Mittman, Stephanie (17 page)

"Just
hold on to me," he said. "You don't need to swim, at all." He
tried to pull her to him, to lift her legs until they encircled his waist, but
she shied away. She reminded him of a wild horse that needed taming. He had
told her he was the best at that. He intended to prove it. Maybe he couldn't
break horses anymore, but one young woman ought to be able to be persuaded....

"Shhh,
now, Sweet Mary. Let me get that soap out of your hair. There's nothing to be
afraid of. Have I hurt you yet?" he asked. She trod water a mere two feet
from him. He could hear her breath, ragged and heavy.

"Turn
around," he directed, spinning her in the water until her back was to him.
"Now put your head back. I ain't gonna hurt you. Further. There's soap up
by the top."

She
leaned back, and as she did her body began to float. Her breasts rose from the
surface of the water like twin peaks, the tops ablaze with deepened color. Her
femininity lifted out of the pond for a moment, the hair glistening in the
moonlight and then falling again below the surface. Rivulets of water made
lines across her belly, shimmering like veins of silver in a darkened mine.

He
played with her hair as though he was trying to remove the soap, and followed
it to its ends, trailing them over her chest. He thought for a moment about
which nipple Ben had brutalized, looked quickly over to make sure the child was
still asleep and safe, and then gently took the unbruised breast in his hand.

She
stiffened beneath him, but she didn't pull away. Maybe he'd read her wrong
after all. Maybe she was more willing than he'd figured. The thought emboldened
him. He hadn't been with a woman who hadn't been bought and paid for since he'd
lain with Emily Tate. And for some reason he couldn't put his finger on, Sweet
Mary wasn't just any woman.

He
eased his way down from Mary Grace's head so that he was next to her, subtly
moving her to where he was able to stand, but continuing to ripple the water so
that it danced over her floating body.

He
dipped his head and kissed the tip of her nipple, his lips barely brushing the
skin. She hardened under his gaze, and this time when he leaned to kiss her
breast, he took the nub within his mouth, running his tongue over the captured
bud. The water rushed in and out of his mouth, wetting her over and over,
making his mouth slide over her nipple, encouraging him to explore the whole
mound with his tongue.

One
hand supported the small of her back, keeping her afloat. The other began to
trail its way down her midriff, creeping lower and lower until his fingers
tangled in the web of her curly hair. Her own hand rested against his torso,
tentatively tracing his ribs. She reached his scars, and her probing fingers
examined them.

He
tried to ignore the image of his own body that came into his mind. His fingers
were searching on their own, looking for the entrance to her femininity,
wishing she would spread herself and let him in. His lips
moved up to her
neck, and the hand beneath her back slackened to let her middle sink slightly.
As she sank in the warm water, her hand trailed down his stomach, and his own
breath pounded in his ears. One hand still rested under her back, massaging her
gently, but it was the hand that gripped her femininity that kept her afloat.
She pressed herself against him, arching toward the moonlit sky, her eyes
closed and her face serene.

Her
hand trailed lower and lower on his abdomen until it reached his manhood.
"Touch me," he whispered by her ear.

"Oh
my God!" she said, tears coming to her eyes unexpectedly. She pulled away
from him, pushing against his chest with her arm, her knee, eventually her
foot, then swimming rapidly across to the other side of the pond as if she had
discovered a Gila monster in her hand.

His
own hand reached down, and he felt himself, now limp, his finger seeking out
the familiar scar. He had been fooling himself if he thought it didn't matter.
He couldn't get over his own stupidity. He'd have been able to take her, right
there in the water, without her ever knowing, if he hadn't said those two
little words. What was it that circus fellow once said? There's a sucker born
every minute. And he was this minute's boy.

Had
it been some two-bit whore, he might have been able to shrug it off. The fact
that it was Sweet Mary cut him to his bones, leaving his pride to bleed him dry
as he stood alone in the water.

