Mittman, Stephanie (29 page)

She
fell backward, losing her balance. Her hand broke her fall, pushing through a
small pile of pine needles and discovering something silky.

"You
all right in there?" Mason yelled.

"Mmm
hmm," she said, holding up her panties and nearly laughing at Sloan's
brazen attempt to let her know he was nearby and watching out for her.
"I'm fine," she yelled at the top of her lungs. "Just
fine," she said with a grunt as she struggled to get out of her jeans in
the smelly little cubicle and slip her panties on beneath them.

For
a second she had a brief flash of Sloan at the wheel of a convertible sports
car, her by his side and Ben in a car seat behind them. She imagined herself
reaching back to help Ben hold a bottle, and he seemed to be too far to touch.
He started to cry, and Sloan took his eyes off the road. Mary Grace blinked
furiously, trying to erase the images. Sloan and she and Ben all fit just
perfectly on Climber, and she said the first prayer she had said since she was
a teenager. It was to once again ride with her two men.

Instead,
it was tacitly decided that Mary Grace would ride behind Mason Tate. Harlin
would ride with his nephew strapped to his back, and Wilson, after a brief talk
with his older brother that had left him sullen and quiet, would keep his
distance from the others and ride on ahead. Little Ben's wounds looked less
angry in the morning light. After what felt like a feast compared to what she'd
eaten on the run, they mounted up in silence to begin the journey to the Tates'
cabin.

Mason
Tate was bigger than Sloan. Though his head seemed about the same distance
above Mary Grace's, his buttocks took up much more of the saddle, his stockier
legs pressed against hers, and his middle was too wide for Mary Grace's hands
to find each other. With so little room left to her, Mary Grace's body was
pressed up tightly against his. Because she couldn't seat herself properly the
way Sloan had taught her, each step the horse took thrust her up against Mason.
Her
head was whipped back, her teeth smashed against each other, her breasts were
pressed flat, and her breath rushed out of her.

"This
ain't gonna work." Mason reached behind him as if she were some little rag
doll and pulled her onto his lap.

"Mason,
are ya thinkin' with yer short arm or what?" Harlin whined. "If ya
ain't got room for her, give her over to Wilson."

Mary
Grace stiffened and held her breath. They hadn't gone more than a hundred yards
or so from the house. If the journey she and Sloan had made to the cabin was
any indication, it was bound to be a long ride back to Oak Creek Canyon. She
didn't relish the thought of sharing a saddle with Wilson Tate.

If
it wasn't for Mary Grace and the baby, Sloan could have rigged some kind of
snare to trip up the horses. Instead, he could only watch as they filed passed
him, Mary Grace cuddled into Mason Tate's lap, his son nestled snugly behind Harlin.

"You
want to ride like this, or with Wilson?" Mason asked her, whoaing his
horse to a stop not more than twenty feet away from where Sloan hid.

"This
is fine," she said quietly, adjusting herself in the lap of the man who
had no doubt given Harlin the go-ahead to shoot Sloan so full of holes he
should have been dead twice over and floated to heaven on a breeze.

Sloan's
teeth hurt from how tightly he clenched his jaw. If he didn't know better, he'd
think she was pretty damn comfortable up there on Mason's soft lap. He couldn't
believe he'd agreed to this stupid plan, letting her walk right back into the
Tates' clutches and take his baby with her. He'd be a lot more comfortable
himself if she seemed a little more put out. Again he told himself it couldn't
be that she had any interest in Mason Tate.

Mason
clucked to the horse and they hit the trail. Mary Grace
bounced along
in Mason's arms, her red hair flying behind her, and Ben gurgling as he
practiced new sounds that carried back to Sloan on the wind, getting fainter
and fainter as they rode away. The boy had changed so much in the short time
he'd been with Sloan. Ben had begun to smile at the sight of Sloan, grabbing at
his hair and laughing when Sloan made faces at his tugs. Mary Grace had shown
him where Ben's first tooth was coming in, white under the surface of his gums.
How changed would he be in a week? How changed would Mary Grace be?

