal. As there’d been no further incidents,
despite plenty of opportunity, she was inclined to agree. Maybe the bullet through
the window had even been an accident. Someone’s gun had misfired and the culprit did
not want to admit it. She certainly wouldn’t.

Annabeth was beginning to wonder if Fedya’s warning had merely been a means to an
end. He thought she should return to her husband. Which didn’t sound like the man
she knew, but little she’d heard of Fedya since coming back to Freedom did.

Perhaps, if it hadn’t been for Cora and her child—and Lassiter Morant—Annabeth might
have stayed and tried to make their marriage work. As it was, she needed to go.

Pryce Mortimer sat behind a wooden table in the center of his office. Hunched over
and scribbling madly, he was nearly obscured by the stacks of books and papers all
around him. He didn’t glance up when Annabeth stepped inside. After several silent
moments broken only by the sound of his pen on paper, Annabeth cleared her throat.

Mortimer lifted his dark head; Annabeth blinked, but she did not flinch or look away
from the man’s ravaged face. She’d seen enough smallpox victims to recognize the cause
of the damage. During the war, the army had tried to vaccinate the soldiers; however,
the vaccines were not always effective. Most regular folks had no idea what a vaccine
was, not to mention the Indian populations, which had been decimated by the disease.
That Mortimer had survived the horrible, murderous illness revealed a lot about the
man without him ever saying a word.

“I would like to engage your services.” Annabeth took the chair on the other side
of the table without being asked.

“In what capacity?” Annabeth blinked again. Pryce Mortimer had the deepest, most commanding
and beautiful voice she had ever heard.

“I need a divorce.”

Mortimer frowned, though the expression was merely a downward twitch of his lips.
His face had been damaged too deeply to move much at all. “Divorce,” he repeated.
“I don’t think—”

“I do.”

“You must have a reason, Missus . . . ?”

“And here I thought I was the main topic of conversation in Freedom these days.”

The expression in his dark eyes turned wry. “I don’t leave this building. I talk to
no one unless they first talk to me. You can see why.”

“No, I can’t.”

“You don’t appear blind.”

“And you don’t appear stupid.”

Mortimer stared at her for a few seconds, and then he laughed. His laugh was as beautiful
as his voice. “Why don’t you tell me who you are, who you want to divorce, and why.”

“I’m Annabeth Phe—” She paused. “Annabeth Walsh.”

“The doctor’s wife. Everyone thought you were dead.”

“Thinking doesn’t make it so.” Neither did hoping.

Too bad for Cora Lewis.

“No,” he agreed, and something in his voice made Annabeth believe he had firsthand
experience with the situation. Poor man.

“Why do I need a reason?” she asked. Annabeth knew little about divorce except that
she’d be going to hell for it. But since she’d already been there, what was one more
trip?

“Although divorces are more easily granted in the West, fault is required. In layman’s
terms . . .” He spread his equally damaged hands. “A reason.”

“What kind?”

“Why don’t you tell me yours, and I’ll decide if it’s good enough?”

“How about you list what’s acceptable, and I’ll pick one?”

Everyone would know soon enough about Cora and Ethan’s child. Annabeth planned to
be far away before that news circulated. However, as she was doing this to ensure
Ethan’s future happiness, she didn’t intend to spread reputation-ruining rumors along
the way.

Mortimer studied her for several seconds. Annabeth studied him right back. Eventually,
he gave in. “Adultery, bigamy, cruelty, desertion, habitual drunkenness, impotency,
and failure to provide.”

“Desertion.” Everyone knew that she had.

Mortimer scribbled a few words, then folded his hands atop the table. “You’re certain?”

“That I deserted him? Yes.”

“But you’re back.”

She glanced out the window. “Not for long.”

“You’ll need to sign some papers.”

“When?” She could always slip into town and out again, unseen, as she should have
done in the first place.

“An hour?”

Annabeth’s lips tightened. She wanted to leave
now
, but if waiting an hour meant she wouldn’t have to return, she’d wait a damn hour.

“Fine,” she agreed.

“And your husband? Where is he?”

“No idea.”

