by Candace Camp
“Thank you. I’m not hungry. But I would be grateful for some sleep. Do you think—I hate to impose, but if—” Victoria hesitated. She had started to call him Mr. Slater, which would dispel the notion that he was her husband. But, looking at Mrs. Miles, she decided the best course was to pretend they were married. Mrs. Miles didn’t look like the type to regard lightly the idea of an unmarried woman traveling with a man. She might even refuse to let them stay in her house. “If my husband could have a bowl of broth, I think it would help him.”
“Why, sure thing. I got a pot of nice hot soup simmerin’ on the fire. I’ll dish up a bowl and bring it straight up.”
Mrs. Miles hustled Victoria inside and directed her up the narrow staircase to the first door on the right. Victoria wearily climbed the stairs, meeting Dennis and Nathan coming down. They tipped their hats to her, grinning identically, and clumped down the stairs. As Victoria reached the top she could hear Dennis’s voice below, exclaiming, “Isn’t she beautiful, Ma?” and his mother’s replying more calmly, “Yeah, she’s pretty, all right.”
Victoria smiled a little and went into the bedroom where Dennis and Nathan had put Slater. It was a small room under the eaves, with only one small window. But Victoria couldn’t have cared less about its size or appearance. All that mattered was the bed in the middle of the room where Slater lay. He would be much more comfortable here, and soon she would get some strengthening soup down him. Before long, he would start feeling better; she was sure of it.
Victoria went to the bed and tugged off Slater’s boots, setting them on the floor beside the bed. She moved to the head of the bed and looked down on him. He was sleeping, his face flushed. She hoped the ride hadn’t sapped him of too much energy. She laid her hand across his forehead. It wasn’t necessary—she knew already that he was too hot—but somehow she had to. She smoothed her hand across his skin and pushed his hair back from his brow.
As she gazed down on him, she noticed the silver star that was his badge. She wondered if Dennis had seen it; he hadn’t said anything. Slater’s shirt had hung open, probably covering the star attached to his leather vest. She frowned. If the Miles family knew he was a Texas Ranger, it might make them more eager to help him. But they were friendly and helpful anyway, and knowing that he was a Ranger might make them suspicious of her marital status. After all, why would a Ranger be carting his wife around the countryside with him while he was chasing a criminal?
She unfastened the badge and slipped it into one of Slater’s empty boots before she went to the washstand to wet a rag to lay across Slater’s fevered brow.
A moment later, Mrs. Miles bustled into the room, carrying a tray. “There, now, poor man,” she said with a sympathetic look as she set the tray down on the dresser. “I brung him some soup, but I’m afraid it’s too hot to eat just yet. ‘Sides, he looks too tuckered out to eat anything. Den tells me he’s sufferin’ from a fever.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Well, let’s see what we can do for him. I’m pretty good at doctorin’ folks.”
“So your son told me. I’d be very grateful for any help.”
Mrs. Miles felt his forehead and then the back of his neck. She glanced at Slater’s arm. “What happened to him there?”
“I think that’s why he has the fever. I cleaned it once today, but I didn’t have anything to put on it.”
Mrs. Miles unwrapped the bandage and examined Slater’s wound. It was red and inflamed. The older woman’s eyes narrowed, and she looked up at Victoria. “Why, that’s a gunshot wound.”
Heat rose in Victoria’s cheeks. She hadn’t thought about the wound when she decided not to tell them Slater was a lawman. She glanced away nervously. Would it be better to tell the truth and face the consequences? She was so tired; it was hard to think straight. “I—some men tried to rob us, and my husband fired at them. They ran way, but one of them hit my husband in the arm.”
“I see.” The older woman studied Victoria for a moment, then returned her attention to the wound. “Well, he was lucky the fella wasn’t a better shot, I reckon.” She picked up the cloth, wet it and began to carefully clean the wound. Slater cursed at the pain her probing caused, and his eyes flew open.
He blinked at Mrs. Miles. “Who the hell are you? Ow!” He cursed vividly.
