Mittman, Stephanie (28 page)

"Take
whatever you want," the man said. "I ain't got much, but seein' as
how you got a woman and a child with you, I don't want to be unfriendly."

Wilson
laughed. "Thanks, old man. We was waitin' for your permission."

"Can
I shoot him, Mason?" Harlin asked. Mason was running a flame beneath his
knife in preparation for opening the baby's wounds. If he heard Harlin, he made
no move to answer him.

"No,"
Mary Grace said in his stead. "The man offered you whatever you want,
Harlin. Just take what you need and leave him alone. Did you get a clean
cloth?"

"You
spend last night in your cabin, old man?" Mason asked, ignoring the others
and their talk.

"Course
I did. Only a damn fool stays out in the desert."

Harlin
put the barrel of his pistol against the man's nose, pushing until he could see
clear up to his sinuses. "We all stayed out in the desert last night,
pisshead. You callin' Mason Tate a damn fool?"

"Mason
Tate?" the man repeated, leaning against the wall for support. "You
the Tate boys?"

Mason
Tate crossed the room swiftly and put his hand against the old man's neck,
raising him until the man stood tottering on his tiptoes. "I asked you if
you stayed in your cabin last night."

"I
did, I did. I said I did," the man sputtered. "You were welcome, but
I didn't know you were out there, though I did hear some noises in the
night."

"This
woman here last night?" Mason asked.

"No,
oh no," he said, shaking his head vehemently. "I didn't touch your
woman. Never saw your woman. Wasn't she with you?"

"Let
me shoot him, Mason," Harlin begged. "I ain't shot no one in a long
time. A week, maybe."

Mary
Grace felt dizzy. The alcohol had gone to her head. She groped for the bed,
stumbling over her feet, swaying back and forth, flailing her arms, falling
against Wilson.
He steadied her and pushed her toward the cot. She grabbed his arm and fought
her thickening tongue. "He can't sloot sim," she said. "I mean,
he can't hoot slim."

Mason
lifted the man higher still off the floor. "What kind of noises did you
hear last night?"

"Well,
first I heard a shot. Leastwise, I thought that was what woke me up. Then I
heard a scream way off in the distance. Miles maybe. Can't tell around here,
what with the mountains and the desert and all the damn rocks. If I'd a known
what direction it came from I'd a gone to help, but I'm tellin' ya around here
there's just no telling..."

Mason
turned and looked at Mary Grace, who was rocking slightly on the bed, her jaw
feeling slack, her eyelids heavy.

"What
was the gunshot?" he asked.

"Shake,"
she muttered. Wilson put one hand on her arm and shook her gently. "No,
no. Corkle shake. Coral snake. That's it. Corkle snake."

Mason
tried to keep a straight face as Mary Grace fought for her dignity. "And
the scream?" he asked.

She
sobered slightly, remembering Jackson coming toward her, his intentions hard
and thick in his hand, coming closer and closer. Overwhelmed by nausea, she
leaped toward the door and heaved onto the ground that surrounded the one
rickety wooden step to the cabin. She leaned against the door frame weakly.

Behind
her she could hear Harlin pleading with Mason to let him go after Sloan.

"Damn
it, Harlin, stop pesterin' me. We're gonna stay here till tomorrow to make sure
Horace is OK. If you gotta send someone hoppin' over coals in hell, you can
have this guy. He don't have anythin' more to look forward to anyway, do you,
old man?"

"Now
look, I can make y'all a nice supper, maybe give your clothes a good washin'.
I'm a useful man. I don't mean you no harm and I..."

A
shot rang out. Mary Grace crumpled very ungracefully down the edge of the
doorway and sprawled out, her face smacking into the step on its way toward the
dirt.

***

He
hid only a hundred yards or so from the house, far enough to be safely out of
view, but not so far that he couldn't hear men's voices filtering up to him
through the trees. Whoever had built the tumbledown cabin was either an idiot
or hadn't an enemy in the world, until now. There were blinds everywhere, up to
within feet of the house, where a man could hide and watch without being seen.

