by Deb Stover
But Luke Nolan was no priest, and he had no intention of going through life without having sex. Frequent sex.
Great sex.
"This isn't helping," he muttered and punched his palm again. Good thing Father Salazar's trousers were baggy, because Luke filled them out much better now than when he'd first pulled them on, and it wasn't from Dora Fleming's good cooking. "I'm weak. I can't do this abstinence stuff." No, that wasn't quite true. He didn't want to abstain, and motivation was everything, after all.
Just the thought of indulging himself increased the throbbing between his legs to critical. Thinking about sex definitely wasn't helping, but he couldn't stop thinking about it. He'd done all right until Sofie touched him. Now all he could think of was feeding the fire she'd ignited. After spending the best years of his life on death row...
In isolation.
No, he'd have to make up for the last decade during the next eleven years. What choice did he have? Time travel or not, he couldn't relive those lost years. They were gone forever, regardless of the century.
Sure, he could make up for lost time. But lost sex? "Stop thinking about it, Nolan." Resuming his pacing, he punched his bruised palm again.
This morning, he'd overheard Ab mention something called Miss Lottie's House. Could that be a–what would Grandma have called it?–whorehouse? No, Grandma would've called it a massage parlor or something equally lame.
Grinning despite the enthusiastic state of his libido, Luke released a frustrated sigh. Fat lot of good a prostitute would do a priest–talk about scandal. Besides, realistic or not, he wanted Sofie.
No, he couldn't want Sofie. He couldn't have Sofie.
The feel of her lips on his, her breasts against his chest, her hands locked behind his neck...
"Cut the crap, Nolan." His words vanished into a cloud of white vapor in the darkness.
He wanted Sofie. Okay, he'd admitted it. Faced it. So, now what? He couldn't do a damned thing about it. She was off limits. The forbidden fruit and then some.
Enough already. He should have left last night, before he'd tasted her lips. No, don't think about her lips. He had to get the hell out of Redemption, Colorado and leave Sofie's lips behind. He had to. Her lips, her breasts, that tattoo on her–
No! Don't go there.
But if he left, what would happen to her? What was the significance of the fainting spell she'd suffered today? Would she recover at all? Regain her memory...?
He shook his head, desire waning only slightly in light of his genuine concern and that frigging guilt he couldn't shake no matter what. Sofie had to get well. She would get well.
And destroy his clean slate?
"No, don't think about that now." Threat or no threat, he couldn't leave Redemption until he was certain of her recovery. No way. He didn't need any more guilt piled on top of what he already had.
His grandparents, Father Salazar... He looked down at the white collar. The clouds parted and moonlight struck the crucifix hanging from his neck. "Damn."
Another sign, Luke?
Hell, he'd seen some kind of subliminal significance in almost everything else since his failed execution, so why stop now? As long as he was at it, what about that kiss? Was that some kind of sign, too? What about Sofie? Another sign? Hell, and what about this boner messing with his head? What kind of sign was that?
"Damn. Shit. Fu–"
"Whooee, Moses. I ain't never heard a priest cuss so fine in all my born days," someone said from the darkness. "'Course, I ain't had much call to hear priests talk at all, let alone cuss."
"Who's there?" Luke swallowed hard, trying to identify the voice. Not Ab or Dr. Wilson, and definitely not Frank Latimer, thank God. "Is that you, Zeke?"
"Yep, the one and only, in these parts, anyway." The muffled sound of boots striking earth and pine needles signaled the man's approach. "Cold night."
Luke nodded, making out the dark shape of his companion in the inadequate moonlight. "Yeah, but it usually is cold at night up here."
"Sure 'nuff." Zeke lifted a jug to his lips and took a long pull, sighing afterward. "Do priests drink mash, too, or just cuss right fine?"
Luke could use a drink about now. He remembered priests drinking wine. Besides, this priest crap was getting old. Past tense. "Yeah, thanks. Some priests do both, I guess, in moments of weakness."
"Well, I reckon this epidemic could make even Matthew, Luke and John weak. Seems to me the Lord'll forgive anybody a nip 'bout now." Zeke wiped the mouth of the jug with his sleeve, then passed it to Luke. "Have your fill, Padre. I got plenty more where that come from."
Imitating Zeke, Luke looped his finger through the jug's handle and let its bulk rest across the back of his hand and wrist. He sniffed the sour stench and almost changed his mind. Liquor was something he had almost as little experience with as sex, after all. He was a neophyte at just about everything, especially by 1891 standards.
Remembering Sofie's kiss, he shuddered and made his decision. The brew tasted even worse than it smelled as it flowed across his tongue and blazed its way down his throat. After three big gulps, he lowered the jug and gasped, hoping to cool the fire the stuff had left behind.
"It'll either cure what ails a man, er kill him." Zeke wiped the jug and tipped it to drink, then he smacked his lips and offered it to Luke again. "Another swig, Padre?"
"Don't mind if I do," Luke said, repeating his previous actions. The alcohol didn't burn nearly as badly this time. In fact, he barely tasted it. After another somewhat smaller sip, the inferno in Luke's throat spread to his gut, then oozed through his body. His knees turned to rubber and the night's chill no longer penetrated his bones. "You, uh, make this yourself, Zeke?"
"Well, yeah, but no need to tell Doc Wilson 'bout it." Zeke's teeth flashed in the darkness. "He don't cotton much to spirits, 'cept for medicinal purposes."
"I won't say a word." At least talking and drinking had directed Luke's thoughts away from his crotch.
He returned the jug to its rightful owner, dredging up his priest persona. "I know things can't be easy for you right now. I'm sorry about Mrs. Judson." It surprised Luke to recognize the truth of his own words. "Do you have any other family in Redemption?"
