Mittman, Stephanie (12 page)

"I've
got him," Sloan shouted, and then his hand was down again, reaching for
her. She hung in the air as he strained to lift her onto the rocky plateau, her
feet inches above the rapidly rising stream.

Her
back hit the rock first, smashing against it before he could manage to ease her
up onto her bottom. The pain shot through her, and she'd have fallen from his
hands if he hadn't tightened his grip and
hauled her up without any help from
her. Once out of the river's way, she leaned back on the rock, trying to catch
her breath.

"Don't
get too comfortable," he told her when he had settled the baby against his
chest. "This isn't high enough." There was no walking on the slippery
rocks. Sloan crawled, his right leg out to his side, looking for a way to the
next plateau.

Mary
Grace strained to stand, but her muddy skirt was so heavy she could barely get
to her feet. She tried to rip the skirt, but the fabric refused to give.

"Come
on," Sloan shouted. Somehow he'd made it higher and was once again
reaching down to pull her up. She slipped out of the soaked muslin skirt and
scurried toward him, dragging the skirt behind her. She threw the skirt up next
to him and then put up her hand. This time he lifted her right past the edge of
the cliff and set her down gently.

"You're
much lighter that way," he remarked, his eyes averted from her long, pale,
freckled legs that disappeared beneath the edge of her blouse.

She
looked up toward the ridge where the three riders had been. It was empty now,
the rain so hard and dense that the mountain seemed connected to the sky.

Ben
was fascinated by the rain and the flood. Or maybe he was just so cold, like
Mary Grace, that he couldn't even cry. So all three of them watched the moving
wall of water pass beneath them, filling the cave, washing out the path they
traveled. Debris floated in the instant river beneath them, which swelled and
swelled to accommodate the trees, rocks, and animals it carried along. A
full-grown deer floated by, its antlers smashing into the rocks, its wide-open
eyes frozen in fear. Mary Grace hugged the child closer to her chest.

"It's
all right," she assured him. "It's all right." The
baby's eyes
were on her; hers were on Sloan. His searched the river that surged beneath
them. Walls of dirty rushing water smashed heavy boulders against their little
outcropping like hardened dirt rocks against a fence post. He huddled his
little son and Mary Grace against him, trying to shield them with his body, not
even noticing when the rain let up and the noise of the water began to lessen.

"I
think it's over," Mary Grace said finally, withdrawing from his shelter
and lifting her head.

A
ray of sunlight struck the pile of rocks on which they'd weathered the storm.
Sloan straightened his body, trying to unkink his arms and leg, arching his
back, rubbing his right leg to restore the feeling.

"I
know this is a helluva time to ask," Mary Grace said once the danger
seemed passed. Her teeth were chattering, and her skin had taken on a
distinctly bluish tint. "But you do have a plan, don't you? I mean, beyond
just loving your son and wanting him back?"

Sloan
threw back his head and laughed. For nearly a year he had lain on his back in
the wickiup of the chief's son on the Havasupai reservation making plans. Of
course, he hadn't known about Ben then. He had simply been obsessed with how to
kill Harlin Tate. Just shooting Mason and Wilson would do. And Emily, well, he
had planned to make her pay, as well. But his life had centered around Harlin.
And once he had made Harlin pay, he would get his life back.

"Ben
didn't enter the plan at all," he admitted. "He was sort of a bonus,
if you could call him that. Taking him away from Harlin was just one more step
in getting my old life back. The plan was to make Harlin Tate pay. And pay. And
pay." He searched the area beneath them, looking for the horse. There was
no sign of Climber anywhere.

"But
then when you found out about the baby," Mary Grace continued. "Then
things changed, right?"

"Right.
I had to take what was mine. You sure were a snag in the wire roll," he
said, patting the downy black hair on the baby's head.

"And
now that you have your son..."