“Slater!” Victoria tried to smile at Mrs. Miles. “I’m sorry. He’s out of his head.”
“That’s all right. I’ve heard worse’n that, believe you me. My husband Joe, he could cuss a blue streak, God rest his soul. I’ll run down and get some of my remedies.”
She left, and Slater slid back into sleep. Mrs. Miles returned with two bottles. One contained a powder that she sprinkled on Slater’s wound before binding it up again with fresh bandages. Afterwards, she mixed a little of the liquid from the other bottle with water. She lifted Slater’s head, and Victoria held the glass to his lips, coaxing him to drink in the soft, cajoling voice that seemed to work best with him. His eyes opened hazily and closed again, but he slowly drank, wincing at the taste. When he had finished, they fed him several sips of soup, until finally he sealed his lips and refused to eat any more. Mrs. Miles eased his head back onto the pillow. He gave a sigh and closed his eyes.
“You give him another dose of this in the middle of the night,” Mrs. Miles told her. “Now I’ll go back down and let you get some rest. You look flat bushed.”
“I am,” Victoria admitted, unable to stifle a yawn.
After Mrs. Miles left, Victoria crawled into bed. She stayed as far to the other side as she could, but it was a small bed, and there was little distance between them. It was very strange to lie in a bed with a man beside her, no matter how little could happen with him sick. Slater seemed so big and masculine, taking up his half of the bed and sprawling over into hers. Victoria curled up on her side, looking at him. He was overwhelming, almost scary, yet she had to fight the urge to slide across the bed and snuggle up to him.
With a sigh, Victoria flopped over onto her other side and closed her eyes. She was too exhausted to stay awake, and she soon slept. But within a few hours, she woke up. The sheets around her were damp with Slater’s sweat. His temperature must be awfully high. Victoria slid across the bed to his side and propped herself up on her elbow. She placed a hand on his forehead. She couldn’t believe it. She felt his neck, then his forehead again. He felt almost cool. This last spell, when he had sweated so much, must have broken the fever. Tears filled Victoria’s eyes. She made a little noise that was part laugh and part sob, and rested her head against his shoulder. He’d pulled through.
Victoria sent up a silent prayer, then pressed her lips to Slater’s forehead. She watched his sleeping face for a moment. She gave him another dose of the medicine, just to be safe, and lay back down beside him. Smiling, she hugged her joy to herself and slipped into a sleep that was at last deep and untroubled.
***
Brody and Amy traveled northwest from the Garcia’s farm, pressing on until the last bit of light had faded from the sky. Brody built a fire when they camped, feeling safe enough now from Slater’s pursuit. The other man should be far to the east, hunting for their trail.
He cooked a dinner of beans over the open fire, and they ate them with the tortillas that Beatriz had sent with them. Afterward, they sat beside the fire, Brody idly poking it with a stick. Amy drew in a deep breath and leaned her head back, gazing at the brilliant stars overhead.
“Isn’t it beautiful?”
He glanced up. “Yeah.” Brody lay back and linked his arms behind his head. “You know, when I was a kid, I never noticed the stars. You don’t, in the city. That was one of the things I liked when I came out here. I used to lie out on the ground looking at the sky for hours.”
“Was that when you worked with Raul?”
Brody looked at her, surprised. “How did you know about that? Oh. Beatriz.”
Amy nodded. “She told me that Raul taught you how to ride.” Amy stu
died Sam’s face, shadowy in the dim light. She was curious about him. “Tell me about you. Please.”
“About me?” He gave a short laugh. “There’s nothing you’d like to know.”
“Yes, I would. Where are you from? How did you come here? Why are you running from that sheriff?”
He didn’t want her to know about him. He could imagine her distaste when she heard the details of his sordid life. Yet, somehow, deep down, he longed to tell her. Brody sighed. “I’m from New Orleans. My mother’s name was Maida. I never knew my father. Maida didn’t know who he was.”
Amy frowned, puzzled. “How could she not—”
“She was a—” He paused, struggling for a way to explain it to this innocent woman. “She sold her body,” he said finally, bitterly.