It
was something he didn't want to think about, so he turned on his heels and made
his way back to the small cabin. A decent burial was something everyone was
entitled to, and he aimed to give the miner one. He'd have liked to think
someone would have done the same for him if Harlin Tate had accomplished what
he'd set out to do. The miner and he had something in common after all, he
thought, as he searched around the perimeter of the cabin for a shovel. Both of
them had been shot to death by Harlin Tate. Only he'd been brought back to life
by the Indians, with all their spiritual mumbo jumbo.

Without
looking down at the old man's body, he stepped over it and reached for the
shovel that rested against the old wooden siding. And what was it he was
brought back for? To save Ben from the Tates? He knew that Mary Grace believed
that was why she had fallen off that bridge and into the Tates' lives. Mary
Grace. He didn't know what the hell to believe about her.

He
didn't even know what to feel. There were new emotions that were coming over
him left and right like a herd of cows stampeding through his heart. And he
couldn't tell which feelings were reserved for Ben and which spilled over onto
Sweet Mary. Protectiveness. Hell, he'd never had to look out for anyone but
himself. Now he was responsible for Ben and Mary Grace both,
not to mention
making sure the Tates hadn't gone to his parents' ranch. Concern. He was
worried about her right now, sitting in a hornet's nest, and he was worried
about how Ben would turn out if everything went awry. Pride. What a big boy Ben
was already, and handsome, too. And he hardly complained. And anything Mary
Grace had tried to teach him, he'd learned fast. Mary Grace. He sure was proud
of her. Proud and something else. He didn't want to think about the other
thing.

He
dug the miner's grave with a vengeance, slashing at the ground, hurling the
dirt, slashing again, hurling. He didn't bother making the grave deep. He had
places to go and promises to keep. Promises. Did they mean to Mary Grace what
they meant to him? He'd made a million promises before. Just what did this one
mean to him?

Gritting
his teeth, he dragged the miner toward the yawning hole. Harlin had managed to
kill him with one perfect shot to the chest. The same Harlin who had ridden off
just over an hour ago with Ben strapped to his back. Nephew or not, blood or
no, Sloan couldn't let that child be raised by the Tate boys. Even if it turned
out they had Mary Grace on their side.

And
there it was again, he thought, mounding the dirt over the miner's corpse. Mary
Grace's slender body curved against Mason Tate's hulking form, her wild hair
fluttering, her quiet voice acquiescing. He threw the last spadeful of dirt
clear across the grave, and then the shovel after it.

If
he could just look in her face, he'd know the answer in a minute. Even her ears
blushed when she tried to hide anything from him. He was being foolish, stupid
even, to think she could have had anything to do with the Tates. Plumb stupid.
So why did it keep rankling him?

"Sorry,
old man," he said over the grave. "But I'm gonna have to take
whatever you got in the way of food, and be off. Rest in peace." He made
the sign of the
cross and turned to more pressing matters, entering the cabin and taking any
food he could find.

"Too
bad you ain't got a horse." He cocked his head and listened for any sound.
"How the hell did you get here without a horse?" he said, rushing
from the house and looking around. Somewhere, somewhere, there had to be a
horse! He'd seen the miner coming, and he let his eyes run down the trail he'd
followed. Nothing. He followed it for half a mile or so on foot until he could
hear the braying. Using the sound to guide him, he found the mule. It was old,
its bones sticking out of its swayed back, its belly hanging close to the
ground. Its hide was worn thin in several places, and two sores festered on its
rump. Half the nag's tail was missing, and one eye was swollen shut. Without a
doubt he was the most beautiful creature Sloan Westin had ever laid eyes on.

And
he only got more enchanting as Sloan went through his saddlebags and found
nearly a hundred dollars' worth of silver, a piece of turquoise as big as Ben's
fist, and a week's supply of provisions.

"I
can see there's a God," he said, opening a bottle of whiskey and taking a
long, satisfying swig. "And I can see there's a plan."

He
looked up through the tall pine trees, their tips swaying against the deep blue
sky as if pointing the very way to heaven.

"I
just wish You'd tell me what the hell it is."