"Gonna
bring him home to my mama and come back for Harlin. You see, I had a certain
way of life, let's say, and Harlin Tate took that away from me. Now I may not
be the man I was, but I'm still a man, and until I make Harlin pay for what he
done to me, I ain't gonna be able to look at myself in the mirror without
wantin' to spit."

"Excuse
me?" Mary Grace said. Her eyes were wide with disbelief, and there was no
mistaking the anger in her voice. "We're on top of some boulder, in the
middle of nowhere, your son and I are freezing to death, we have nothing to
eat, no horse, as far as I can see, and all you want to talk about is revenge?
And on top of that, you probably think you're Superdad for going after this
child. Isn't it just like a man to think he's a father just because he slept
with a woman?"

"Last
I heard, that's all it takes," he said, trying to figure out just what had
this woman so riled she could have eaten his liver for lunch, raw. Was it his
fault that it had rained? She'd have drowned without him. And this was how she
showed her gratitude? If he hadn't lifted her up... He interrupted his own
thought. Before he'd lifted her, she'd handed up his son. Of course, she
couldn't have climbed with him any better than he could have. When he raised
his eyes to her, he found her staring back at him.

"You
don't love this child, do you? You just want to do the macho thing, even if it
risks all our lives. Is that it?"

"If
you'll bother thinkin' back, Miss O'Reilly, it was you that insisted on staying
with my boy and me. It ain't my fault you ain't cozied up with old Mason Tate's
fat to keep ya warm, now, is it?" He looked at the woman sitting next to
him on the rock, holding his son, and wondered what it was about her that left
him saying things he didn't even mean. There they were, soaked through to the
skin, and it worried him some that the baby had stopped fussing.

"Is
he OK?" he asked.

"He's
still breathing, if that's what you're asking. It all depends on what you mean
by OK." She shifted the baby, and he saw the red stain on her blouse had
elongated with the rain, stretching down several inches from the tip of her
breast. He saw her grimace as the baby snuggled closer and knew he was putting
them through a lot. But as he'd said, he hadn't invited her, and how was he
supposed to know what a kid needed? With the Tates close enough to track them
by the baby's scent, he had more to worry about than a woman's bruised
feelings.

"Is
he sick?" Sloan asked.

She
felt the child's forehead. "Not yet," she said. "He's sleeping.
This has been quite a day for a six-month-old."

"He's
only four months," Sloan corrected.

"Four?"

"I'm
not likely to forget when I met Harlin Tate, to the minute, nor when I... was
with his sister."

"But,"
Mary Grace began, then realized there was no point in arguing with him. After
all, who would know better? Her or the baby's father? "I repeat, you do
have a plan, don't you?"

"I
told you. I want my life back. I want to be the man I was, a hard ridin',
whorin', son of a bitch cowboy that
never asked nothin' from nobody and
never took shit from nobody, neither."

"Well,
you've got the son of a bitch part down," Mary Grace said. "Will
killing Harlin get you the rest of it? I think not."

She
sounded like some schoolmarm. "Oh, you think not," he said imitating
her. "Well, you don't know what it's like, giving up the life you had. I
was a broncobuster on my father's ranch. You know what that is? I rode the
wildest horses there are until I rode all the wild out of 'em. The rodeo in
Prescott? I used to win it with my eyes closed. I could take down a
seven-hundred-pound steer easy as a two-day-old calf. Got me more silver belt
buckles as prizes than there are days in the week to wear 'em. I won't even go
into the women part, you bein' a lady and all. But you wouldn't understand. I
want my life back."

He
took off his shirt and wrapped it over her legs. At least that way he could
keep his eyes from tracing the path up her legs to the point where they joined.
The point where her red hair would be deeper, where he could lose himself the
way he always had before. His gut twisted. Remembering was doing his insides no
good at all.

She
took the shirt off her legs and wrapped it around the baby, then shifted her
body around so that her legs were no longer visible to him. When she turned to
look at him, her eyes were full of tears.