Amy looked even more confused. “You mean she was a servant?”
“No. It was worse than being a servant. Once you get started down a road like that, you can’t get off. I know.” He paused. “What I meant was that she slept with men for money. That they used her and paid her.”
She gazed at him, wide-eyed. “She stayed with a man as if they were married, only they weren’t? And he gave her money for it?”
His lips twisted in something resembling a smile. “Not like she was married. There were different men every night. At first, when I was little, she lived in a big house with a lot of other women like her. They let me stay around as long as I didn’t cause any trouble. I was kind of their pet. Most of them had gotten rid of their own kids, see. And when I got bigger, I’d run and fetch things for them, sweep the floors, do things like that. Later, when I was older, Maida had to leave the house. She wasn’t pretty enough anymore. She aged fast. So she started working in the cribs.” Seeing Amy’s puzzled look, he explained, “Those are the little, cheap rooms where women like her worked—women who walked the streets.”
Brody closed his eyes, running a hand over his face as if he was very weary. Amy stayed silent, watching him, and after a moment, he began to talk again. “The men she had were rough, and sometimes they’d hit her. I could tell she hated her life. But I wasn’t around much then. All she had was a little room, and there was no place for me.”
“But where did you live?” Amy frowned, her eyes worried. “Weren’t you a child?”
“I stayed out on the streets a lot. I did all kinds of things for money—picked pockets, begged, held horses for the men who visited the area, ran errands for some of the madams. I was tough, and I was fast, and I did pretty well for myself. But one day I went over to Maida’s and…this man, one of her customers, had beaten her up real bad.”
Brody sat up abruptly and began breaking up the stick he had been holding earlier, tossing the pieces into the fire, his movements jerky. Amy crept closer to him and laid her hand against his back, gently rubbing. Brody ached for her touch, yet at the same time, he almost couldn’t bear it. He jackknifed his knees, wrapping his arms around them, and continued talking in a rush, his voice low and rough.
“It was weeks before she was completely healed. She was scared of this man, scared he’d come back and hurt her again. I told her I wouldn’t let him, that I’d take care of her. So I hung around where she worked. But nothing happened, and I started not to stick so close to her. One evening I went to her crib and as I walked up, I heard her screaming. I ran in, and there he was, hitting her. I jumped on him, trying to get him off, but I wasn’t strong enough. I was just twelve, you see. I was in a rage, and I picked up a flatiron and hit him with it. I hit him a whole bunch of times.” He shrugged. “I killed him.”
“Oh, Sam.” She stroked his arm soothingly.
“So I ran.”
“But you couldn’t be blamed. You were trying to protect your mother.”
“He had a job and a family. She was a whore. No jury would have considered protecting her worth killing an upstanding citizen. They would have sent me to prison, at best. I jumped on the first ship out of the harbor. It went to Galveston. And that’s how I came to Texas.”
He lay back down. Amy lay down next to him, her head propped on her arm, gazing at him. “Tell me more. How’d you meet Raul?”
He chuckled. “That was Razor Bill’s doing. I stayed alive doing odd jobs, and when I couldn’t get a job, I picked pockets, like I had in New Orleans. I fell in with a boy a couple of years older than me, and he taught me about robbing people with a gun. Didn’t take as much time and trouble as picking a pocket. He suggested we go to San Antonio, so we took off. And after a year or so, we met Razor Bill. That man knew horses. He could ride like the devil, too. Raul took care of his stock for him. Razor Bill kept a horse farm, and some of those horses were wild mustangs that he caught and broke. But most of them he stole. That’s where I learned how to ride and shoot. Raul was a good friend to me. I saved his life once. Razor Bill and several of us got caught red-handed. They hanged him on the spot. I was lucky enough to get away, and I rode back to the ranch to warn Raul. He owes me. I owe him.”
“Then what happened?”