***

The
sight of what had come to be his little family being toted away by the Tates
haunted Sloan Westin all the way up Mingus Mountain as he rode to Jerome. What
an unlikely place to put a town, he thought. Of course, where there was silver,
or copper, there was reason enough. And where there were men and money... Well,
wine, women,
and song, as the saying went, always followed.

Riding
into Jerome on the back of a mule was humiliating. Especially on a mule like
Providence, who looked like he'd been through the same ordeal as Sloan and not
fared as well. But Sloan couldn't afford to be concerned with his dignity. And
the truth was, no one was likely to even notice him. Life was too fast and
frantic in the town to bother with some no-account drifter on some old mule. At
the moment, that suited Sloan just fine.

Music
poured out of the open doorways as he passed the Prestige Saloon on Hull
Street. It was still daylight, yet the bar was in full swing, with the patrons
overflowing the tavern and standing on the wooden sidewalks, their beers or
whiskeys in hand. They looked right through Sloan and Providence, tipping their
hats at passing ladies and jostling for positions against a leaning post. Sloan
guessed the smelter had broken down again and wasn't sorry. It was a rare thing
to breathe fresh air in Jerome. He kicked the mule, who ignored him, and
together they sauntered slowly northward through town.

All
of the action was still in the southern part of town, it being too early for
the red lights to be on uptown. It all came back to Sloan in a rush—the noise,
the excitement, the women. Especially the women. He'd spent enough money in
Jennie Banter's place to be personally responsible for her being the richest
woman in northern Arizona. Blonds, brunettes, little Chinese dolls. He tried to
remember any one of them, but only a redhead came to mind, and she'd never been
in Jerome, never been bought and paid for, never actually been beneath him,
here or anywhere else.

He
dismounted in front of the Connor Hotel, pulling the dead miner's saddlebags
from his mule and throwing them over his shoulder. Once in the lobby, he was
stunned by the
sight of his disheveled self peering back at him from the mirror in the
entryway.

"Can
I help you, sir?" A man materialized behind the counter, eyeing him
suspiciously. Sloan didn't blame him.

"You
sure can. I need a room, a bath, and a barber, in that order." And a
dry-goods store, a gun shop, a good meal, an assayer's office, and who knew
what else.

The
hotel's register swung around and the clerk handed him a pen. "Certainly
sir. Room number fifteen, bath at the end of the hall. Water's warmest in the
morning, but then the line is longest, as well. There's a barber three blocks
down on your left, next to the Central Hotel, cross from Otto's Place."

Sloan
stood with the pen poised over the hotel register. It had been over a year
since he'd signed his own name to anything.

"Sir?"
The clerk held out the room key, waiting to take the pen in exchange.

Sloan
signed his name and turned the register around so that the man could read it.

"Room
fifteen, Mr. Westin," the clerk said, giving him a thorough stare as if
trying to place him. "Top of the stairs, to your left."

Sloan
nodded and headed for the stairs. Except for the steps from the street up to
the occasional sidewalk, he hadn't attempted stairs since his injuries. The
staircase stretched forever as he stood at the bottom and craned his neck.

"I
didn't notice your leg," the clerk said in a voice barely above a whisper
as he rushed to Sloan's side. "Would you prefer something on the ground
floor?"

He
would have preferred nothing more. "Thank you, no. I can manage just
fine," he said, his voice ringing out through the hotel lobby as he put
his left hand on the bannister and took the first step with his good leg,
followed it
with his bad, and then moved up a tread only to do the same thing again. It was
a slow, tedious process that proved nothing when he got to the top of the
stairs except that he was stubborn. Maybe too stubborn for his own good, he
thought, looking back down.

At
twenty to six, Sloan Westin, his clothes brand-new, a gun strapped to his hip, and
money jingling in his pocket, slipped into the first chair in J.H. Brown's
Barber Shop. It was not his first visit to Joe's, nor his fifth or his tenth.
He always took a shave before he visited the women up in the tenderloin
district. He'd met a few women there who had done the same, he remembered with
a smile that exposed his teeth in the mirror. God, he looked like shit.