"
I
don't understand what it's like to want your life back?
I
don't
understand?" she said, her voice rising to a fever pitch. "I'm the
one who lost her life here somewhere. You've got a bum leg. Well, poor you.
I've lost my goddamn life! I don't know a soul alive today, and no one knows
me. If I fell off this stupid rock and died, no one would know, or care. Don't
talk to me about
wanting your life back, you selfish, self-centered, vengeful lunatic. Your son
and I just might die because of your stupid vendetta, but do you care? No.
You're worried about honor and garbage like that...."

The
sun was peeking out from behind the clouds, warming the day quickly. Sloan's
chest was dry, and if they spread the clothes out, it wouldn't take long for
them to dry, either. He pictured her the way he saw her that first day, sunning
on the rocks. Way down in his groin he felt the stirring of something warm, and
he knew it wasn't just the sun through his Levi's. He could suggest they take
their clothes off and let them dry.

He
lifted his head to look at Mary Grace, who had turned away after shouting at
him. Her back was shaking, and he had no way of knowing if she, like the baby,
was crying or simply shivering in her wet clothes.

"You're
wrong about one thing," he said quietly. She seemed to hold her breath.

"Someone
would care if you died."

She
didn't ask whether he meant himself or Ben, and so he didn't have to say. He
wondered about the people who did care about her. He wondered, too, if he
should count himself among them.

"Mr.
Westin?" Mary Grace said quietly in his ear when the baby had finally
succumbed to the rocking motion of the horse and fallen asleep.

He
sighed. "Sloan. Hey you. Cowboy. Anything but Mr. Westin. Huh, Sweet Mary?
Can you manage that?"

"I...
are we going to die, anyway? Because if we are, I'd just as soon get it over
with. There isn't a part of me that doesn't hurt. My face is so sunburned I
don't think I could smile if there was something to smile about, and my throat
is so dry I can hardly swallow."

"Just
hold on till nightfall. OK, Sweet Mary? Just hold on till then, all
right?"

She
tried to answer, but it took too much effort, so she just nodded and leaned her
head against his back. He took the canteen from her, took a small swig, and put
the strap back over his saddle horn. He'd promised to fix everything, but words
and plans weren't enough to keep his son fed and dry. Nor the woman, neither.

"Sweet
Mary?" he said softly, but she didn't respond.

He
could feel her weight against him. "Mary Grace?" Still nothing.
"Sleep well, then," he told her and gave Climber an inspirational
sermon in the flanks with his spurs. The horse lifted his head as if to ask
what more his master could want, and Sloan clucked at him out of the side of
his mouth.

"Get
on with ya, then," he told the tired stallion. "You'll be swimmin' at
the end of the trail."

The
damn horse was getting slower with every step, and Sloan began to face the
possibility that the Tates might win what would be his last showdown. Wasn't it
a damn shame that the one that really mattered, the one that could cost Ben and
Sweet Mary their futures, would be the one he couldn't pull off? He'd talked,
conned, or fought his way out of a hundred tough spots before ever meeting
Emily Tate and her crazy brothers.

The
baby began stirring. Sloan heard the now familiar gurgles and coos as Ben tried
to rouse Mary Grace, still sleeping against his back. How long could he keep
the horse going before Ben began to raise his voice and give his uncles a
reason to head in their direction? Not long, as the baby finally began to cry,
and Sloan had to give in and give them all a rest. He lowered Mary Grace and
the baby to the ground and dismounted after them. Putting some water in his
hat, he gave the horse a lick's worth, and then turned to look at his charges.

Mary
Grace's face was bright with color, putting to shame the flowers on the
saguaro. Her lips were white and dry, and they cracked when she tried to smile
at him. Lord, how had he gotten himself into such a mess? Ought to teach him
where not to drop his drawers. Only the lesson was a useless one, now.

The
baby was shrieking in Mary Grace's arms, and she was having a difficult time
just holding on to him as he arched his back and stiffened his legs against her
belly.