“He’s probably at the grave. I’ll—”

Annabeth reached out and snatched Pryce Mortimer’s high-collared shirt. “What grave?”

T
he hill wasn’t that far out of town, so Annabeth walked, even though she could see
that Ethan had taken his horse. Maybe he just liked his horse.

As she hadn’t observed any evidence of life beyond that, perhaps Ethan wasn’t even
there. Though who else would be at the grave of their child so early in the morning?
Or ever, for that matter?

The sun beat down on the brim of her hat, hot enough to make sweat dampen the hair
she’d stuffed beneath. Thunderclouds danced on the horizon. She was glad she’d asked
Pryce Mortimer to keep her saddlebags until she returned. Dragging everything she
owned up the slope would have made her more uncomfortable than she already was, and
a summer storm would drench all of it.

Annabeth crested the rise as a breeze stirred the leaves of the huge oak tree. Removing
her hat, she sighed as the wind cooled her. The air today was so thick, she could
hardly breathe.

“Goway.” Ethan lay flat on his back. He didn’t even lift his head.

Annabeth knelt and traced the name on the headstone. “Michael,” she whispered; her
voice broke.

“Don’t.” Ethan snatched her wrist.

Don’t touch? Speak? Cry? Stay? It didn’t matter.

“You should have told me he was here.”

“He isn’t.”

She tugged on her wrist, and he let go; then she brushed his brow as the wind blew
through the leaves and whispered like a ghost in the night. “Are you sure?”

He kept his gaze on the clouds and not on her. “The dead don’t come back.”

“I did.”

He made an odd sound—half snort, half laugh—and laid his arm over his face. “Goway,”
he repeated.

He slurred the word, and concern sparked. Had his wound become infected? What she
could see of it appeared fine. Of course, who knew what was happening beneath the
surface?

“What year is it, Ethan?”

“Ag fuck tú,”
he muttered, though there was no heat to the words. “That means—”

“I know what it means.” Just because he’d spoken Gaelic didn’t mean he hadn’t been
quite clear.

“I haven’t relapsed. If I had, I certainly wouldn’t remember our dead son beneath
this tree.”

He had a point.

“You named him Michael,” she said.

“Someone had to.”

Annabeth had refused to name their child. She’d refused to look at him, to touch him,
or be in the same room with him. She couldn’t bear it.

“Ethan,” she began as she got to her feet. He sat up so quickly, she stepped back.

The bullet whizzed past her chest and smashed into the tree, spraying bits of bark
onto the grass. She dropped flat on the ground, shoving Ethan flat, too.

“Beth!” He lifted his head; she pushed it back down.

“Stay there.” She crept forward on her belly until she could peer over the edge of
the hill at Freedom. Folks milled about. She didn’t see anyone on the streets that
shouldn’t be.

If the shot had come from town, people would have run inside. They hadn’t. No one
even glanced in their direction. Probably because the wind blew against her face,
carrying sound toward her and away from them. Then Annabeth caught movement in the
swaying prairie grass.

Someone was coming. Perhaps several someones.

“We have to go.” Annabeth scooted backward on her belly.

“Who is it?”

“I assume the same person who shot at you . . . me . . . us before.” She tugged on
Ethan’s boot; he yanked his foot out of her reach and craned his neck so he could
see her face.

“Why do you think this is the same person?”

“Because if it’s someone else, we have more problems than I thought.”

“We can’t just leave.”

Annabeth let her forehead fall to the ground. Tempted to bang it against the hard
summer earth a few times, she refrained. In the distance, thunder rumbled. “We can.
We should. We have a horse; they don’t. Considering our position and my lack of ammunition . . .”
She should never have left her saddlebags with the “loyer.” “We have to.”

Ethan must have heard the panic in her voice, because he crawled backward, too. They
slithered along the ground until they reached the horse, which shuffled and huffed
at their behavior.

“Mount up,” she said. “I’m right behind you.”

“
You
mount up.”

Annabeth’s fists tightened. She wanted him in front of her, protected. He obviously
wanted the same thing. In reverse.

“I don’t know where we’re going,” he said.

“Right now, just away from here.” When he continued to hesitate, she shrugged and
reached for her gun. “If you’d rather I shoot until my bullets run out . . .