***

Mary
Grace bounded up onto the rocks, scraping her shin, and threw the poncho around
her shoulders. The baby looked fine. Sure that Sloan would see to him, she ran,
slipping through the crack in the rocks, back to the campfire and sat down by
the dwindling embers.

So
many years had passed. Still, it was not enough. Was she never going to get
over her mistakes? And what did she think she was doing back there in the pond,
except maybe making yet another mistake? Why hadn't she stopped him sooner?
Because, she admitted, she liked what he was doing. Liked how it made her feel,
all liquid inside, warm and limp and so different than a man must feel.

That
was it. The feel of him in her own hand. Hearing him tell her what to do. So
much like before, so close to disaster. Just when she'd thought that her past
was behind her and that she could see each man for himself and think maybe,
someday, about a life that included a husband and children, she'd touched the
past with her fingers and the future had slipped through them.

And
even if she'd been able to go through with it, could she ever tell a man like
Sloan, a man whose world was so different from hers, revolving around revenge
and good and bad and right and wrong, what she had done?

She
could hear his footsteps coming toward the fire, and she lay down on the
ground, pretending to be asleep. He came and stood near her, his naked body
dripping on her face. He laid the baby down next to her, and then he was gone.

Through
tiny slits she saw him throw more wood on the fire. Then he returned to her
side.

"You're
gonna have to share that blanket, Mary Grace, like it or no. I been good to
you, and patient. I don't deserve to freeze to death just for bein' the man I
am."

He
took his place on the other side of the baby and pulled the covers out of Mary
Grace's hands until she lay stark naked before his eyes. It took every ounce of
strength he had not to reach out and touch her. Her hip was a mottled brown and
blue from her ride over his saddle, and her knee was drawn up, hiding her
womanhood from his view. Her breasts were pressed together as she lay on her
side, her arm thrown across them modestly.

She
was shuddering visibly, and Sloan didn't know whether cold or fear or pure
misery made her quake beneath his gaze. He tucked the three of them under the
poncho and put his arm under his head, gazing up at the clear night, listening
for the sounds of Ben and Mary Grace sleeping.

Ben's
quiet breathing was an even whistle near his father's ear. But Mary Grace lay
silent, as if she was holding her breath. He raised himself up on one elbow to
look at her in the firelight and could see wet streaks on her cheek.

"It's
all right, Sweet Mary," he said quietly. "I'm not gonna touch you. Go
to sleep."

The
ragged breath she drew in startled him. It was so broken, so sad, so devoid of
hope. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. How could he apologize for
what had been done to him, and how it had affected her?

"It
don't matter none. The scars don't hurt, 'cept the leg, and I'm used to the
ugliness. My clothes'll be dry in the morning, and you won't need to be seeing
no part of me from here on out."

He
hadn't expected her to speak. He'd been talking as much to the sky or himself
as he had been to her, and so it surprised him when he heard her voice.

"What
scars?"

He
moved out of the way of the fire, trying to get as much light on her face as
possible. She was looking at him questioningly, her eyebrows lowered in
concentration.

"What
scars?" he repeated. "What scars? If it wasn't the scars, why the
hell did you run like it was the undertaker measuring your ass?" He was
sitting up now, and she struggled to keep the covers over her chest.

"I'm
sorry." she said quietly. "I wanted to stay. I thought I could stay.
But I couldn't."

She
was breathing that ragged way again, and there was nothing he could do but
sigh.

"It's
OK, I told you," he said. "Don't go thinking you hurt my feelings or
nothing. I know what I look like. I know what it feels like to touch...."

A
look of wonder came over Mary Grace's face. She nearly smiled as the thought
dawned on her.

"You
think I ran away because of you?" she asked. "Because of your gunshot
wounds? Is that it?"