Everything
seemed calm, and he figured their plan was working. But he wasn't going
anywhere until he saw Mary Grace come out of that cabin and mount up with the
Tates. Bile rose in his throat, and he spit it out on the ground next to him.
Waiting had always been the hardest thing for him to do.

Sloan
froze where he was when the shot rang out. He'd heard the men arguing, but
there had been no screams from Mary Grace, no warning that she was in danger.
He told himself it couldn't be her, but his heart refused to come down from his
throat. He circled silently to where he could see the front of the house
without being seen.

Mary
Grace lay motionless in the doorway, Mason Tate leaning over her. A shout died
in Sloan's throat as Mason gently lifted her torso and cradled it against his
body, brushing the hair out of her eyes, stroking her face. Stunned, Sloan took
in the whole tender scene: Mason yelling for water, Wilson running with the
canteen and
then stepping back, just watching, while Mason put the water to her lips.

"Get
that body the hell outta there, Harlin," Mason yelled over his shoulder.
"I don't want Miss O'Reilly seeing it when she wakes up."

Harlin
dragged the small old man out the door and around the side of the house,
leaving blood behind him like a slug's trail. When he returned, Mason still
held Mary Grace, who lay limply in his arms.

"Make
up the bed for her, and then find us something to eat."

"I
don't make beds," Harlin said. "That's women's work." He stood
on the step behind Mason, peering over his shoulder at Mary Grace. "Let
her do it. She's wakin' up."

In
a flash, Mason Tate struck Harlin behind the knees. He landed on his butt with
a crash that startled a shriek out of the barely conscious Mary Grace. Her body
jerked, and her arms went around Mason's neck. Well, he'd be damned! What an
actress she'd been. He leaned against the tree trunk for support, but he
couldn't drag his eyes away.

Mary
Grace pulled as suddenly away from Mason as she had rushed into his embrace.
She grabbed at her head and covered her eyes with her hands.

Mason
let her go, backing away slightly. "You all right now?" he asked her
gruffly. She nodded and he stood, letting her roll off his lap and back down
into the dirt.

After
they went into the house, Mary Grace got to her knees, her hands crossed
against her stomach in obvious pain. Spasm after spasm racked her body as waves
of dry heaves washed over her. Twice Mason came to the doorway and looked out,
shook his head, and disappeared. The third time he came out, he
whisked her off
the ground like a sack of potatoes, and carried her into the cabin.

It
was the most confusing few minutes of Sloan Westin's life.

Hours
of what appeared to be ordinary domestic life went by. The odor of baked beans
tortured his stomach, the sight of Ben drinking from a cup held by Harlin Tate
stung his eyes, and not seeing Mary Grace at all pricked all his nerve endings.

The
Tates all made use of the outhouse, their guns drawn for the trip both there
and back, as though they were expecting unwanted company. Harlin, the only one
small enough to fit into the dead miner's clothes, had changed into one of his
clean shirts.

Just
before dusk, Mary Grace came out with Mason following her. She was pale and
shaky on her feet, and Sloan's arm stretched out to steady her despite the
distance. But it was Mason's hand that caught her elbow and steered her to the
outhouse, and it was Mason who handed her a small pile of clothing to take in
with her, and it was Mason, a few minutes later, who led her back to the cabin
in freshly washed blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt.

When
the last trips to the outhouse were made and the lights in the cabin blown out,
Sloan moved to higher ground for safety's sake. He walked silently, listening
to the sounds emanating from the shack, Mary Grace's crisp clear voice singing
lullabies to Ben, Mason's deep voice ordering Harlin to bed, Harlin's petulant
reply. A door slammed, and he guessed it was Wilson, caught between his
brothers as always.

When
it came to women, each of the Tates had his own philosophy. Harlin's had to do
with killing. Wilson's had to do with raping. And Mason's, Sloan now realized,
had to do with Mary Grace O'Reilly. And for that, he had to be grateful.