He gave a growl of frustration and climbed into the saddle. She could have sworn he
swayed a bit. He offered his hand, and she took it, swinging up behind him as he urged
the animal into a run.

•   •   •

An hour later, Ethan reined in his horse. “Anyone following?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

She shrugged, rubbing her breasts against his back. Ethan ground his teeth together
and closed his aching eyes.

The sun blazed down; he didn’t have a hat. They were both drenched in sweat, as was
the horse. The blessed breeze that had rustled the leaves of the tree earlier had
died, leaving behind an eerie stillness.

They couldn’t go on much longer. Ethan didn’t have a bottle that wasn’t empty, which
was soon going to be a bigger problem than the heat or the gunfire.

“When can we turn around?”

“I don’t—” She tensed, the movement removing the soft weight of her breasts and slamming
her gun belt into his spine.

“Hey.” His gaze followed hers; he stilled at the sight of the big, whirling, dirty
cloud on the horizon.

“That’s enough dust for an entire posse,” Annabeth murmured.

“That’s not a posse.” And he’d thought lack of a full bottle was his biggest worry.
“That’s a twister.”

Ethan faced forward and allowed their mount, which had begun to sidestep and fight
the bit, its head. Annabeth wrapped her arms around his waist and held on.

He’d seen tornados before. This was Kansas; they were common. However, Ethan had never
been out on the range, on a horse, with nowhere to run or hide as a killer storm bore
down.

The wind picked up; the sky went dark. Though no rain fell, Ethan could smell it somewhere,
along with the lightning. The distant thunder became one long, low, rumbling snarl.
The earth shook as though a train approached, though the nearest track lay twenty
miles’ distant.

Annabeth shouted, but he couldn’t make out the words. Debris flew past them, picking
up speed. Ahead, several tumbleweeds fell into space.

Gully.
Ethan headed right for it.

He pulled the horse to a stop several feet way—wasn’t easy—the animal wanted to get
gone. Annabeth slid off, tugging Ethan’s leg so hard, he nearly fell on top of her.
He risked a glance west. The cloud had turned black and seemed to fill the horizon
from north to south.

As soon as Ethan leaped free, Annabeth towed him toward the hollowed-out ditch created
by spring runoff. He attempted to bring the horse, but the animal reared, yanking
the reins from his hands before sprinting east.

Ethan jumped into the long, narrow crevice; his wife landed next to him. She shoved
him beneath the slight overhang on the far side, then pressed her belly to the ground
beneath the one opposite. Above them, the wind screamed.

Unless that was his horse.

Ethan rose onto his knees. His mount was gone. He didn’t think the animal could have
run fast enough to be out of sight by now, but he certainly hoped that was the case.

Annabeth slammed into him, pushing him back where he’d been and then shielding his
body with hers. She said something, but he couldn’t hear it above the gale. His ears
crackled and popped; the air seemed to snap and buzz. She wrapped her hands around
his neck. His arms circled her waist as the storm tried to pull her away.

Ethan tugged Annabeth close—hip to hip, chest to breast—he hooked his ankle over hers.
She pressed her face into his neck. Her breath tickled his collarbone. He curled himself
around her and murmured, “Don’t let go.”

Considering the trill of the wind, the thud of his heart, the sudden torrent that
beat down, turning the dry gully into a river of mud, she should not have been able
to hear. Just as he should not have been able to hear her answer: “Never.” But he
did.

Ethan kept his eyes closed against the slap of grit and rain. He clasped Annabeth
with every ounce of strength he had so she would not be whirled away like his horse.
His fingers were slick; they kept slipping. He feared he would not be able to outlast
the ferocity of the gale, but he would not lose her again.

His ears rang so loudly, he first became aware of the passing of the storm more by
the lessening of the pull on his wife than by the lessening of noise. Cautiously,
Ethan opened one eye, then the other. A shaft of sunlight blazed between slate clouds.

“Beth.” His voice sounded far away. His wife’s ears must have been equally beleaguered
because she didn’t answer; she didn’t move. “Beth!”