The
blanket was nearly at his waist already. He
pulled it slightly lower, exposing the
scars on his side, and then threw his stiff leg over the covers so that it too
was visible in the light from the fire. His knee was gone, shattered by a
bullet and then operated on by more than one Indian shaman who was trying to
keep Chief Navaho convinced that he had the power to keep him alive. They had
treated it with herbs, chants, poultices, and prayers, and they'd pinned it
closed with yucca needle tips. It glowed red and angry in the dim light.

"Look
at 'em, Mary Grace. Get your fill. After tonight you won't never have to look
at 'em again."

Her
fingers reached out toward him, and he flinched. What the hell was she doing?
One of her fingertips traced the circular scars on his chest, and then made its
way tentatively down his leg.

"How
did you get them all? Did Harlin shoot you so many times?"

He
nodded. Her hand was freezing cold on his leg, and yet it burned him everywhere
she touched. "Emptied two six-shooters." At her shocked look he
amended his words. "He was a lousy shot."

"He
could have killed you."

He
laughed. "That was the general idea." Her hand was more than he could
stand. He removed it and tucked them both back under the covers.

"Why?"

He
hesitated. It had never really made all that much sense to him. Well, it was as
good a time as any to make her realize just what kind of man he was.
"Caught me between his sister's legs. S'pose if they'd known about Ben
they'd a made me part of the family, so you'd have to say I was lucky,
wouldn'tcha? Course, at the time, I didn't think so. Prayed I'd die for a long
time. Just didn't. Damn Havasupai shamans wouldn't let me."

"Native
American spiritualists saved your life?"

"Huh?
Who?"

"The
Native American spiritualists."

What
on earth was she talking about now? Every time he thought they were having a
normal discussion, she'd change horses midstream and wind up on a mule going in
the other direction.

"The
Havasupai ain't Americans. They're Indians. Don't know what tribes you got near
you, but we got Apache, Yavapai, Navajo, Hopi, and my good friends the
Havasupai. Live down in the canyon. My luck they were up on the mesa hunting
and found me after Harlin left me for dead."

"Why
didn't the Tates just make you marry Emily? Or wouldn't you?"

He
thought about it. "Hell of a price to pay for a roll in the hay, don't you
think?"

Her
eyes flew to Ben, his dark curly hair sticking up around his face, his lips
sucking the air.

"You're
thinkin' Emily paid," he said. "Maybe I'd a married her, I don't
know. I didn't have the luxury of the choice. Bet Harlin caught hell for
feeding me to the coyotes, though. Last thing I heard Emily say before I passed
out was something like T didn't think you'd kill him, Harlin!' Damned if I know
how the hell he ever found us...."

"And
then he just left you for dead?"

It
was the first time he'd ever told the story, and it surprised him how exciting
it sounded. The truth was it was a quick hop in the sack; a blur of gunfire;
and a long, slow, painful recovery. Sweet Mary's wide eyes helped make it seem
better than it was.

"Guess
so. I woke up once or twice on the way down to the floor of the canyon. The
pain was so bad I kept passing out. That, and I musta run outta blood, the way
it was pouring outta me."

"Why
did the Native Americans help you instead of bringing you to a hospital?"

"Who?"

"The
Havasupai," she corrected herself. Sloan wondered why she seemed to have a
problem with the term "Indian." Maybe she'd had some trouble from
them somewhere along the way. He'd have to remember to ask.

"Well,
they aren't supposed to come out of the canyon, and they sure couldn't just go
waltzing into spine town, even if there'd been one nearbys. But Navaho's son
was the real reason, I think. He didn't like what his father was doing to the
shamans, and I guess he thought I was as good a way as any to stop him."

"I
don't understand."

The
fire was dying down, and Sloan turned over, reached the pile of sticks he'd
gathered and threw a few more onto the burning embers. Sparks shot up and for a
moment the little campsite looked like a party. He turned back to Mary Grace.
That hair of hers sure did dance in the light. Little sparks danced in her eyes
and shadows played across her pretty face. It took him a minute before he
remembered what she'd wanted explained.