Mittman, Stephanie (25 page)

"Asshole!"
Kyle shouted angrily from atop the horse. His arm came up, and he smashed the
butt of Sloan's gun into Jackson's skull. The surprised man crumbled beneath
the crashing blow, falling first to his knees, teetering on them for a moment.
Then, his hand still clutching himself, he pitched forward on his face, inches
from Mary Grace.

Williams
picked up the inert form and threw him over Climber's saddle. "I'd watch
the offers I made, ma'am, if I was you," he warned, tipping his hat and
turning away. "And if Westin wakes up before your man gets here, I'd hit
him over the head with the biggest rock I could find if I was you. And do it
before he talks your skirts up."

"But
he can't..." the injured man interrupted.

"Harlin
didn't cut out his tongue, too," he replied. "Man only did half the
job."

If
they said anything else, Mary Grace didn't hear them. Her hands were held
crushingly over her ears.

She
didn't dare move until the men were out of sight. Then she scrambled to her
knees and untied Sloan with fumbling fingers. He was still unconscious. The
baby began to fuss, and she quieted him down with a wet rag to suck. Then she
sat with her knees hugged up against her chest, rocking herself numbly, unaware
that the fire was going out, that the sun was beginning to rise, and that Sloan
Westin was beginning to come around.

***

Pain
shot through his right leg, bolted up his thigh, and clutched at his heart. He
moaned and opened his eyes to dawn. Every part of him ached. Turning his head
was agony. In front of him he saw nothing put sagebrush, cactus, and rock.
There was no sign of Mary Grace or the baby.

"No!"
he screamed, his voice carrying out over the desert, hollow and without hope.
He flipped over and saw Mary Grace, her expression bleak and lifeless.

"Thank
God! Are you all right?"

She
looked over at him blankly and then looked away.

"The
men?" he asked. "Are they gone?"

"Yes,"
she said softly. "They're gone."

He
scrambled over to her on his stomach, not willing to take the time to get to
his feet before touching her and reassuring himself that she was there, whole
and safe. He took her face in his hands and dragged her to him.

"You're
all right," he sighed, his fingers tangled in her hair. "Ben! Is
Ben...?"

She
was stiff in his arms, and he released her. Ben lay just a few feet beyond her,
and again he crawled on his belly, oblivious to the cactus needles that pricked
at his palms, until he was beside his son.

"Ben!"
he shouted, and the baby started at the sound of his name, his little arms and
legs twitching in response. Sloan leaned over him and looked into his bright
blue eyes, caught his wide grin, and watched the familiar drool trickle across
his cheek.

"He's
all right," he said, as much to himself as to Mary Grace. "He's all
right and you're all right...."

He
looked up at Mary Grace, who still sat where he had left her, and his joy
evaporated. They'd hurt her, he was sure, and he eased his way over to her,
taking the baby with him.

"They
took Climber," she said simply, without emotion.

He
reached out to comfort her, and she pulled away from his touch.

"And
the guns. Your rifle, the other, the regular ones, you know," she said in
her monotone.

"The
six-shooters?"

She
nodded.

"Well,
we're not that far from Jerome. We can walk it." There was no point in
telling her how hopeless any escape was now. A gimp, a woman, and a baby, all
hoping to outrun the Tate boys with no horse, no guns, and no food. And he
still wasn't sure if it was all right to move Ben. And Mary Grace was sitting
on the ground in some kind of
trance, staring off into the distance like she was
watching for the U.S. Cavalry. What in hell had they done to her?

"Did
they stay all night with you?" he asked.
Did they take turns with you,
passing you around and laughing?
He'd kill them all. Jackson, the others,
if he lived. They'd all die for hurting Sweet Mary.

She
shook her head. It was as much of a response as he was likely to get.

"Did
they hurt you much?" he asked, so quietly he wasn't even sure she heard.

"Mary?"
There had been three of them, and he'd been out for hours. Now here she sat,
and he might as well be asking Ben what happened, for all the answers Sweet
Mary was giving him.

She
mumbled something he couldn't hear and sat rubbing her arms as if she couldn't
get warm.

"How
long they been gone?" he tried, and leaned toward her so that he would be
able to hear her answer. She jumped away at his touch.

"Hours.
It was dark when they left."

"What
did they do to you? Tell me what they did." He tried to touch her again,
but she jerked back. "What did they do?"

She
shrugged. What the hell kind of answer was that? And the look she was giving
him.... The hollowness was quickly being replaced by something more ominous.
Damned if she didn't seem mad at him!

"Did
they touch you?" he demanded.

She
shook her head. "How could you?"

"Now
look, Sweet Mary," he began.

"My
name is Mary Grace. Or Miss O'Reilly. I'd appreciate it if in the future you
addressed me by either of those names." Her words were clipped, and
despite her anger he felt an overwhelming relief to see her acting more like
herself again.

"All
right, Miss O'Reilly. You know I couldn't help what happened to you. I tried.
You saw that. I was willing to let 'em shoot me before letting 'em touch you,
but... I'm sorry if they hurt you. I'd do anything to change it, but I can't,
and there ain't no use being mad at me. I'd never force myself on you or any
other woman, and I don't see as why I should take the blame for Daniel Jackson
and his bunch."

"Are
you through?" She waited until he nodded curtly, and then she turned on
him. Her eyes were sparkling with tears trying to escape down her face. Her
hair was a mess of red curls, the early morning sun setting them on fire. And
her freckles were so dark they stood out like punctuation marks from her
sunburned cheeks. It took a great deal of concentration to listen to what she
was saying.

"Those
men treated me better than you have, especially considering your little
transgressions with Mr. Jackson's wife, along with every other woman in the
state of Arizona. They didn't lay a hand on me, Sloan Westin...."