“I left horse-thieving, but I got caught robbing a store, and they sent me to prison. I was about sixteen. I had thought I was tough before that, but I found out then what tough really was. Eventually I got out, and I needed money, so I held up a man. Hell, I thought he was an easy mark. He looked old and walked with a cane. But he whipped that cane up and knocked my gun clean out of my hand.” Brody chuckled. “For a minute I figured I was finished. He’d either shoot me right there on the spot or take me to the sheriff.”
“What happened?”
“He gave me a job.”
“What?” Amy laughed.
“Yeah. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? There was never anybody like T.J. Moore. He believed in people, thought everybody had good inside them somewhere, just waiting to be brought out.”
Amy smiled. “He was right about you, I think.”
Brody gave her a startled look. “Maybe for a while. It was hard not to be good around him. He took me back to his ranch and put me to work punching cattle. I didn’t know anything about it, but he taught me. He was like a father, only better.” Brody’s voice roughened. “One day somebody killed him. The man was a worm. He was a lieutenant in the army, and this was in ’67, right after the War, when the Union army was running everything. He was stupid and arrogant, and he looked on himself as a conqueror. He thought everybody should back down from him just because he wore a blue uniform. Mr. Moore wouldn’t. He didn’t believe in backing down from anybody. One day, the lieutenant was drunk, and he got into an argument with Mr. Moore. He pulled a gun and shot T.J.”
Amy’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Sam, I’m so sorry.”
“I got the son of a bitch.” Brody’s voice turned cold and brittle as glass. “I knew the law wouldn’t do anything to him. So I grabbed one of Mr. Moore’s rifles, and I shot him.” He paused. “I was only sorry that I couldn’t kill him more than once.”
Amy touched his arm in sympathy. It was as hard as iron, the muscles tense. Brody stood up suddenly. T.J. Moore was someone he made it a point not to think about. And Amy’s sweet kindness only made it worse. “That was eight years ago, and I’ve been on the run ever since. I reckon my soul’s gotten blacker every year. I’ve killed three men…hell, maybe more. There were some I shot getting away, and I don’t know what happened to them. I’ve robbed so many banks and stagecoaches I’ve lost count. I’ve lived outside the law all my life, and I guess I’ll go on doing so until somebody puts a hole through me.”
“Don’t say that!” Amy jumped to her feet. More softly, she continued, “Please. You don’t have to die like that.”
“That’s what happens to people like me. Either that, or they get their necks stretched.”
“No. You’re not a bad man.”
He gave a laugh that held little humor. “I don’t understand you. I kidnapped you. How can you say I’m not bad? You think it’s all right to grab a woman and carry her off?”
“Well, no…” Amy looked confused. “But I—I just don’t think you’re bad.”
He came back to her suddenly and stopped so close that Amy could see the glitter in his dark eyes. He held himself rigidly, and he looked angry or in pain—or perhaps it was both. “Damn it! Are you a saint? Don’t you ever get mad? You should hate me!”
Tears welled up in her eyes. “Why? I don’t want to hate you.”
Brody made an exasperated noise. “You ought to! Damn it, don’t you know what I’ve been thinking since I took you? Don’t you know what I want?”
Silently, Amy shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. She couldn’t understand why he was so angry, but his tone sliced her to the quick.
“I saw you and I wanted you. I didn’t give a damn about what you wanted. I stole you away so you would be mine entirely. Every part of you!”
She looked at him blankly.
He whirled away, slamming his clenched fists against his thighs. “You don’t even know what I mean, do you?”
“No. I—I’m sorry.” Her hands knotted together in frustrated confusion. Why couldn’t she understand things like everybody else? She wanted that more right now than she ever had.
“Oh, God.” He laughed despairingly, plunging his hands into his hair and pressing them against his scalp as thought he could hold in his thoughts. “Don’t say that.”
“What should I say?”
“I don’t know. Not that you’re sorry. You needn’t ever be sorry.” He grasped her arms, gazing down into her eyes. “You’re so beautiful. I never saw a woman as beautiful as you.”
The tension left Amy. She smiled. “There are lots of women prettier than me.”
“I’ve never seen them.” He paused, then drew a breath. “I’m bad, Amy. And you’re so pure you can’t even see it. You don’t know what evil is.”