It
would be impossible to sleep. Still, Sloan settled himself on the ground,
covering himself with some pine boughs for warmth. Mary Grace's voice wafted up
to him in the smoke that rose from the cabin where she was warm and, he hoped,
safe. Seeing her in Mason's arms had rocked him. She didn't seem the kind of
woman to double-cross him, but then she didn't exactly seem on a first-name
basis with the truth.

Still,
he couldn't believe that she could have been pretending with him, not back by
the pool, not the night that Ben had gotten bitten. The woman hadn't even known
how to kiss. And even that came more naturally to her than lying. He'd left her
for Mason to find, and she was doing just what she was supposed to do. He just
hadn't expected it to turn his insides out when he saw her do it.

His
eyes drifted shut.

***

"Miss
O'Reilly! Miss O'Reilly!"

Sloan
came awake instantly, the sound of feet rushing by him. And then another set of
footsteps, heavier, behind them.

"Leave
me alone!"

If
he reached out his hand, he could touch her ankle.

"Come
back to the cabin. It's dark out here. You could twist a leg. Step on a snake.
There's bear and cougar and..."

"And
inside there are your brothers."

One
hand searched furtively for his knife. A limb covering him rustled, and both
Mary Grace and Mason stood stock still.

"Don't
you worry none about Wilson and Harlin. They're harmless," Mason said
after a while.

"Where's
the man who owned the cabin?"

Sloan
tried to reach his knife again. Mason fired two bullets into the ground inches
from where he lay.

From
the house Wilson called up to his brother asking if anything was wrong. Mason
shouted back that it was probably just a rattler.

"We
best head back," Mason said.

"The
old man?"

"He
knew it would be a mite crowded if he stayed. We paid 'im good. He'll probably
be back in the morning," Mason lied. "I think I hear Horace
crying." He reached out to take her by the hand. "They must be
cleanin' his wounds again."

She
backed up. He could feel her being torn between her fear and her love for Ben.
He had no doubt how she would chose.

Mere
inches separated them. One more step and she'd trip over him, scream, and Mason
would start shooting again. He had four shots left in his gun. Again Sloan's
options left him powerless. Even if he could manage to kill Mason, it wouldn't
be without getting himself killed in the process, either by Mason himself or by
his two brothers. And then Mary Grace would be left with Harlin and Wilson. And
with them it was just a matter of which one went first. He wasn't even sure
Wilson cared much about the order.

"Don't
think I won't leave that child if I have to," Mary Grace said. "If
Wilson so much as touches me accidently, I'm outta here."

Sloan
inhaled silently, trying to take in at least her scent. He loved to hear her
talk. It almost made him forget what she was saying, but not quite.

"He
didn't mean nothing by what he said. There ain't no one gonna touch you, Miss
O'Reilly, not as long as I'm alive." Mason put out his hand to guide her
back to the house. Sloan could hear the baby crying in
earnest and
wondered if the boys had woken him up just to lure Mary Grace back to the
house. He doubted they were that smart.

"I
can find it myself," Mary Grace said, stumbling along in the dark.

"Suit
yourself," Mason said. He cleared his throat and spat in Sloan's
direction. "I can wait," he muttered.

Nothing,
Mary Grace felt sure,
smelled worse than an outhouse, so it was her plan
to be the first one out there in the morning. At least, she thought, however
incorrectly, after a night's rest the odor might have dissipated some. Mason
accompanied her to the door, nothing except his ever-searching eyes giving away
his nervousness.

Gallantly,
Mason opened the door for her, checking inside to make sure no one lurked
within. He handed her a wad of paper, which she took with some embarrassment,
and then he shut the door and began whistling.

Inside,
Mary Grace lowered her jeans and squatted over the hole in the ground. Of every
modern convenience she missed, none came close to a real bathroom, with a
porcelain toilet, soft toilet paper, and a sink to wash up at properly. Here,
what was there, but a hole and a few twigs and scratches in the dirt. Scratches
that resembled two letters. S.M. Sweet Mary!