Mittman, Stephanie (11 page)

She
swallowed hard. No man was ever going to have his way with her again. No amount
of sweet talk, no promises, no threats would make her do anything she didn't
want to. Not again.

"Let's
go," she said, trying to shake off the memories. "Before we drown in
the rain."

He
didn't answer her. He just kicked the horse and moved out slowly.

"Do
you have a knife?" she asked once they were on the way. She'd tried just
pulling at the neck of the poncho but hadn't widened the opening at all. In the
distance the rain moved like a sheet in their direction, and the horse began to
prance beneath them.

Remarkably,
Sloan didn't ask her why she needed a knife. He simply pulled one out and gave
it to her. Nothing he said could have convinced her they were in as much danger
as that inattentive gesture.

She
slit the neckhole and widened it with a tug. "There!" she said after
a minute and handed the knife back to him. By now, fat drops of rain had begun
to hit them with a vengeance. They were few and far between. One hit her
shoulder, then a few moments later another smacked her on the forehead. Fierce,
angry drops, that threatened a deluge when that dark cloud finally reached them.
"Take off your hat," she said against his ear, and he twitched at the
sound of her words as though he had altogether forgotten she was there.

Her
breath was hot on his neck. One arm encircled his waist while the other
fidgeted behind him. "What?" Sloan asked.

"Don't
argue. Take off your hat."

He
did and she slipped the poncho over his head, so that the three of them were
all under it together.

"I
don't mind the rain," he said, replacing his hat on his head, and feeling
both her arms come around him and grab onto the cloth of his shirt, a fistful
in either hand.

"Tough,"
she replied, adjusting herself behind him.

He
could feel her trying to keep her distance, centering her weight on her
buttocks instead of her thighs, hoping her chest wasn't coming in contact with
his back. He knew this because all he could feel, instead of her weight against
him, instead of the softness of her breasts against his muscles, were her
nipples, hard from the cold, rubbing against his back through his wet shirt and
driving him mad.

As
Climber lumbered down the canyon wall, Sloan leaned back into Mary Grace,
forcing her into the can-tie of the saddle. But the baby was on her back, and
Sloan could tell she was afraid of crushing him.

"Fold
your arms behind you, in the small of your back, under Ben's bottom,"
Sloan directed her over his shoulder. "Lean on your palms."

It
was cold around his middle when she took her arms away, and he tried to keep
himself upright while she shifted in the saddle. When she was ready, he leaned
into her gently, and rocked against the soft pillows of her breasts, first one
and then the other, while the horse trudged down the mountain.

If
he'd wondered whether his desire would ever come back, he had his answer. But
desire didn't equal ability, and he had yet to figure out the mechanics of
mounting a woman with a stiff leg, much less letting her see what Harlin Tate
had managed to do.

He
knew her hands had to ache from holding both
her own and his weight off the baby's
legs. The rain was coming down steadily now, and his hat kept hitting her
somewhere and reseating itself on his head with every step the horse took.

Out
of nowhere, without any warning, she suddenly screamed. "No!" she
shouted. "Please, no!"

Sloan
jumped forward, the saddle horn nearly gelding him, the poncho strangling him
and pulling him back, the horse stumbling with the shifting weight and then
righting itself.

"Are
you all right?"

There
was only a choked sobbing near his ear. He couldn't see her behind him,
couldn't swing off the horse without putting her off first. He reached behind
him and pulled her up against his body. The horse was on solid ground now.
There was no more need to lean back.

"Better?"

He
felt a slight nod against his shoulder. He let the horse have some head, and
they moved away from the mountain toward an outcropping of boulders that under
any other conditions could have afforded them some shelter. But being in the
valley during the rain could mean disaster. Flash floods were common, and Sloan
couldn't count the number of men who'd bet their load of copper or silver
against the fates and lost.

"You
OK?" He wished she'd answer him. Her cry hadn't sounded like mere
discomfort. It had sounded like something else—like panic.

All
the noise and movement seemed to irritate the baby, who let his misery be known
with a wail. That seemed to bring Mary Grace to her senses. Sloan could feel
her stiffen behind him as if she'd come awake from a dream.

"Was
I hurtin' you?" he asked, feeling her wipe at her face behind him.
"Was I too heavy on you?"

"I'm
OK," she said. There was an edge to her voice as if she were angry at him.

"But
you—" he began.

She
cut him off. "I'm all right."

But
clearly she wasn't. And damn, in this position, he couldn't look her in the
eyes and see what was wrong. Just like the other women he'd known, this one was
playing games with him, saying one thing, meaning another. How the hell was he
supposed to guess what was setting her off? And now the rain was coming down in
earnest. He could hardly see the trail.

"The
remainder is all uphill," he said, glad to be resting his weight on his
own butt once again. "If you want, you can rest against me."

"What?"
she shouted at him over the baby's high-pitched wail.

Sloan
didn't repeat himself. In the distance he could just make out something moving
on the top of the ridge. Two somethings. Three.

He
eased the horse behind the rocks, a soft curse escaping his lips. There wasn't
time now to ride the horse to the high ground on the other side of the canyon.
Already the stallion's feet were sinking into the mud from the weight of his
burden, making smacking sounds as he raised them out of the muck.

The
three shadows were motionless on the mountainside.

"Quiet
him," Sloan ordered, shrugging out of the
poncho and lowering Mary Grace
into the mire beneath them. He set her down as gently as he could. Still, her
feet sank into the wet earth, and she fell to her knees. God, if she couldn't
manage it on two good legs...

He
threw his right leg over the horse's loins and pulled his left foot out of the
stirrup. His right hand held the rifle as he lowered himself into the mud. He
turned and
faced Mary Grace, who was struggling with the rain gear while the baby cried
loudly. Both the woman and the child were oblivious to the danger they were in.