"Territory,"
he said, checking the angle of the sun and listening for any signs of the
Tates. They really didn't have time for this argument.

"What?"

"Territory.
Arizona ain't a state yet. It's a territory."

"Who
gives a flying fig whether it's a state or a territory? You seduced me. You
made me think you loved me and what we were doing was special...."

"Wasn't
it?" he asked, this time rising slowly and painfully to his feet. His leg
hurt like hell, but he didn't want to scare Mary Grace into thinking he
wouldn't be able to manage to get them all to safety. How the hell he'd do it,
he wasn't sure, but there was no sense troubling her more than she already was.

"I
thought I meant something to you. All these years I've
been so careful
to not let it happen again, and then what happens? What do I go and do? I let
you do it to me, just like I let him, and it didn't mean anything to either of
you, and now I've slept with two men who weren't my husband and never will be
and..."

"Maybe
you just ain't too good at pickin' your men," Sloan said with a shrug.
"You never heard me say nothin' about love, did you?" The thought of
her letting some other man touch her wound around his neck like a rope. That
she was lumping them both in the same saddlebag tightened the noose till he
could hardly breathe. And then he heard what she had said. They hadn't touched
her, Jackson and his men.

"You
sure they didn't touch you?" he asked, searching her face.

"You're
a pig," she said, and her nose wrinkled in disgust. "You think that
all women are fair game whether or not they're married, or whether or not
they're willing..."

"You
was willing," he said, trying to give her a hand getting up. She batted it
away.

"Damn
you," she said, biting her lip to stop the tears. "Damn you to hell
for making me break those vows."

"Listen,
Sweet Mary, we ain't got time for this fight. The Tates can't be more than a
couple hours behind us. I'll tell you now..."

"Miss
O'Reilly. I don't want you to call me Sweet Mary or Mary Love or M.G. or any
other endearment ever again." He studied her face. She was mad all right,
but she seemed OK other than that. Mad he could handle. It was that sad, empty
look that scared the bejeesus out of him.

"M.G.?
That what
he
called you?"

"Who?"
She wouldn't look him in the eye.
Fine.

"You
must be hungry. I'll find us something to eat." She
shrugged in
response, and he sighed. They didn't have time for this. They didn't have time
for anything he wanted to say, or do, to make her know in her heart what she
did to him. Even when she was angry at him, his muscles twitched with longing
to press her up against the length of him and hold her until he could feel his
own heart seek out her rhythm and match her, beat for beat, as if they were
only one being.

He
limped past her, stopping to put his hand on her shoulder and give it a squeeze
despite the unyielding body beneath his palm. He scanned the horizon, searching
for something to feed his little family. A mesquite tree, fairly dripping with
pods, stood within walking distance, even for a crippled man, and he started
out for it.

Before
he reached the tree, he found a dead coyote lying in his path. He kicked it
over and let loose a whoop that brought Mary Grace running to his side, his
knife clutched in her hand, the baby bouncing on her hip. So much for not
caring, he thought as he smiled at his avenging angel.

"Dead
coyote," he explained. His boot toe pointed out the arched row of teeth
marks, complete with the two fang bites that floated above it. "Coral
snake used up its venom on the coyote. Ben's gonna be just fine."

He
ruffled the dark hair on Ben's head, the back of his hand brushing against Mary
Grace's breast. The smile on her face melted, and he took his hand away. So
that was how it was to be. Well, they didn't have time to celebrate, anyway. By
now the Tates were surely up and back on their trail. The only question was
whether Sloan could find them a hiding place before it was too late. It seemed
to him Mason Tate had a personal interest in finding Mary Grace, and he didn't
like the feel of that way down low in his gut.

Mary
Grace focused all her
energy and attention on Ben. He was going to be
all right, and that was all that mattered. And if she was the kind of person
who believed in signs from heaven and the like, she'd have allowed herself to
imagine that finding the coyote and being assured Ben would live surely meant
that what she had done was forgiven. After all, surely these circumstances were
extraordinary.

Still,
as she followed Sloan up higher and higher into the mountains, her breath
coming in shorter and shorter gasps, she kept a safe distance between the two
of them. She had no intention of making another mistake, nor was she going to
relive her sordid past just to satisfy his idle curiosity. She let him touch
her only when he was helping her to climb, and she kept her conversation
confined to Ben, who now slept against her back.

Above
her, Sloan sought a handhold from which to hoist himself higher still. His leg
was a hindrance, her
help an embarrassment. The muscles in his arms bulged against his sleeves, the
back of his shirt strained at the seams, as he used all his upper-body strength
to heave himself onto the rocky ledge above them and then lean over and put his
hand down to pull Mary Grace and the baby up.

"We'll
rest," he said between breaths once he had them both beside him. "We
can see good from here, and it won't be long before we know where we
stand."

To
Mary Grace it was clear where they stood: on a precipice over a nameless desert
in the middle of nowhere, where, if the Tates didn't finish them off, the
elements would. She had bristled at him as though it was all his fault. If
she'd uttered a single pleasant word to him all morning, she couldn't recall it
now. She felt his eyes studying her and kept her own averted. The last thing
she wanted in this world was to connect with him again. Open herself up for
another round of pain and heartache.

"Why
are you so damn mad at me, anyways?" he asked. "If Jackson didn't
hurt you none, and you said he didn't, how come suddenly there's this wall you
keep addin' bricks to?"

Why
was she mad at him, anyway? He'd told her about being a ladies' man in his
bronco days. He hadn't lied to her about anything, hadn't promised her
anything, hadn't done anything to her that she hadn't encouraged him to do. And
there she had it. He'd gotten her defenses down, but not without plenty of help
on her part.