This time he shouted, or thought he did, and shook her a bit. Her head came up so
fast, she nearly knocked him in the chin. He reared back and knocked his head on the
earth overhang. Grass and dirt and rocks rained down.

Her deep blue eyes appeared black, huge in her pale face. She seemed to have more
freckles than he remembered.

“Is it gone?” she asked.

His gaze went again to the shaft of sun, which had become wider, pushing against the
clouds on either side. “From here.”

“So fast?”

“Fast?” To him, the time he’d held her, afraid his strength would not be enough to
save them, had been an eternity.

“Was that five minutes? Ten?”

“All right,” he agreed, still dazed or perhaps just dazzled. She was so damn pretty.

A crease appeared between her brows. “What’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” He still held her as if the storm might take her away. He didn’t want to
let her go.

Annabeth laid her palm to his cheek. “No fever.” She brushed her fingertip along his
stitches. “Do they hurt?”

He shook his head. He wanted her to touch them again, touch him again.

“I should take those out.”

“Okay.” He tilted his face toward her, and she laughed.

“Not now. The only thing I have that might be sharp enough to do the job is my teeth.”

The thought of her using her teeth on his forehead was unappealing. However, the idea
of her using her teeth elsewhere . . .

Annabeth stilled. She had felt his response. This close, how could she not? Ethan
kissed her; he couldn’t help himself.

For an instant, he thought she might pull away, roll away, stand up and run away.
Then she seemed to melt—into him, through him. She became part of him. She still tasted
like dawn, like hope. And oh, how he needed it.

He traced her lips with his tongue, rubbed his thumbs along the lowest ridge of her
ribs, learned again the contours of her mouth, her teeth, discovered anew the flavor
of her skin. Drinking her sigh, he marveled at the sweetness of her breath. His must
bring to mind month-old milk.

She didn’t seem to notice; in fact, she breathed in deeply, as if trying to draw him
within, to memorize his scent as he longed to memorize hers.

When he lifted his head, her eyes remained closed; her tongue darted out and ran over
her lower lip. “You still taste like . . .”

“What?” he whispered, and her eyes opened.

For an instant, a smile trembled, threatening to break across her face like dawn broke
the night. Then she drew back, released him, and the moment was gone. He could have
held on, but why? The harder he tugged in one direction, the faster she would run
in the other.

Annabeth rolled onto her back, plopping into the mud at the lowest point of the gully.
She didn’t appear to care; she was too intent on getting away.

She hauled herself upright and then took a giant step onto the prairie, shading her
eyes from the now-abundant sunshine. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost her hat.
“Is that . . . ?”

Ethan had planned to remain where he was, at least until his erection went away, maybe
longer—he wasn’t feeling too well. The shiver he’d experienced at the image of her
teeth tasting him, her tongue taunting him, had become a full-blown shudder, so deep
his bones ached. Yet his skin had broken out with a light sweat. But her words had
him rolling free and standing, too.

He swayed a bit, forced himself to stop before he asked, “What?”

Annabeth dropped her hand; those lips he’d so recently and thoroughly kissed at last
spreading into a smile. “I think it’s your horse.”

He looked where she had. “It’s
a
horse,” he allowed.

“Good enough.” She started to walk, stepping over bits and pieces of debris that lay
here and there or, in some cases, tumbled past. Dry leaves. Sticks. A tree limb from
which hung a bit of cloth. Her boot heel clipped something that sounded like a tin
cup.

Ethan was dizzy and hot; his stomach churned. His bowels gurgled like the muddy water
in the ditch behind them. He didn’t want to walk to the horse, which he knew from
previous experience was a lot farther away than it appeared, but he also didn’t want
to walk back to Freedom, which was even farther.

Annabeth turned. “What’s wrong?”

Ethan stroked his thumb over the empty blue bottles in his pocket. He ducked his head
as his eye began to twitch. “Nothing,” he said, and joined her.

“We should find a place to stay for the night.”

Ethan’s heart jerked. He rubbed the empties again. If he rubbed them enough, would
a genie grant his wish that they might suddenly become full?

Ethan snorted. Those were the kinds of fantasies he had after he’d drunk more laudanum
than he had today.

“No,” he said.