Sloan
managed to keep his balance somehow and get to them. He pulled the poncho off
Mary Grace with one sweep and grabbed the baby up out of the pouch on her back.

"You've
got to quiet him," he told her, resting his hand lightly over the baby's
mouth, his lips near Mary Grace's ear. They were hidden from view, but the
canyons did funny things to sound, magnifying it, bouncing it off walls,
repeating it.

"What
is it? What's wrong?" she asked, barely above a whisper. "Are they
here?"

He
nodded tersely and spread the poncho over her head like a tent, leaving her and
the child beneath it. Then he busied himself with the horse, making sure that
it, too, was hidden by the rocks.

When
he returned, the child was quiet. He leaned down, one hand steadying himself on
the rocks, and picked up the edge of the blanket. Beneath it Mary Grace had
bared her breast, no doubt in desperation, and Ben was sucking on her nipple,
trying hopelessly to get the sweet nectar he was used to. Sloan stood
fascinated for a moment, watching the baby smack his fist against Mary Grace's
chest in frustration.

"Ah,
Sweet Mary," he said as she winced in pain. Her eyes shone with tears, but
she let the baby continue biting on her, trying to hide herself from Sloan,
trying to keep herself upright against the boulder, trying to survive. Silently
he handed her a dried peach he'd found in his saddlebags and gestured for her
to give it to the baby. She held on to the edge firmly and put it between the
baby's gums, covering herself at the same
time by lowering her shoulder and
pushing the blouse up with the baby's body.

"There's
a cave," he told her in hushed tones. "Do you think you can follow
me?" Tears ran down her cheeks as she nodded and pushed herself away from
the rocks.

He
turned to lead her, but the mud had a hold of his bad leg, and he couldn't lift
it to swing it in front of him. It was like being in quicksand. For a brief
moment Sloan thought he would have to crawl on his belly in the mud to get
anywhere. He stood stuck in the mire until beneath his armpit he felt Mary
Grace's strong shoulder, pushing up against him, encouraging him to lean on
her. Pressing down on her until she nearly crumbled under his weight, he freed
his foot and stumbled forward.

Together
they limped to the cave, a small triangular opening in the rocks that sheltered
them but did little else. Sloan eased Mary Grace down to the stone floor and
slid down next to her. He took the baby, and before she could cross her arms
against her chest he saw a pale red spot on her blouse. She was hugging herself
in pain, silent tears running down her face. He told himself he'd only asked
her to quiet the kid, not give him a pound of flesh, but it didn't help. Damn
stupid woman, letting herself be in pain on his account. Who asked her, anyway?

Her
bottom lip disappeared into her mouth, and still she tried to smile at him. He
didn't know what to say. And so he busied himself with the baby, refusing to
let him leave his arms and return to Mary Grace's. At least he could do that
much. No doubt she'd never want to hold Ben again. To his surprise, she bent
her head toward the baby and kissed his flailing fist. But her arms stayed
glued to her chest, and her knuckle was clamped between her teeth.

How
long could they stay in the cave, he wondered. The rain had lessened some, but
the streams were no doubt bursting by now, and a flood could come even after
the rain had stopped. Were the Tates still out there on the ridge, watching?
For himself, he had no preference between drowning and being shot to death,
although having already virtually suffered the latter he leaned slightly toward
the former. But the Tates would never hurt their nephew, and he could make it
appear that Mary Grace was an unwilling hostage.

Mary
Grace. She was unlike any woman he knew. Except maybe his ma. His pa used to
tell him stories about how the two of them had come west from St. Louis with a
wagon full of hope and little else. A flood had ruined most of their
provisions, and they were reduced to scavenging to survive. Never a complaint,
his father had said of his mother.

He
looked over at the woman with the red hair and freckles who had fallen into his
life. Her eyes were closed, and her head rested against the cave wall. Where
had she come from, really? And what would happen to her when this was all over?
And worse, why did he care? Why did he want to know that she would come out of
it all right? She was nothing to him. No woman was. Except his ma, but that was
different.

Then
he heard the distant rumbling. It was the water coming, rushing for them. There
wasn't even time to explain anything to Sweet Mary. He managed to get on his
feet and then picked up the baby from the muddy floor.

"Get
up!" His voice was loud and gruff, echoing off the walls of the cave. She
opened her eyes with a start, blinking at him as if to see him more clearly. He
hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep. "Do what I say," he said in a
softer voice, giving her his hand to help her up. When she was on her feet, he
handed Ben to her.

"I'll
go out first. If they're out there, you'll hear the shots. Scream your bloody
head off so they don't hit you or the baby. You understand?" He turned and
looked at her. She was white with fear.

"Don't
go out there," she begged him. "We'll be safe in here."

But
the sound of the water grew louder still, so loud even she had to hear it and
know what it meant. Gently he placed a kiss on the top of the baby's head, and
touched Mary Grace's soft cheek. Then he was gone, the baby reaching for him
long after he had vanished from their sight.

She
listened for the sound of shots but heard nothing above the roaring of the
water. Unexpectedly, a hand appeared at the top of the cave opening, hanging
down like a dead man's, over her head.

A
hand, then an arm. It was Sloan's. She screamed, and he waved to quiet her. He
wasn't dead, then. He beckoned her with one finger, and she inched out of the
cave and turned to look at him. His mouth was moving, but his words were swept
away by the wall of water rushing toward her.

She
yanked the baby from the sling and stood as tall as she could, holding him high
above her head. She sank into the mud, found firmer footing, tried again. And
again, and yet again, until she felt the little boy lifted from her fingertips.