"My kin's all back in Arkansas." Zeke took another drink. "Got me two daughters and seven grandkids on the White River. I weren't no fine planter, see, but that farm's the finest bottom land to ever feel a plow."
"Yours?" Luke paused, waving aside the proffered jug. He'd pushed his luck enough already. Besides, the liquor's potent kick already had him in its grip. "The farm, I mean."
"Was mine." Zeke shoved the cork into the mouth of his jug. "My great-grandpa settled the land nigh on eighty-five years ago. Judsons been born and died there ever since."
Luke stared at Zeke. He already knew Fanny had been much younger than her husband. Had she lured this man away from his family and ancestral home? Or had it been gold fever? Only one way to find out. "Tell me, what brought you to Colorado?"
A low chuckle drifted through the darkness, along with the stench of sour mash on Zeke's breath. "I come out here with Ab three years back," Zeke explained, staring beyond Luke and into the darkness. "Lookin' for gold and freedom." He cleared his throat loudly. "But I found Fanny instead."
Unspoken words hung in the night air. Luke knew without hearing Zeke say the words, that the love he'd found with Fanny was even more precious than gold. Luke's grandparents had loved each other that much. And they'd loved him, too. Once...
"My first wife–my girls' mother–died back in '84," Zeke continued. "I never had much heart to work the land after that, but my sons-in-law did. My girls married better men than their pa."
So Luke didn't have an exclusive on guilt. Imagine that. "I suspect your daughters probably chose fine husbands like their father." There, that sounded like something a priest would say.
Zeke sighed. Several moments of silence allowed other night sounds to make their presence known. An owl hooted and scurrying
sounds came from the dense forest just beyond the clearing. The sound of rushing water reached Luke's ears, too. Strange, he hadn't even noticed a river or stream before. Of course, he hadn't been in very good shape when he'd first arrived in Redemption.
"Me an' Ab come here to strike it rich," Zeke continued without prompting. "But I'm too durned old and tired now. Still, I owe Ab for savin' my hide, even if I cain't go home."
Luke wondered about Zeke's age. The man could be anywhere from fifty to eighty. "So why can't you go home to your family now?" Don't spend your life wallowing in guilt, Zeke. I've got enough for us both.
"Cain't go home, Padre." Zeke cleared his throat and turned to face the trees, his profile silhouetted against a light shining from the schoolhouse.
From Sofie's room.
Pay attention to Zeke, dammit.
Luke shoved the white collar into his pocket, then clenched and unclenched his fists. "Why not, Zeke? I'm sure your family would–"
"Cain't go home," Zeke repeated, his voice strained and filled with regret, "unless I'm ready to meet the biz'ness end of a rope."
Luke rubbed his temples, trying not to see another sign in this. Yet how could he not? He'd been a condemned man, and he'd fallen into a nest of others here in Redemption. Why?
"I see," Luke said, not asking the obvious questions. He didn't want the gory details. Zeke's past was none of his business, and neither was Shane Latimer's.
What about their futures?
Knock it off, Nolan.
"Yeah, I reckon you do see." Zeke turned toward Luke and chuckled. "And in case you're wonderin', I'm guilty as sin, Padre. I killed them two sidewinders, and if I had it to do over again, I'd still kill 'em."
I don't want to hear this.
"There's a United States Marshal huntin' me," Zeke continued. "One of them lawmen who always gets his man. I reckon it's only a matter of time."
"I see," Luke said again. What the hell else could he say?
"Matter of fact, with Fanny gone, I prob'ly oughta just turn myself in and get it over with." Zeke uncorked his jug and took another long pull, then offered it to Luke.
"Hell, why not?" Luke took the liquor, but didn't bother wiping the mouth clean this time. The alcohol content would kill any germs anyway. He tipped the jug and swallowed hard and fast, swaying and gasping as he lowered it.
"I hear tell you Catholics confess your sins on a reg'lar basis." Zeke re-corked the jug and set it on the ground near his feet. "You reckon that'll help a sinner like me make it into heaven with Fanny?"
Luke swallowed hard, trying to focus on Zeke's shape in the darkness. He shouldn't have taken that last drink, but he couldn't give it back now, regardless of how much his gut protested.
"I believe," Luke said quietly, trying to ignore the slight slur of his words, "you're destined for heaven, Zeke. Even if this lawman catches up with you."
"Then I'll hang."
"You called those two men sidewinders, and I assume that means they weren't exactly good men."
"Good?" Zeke's voice sounded low and ominous now. "They raped and murdered at least two women. Prob'ly more."
Luke held his breath and stared, waiting for Zeke to explain, but he didn't. "But why didn't the law arrest and try them for–"
"Hell, Padre," Zeke said, his voice edged with bitterness, "you prob'ly wasn't even born during the War of Northern Aggression. Some of them bluebellies raped and killed whenever and whoever they wanted, and nobody did nothin' about it." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "So I did."
"Who...?" Luke wasn't sure he wanted to hear this, but he sensed Zeke needed to tell all. "Who were the two women, Zeke?"
"Angels, Padre. Angels." Zeke yanked off his battered hat and mangled it in his hands as he continued. "In 1865, I was thirty-three and felt a hundred." The older man's voice sounded distant, as if he'd also traveled through time to relive his own personal hell. "The war was over, and I was the only one of my brothers goin' home alive. Home..."
In Luke's mind, his grandparent's house appeared, complete with lilac bushes and a picket fence. He blinked, blotting out his own memories to focus on Zeke's.
"Found two Yankees at the farm when I got there," Zeke said. "I didn't know what they was doin' there in front of the house, and I didn't care until after they rode away and I went in the house."
"Oh, God." Luke's stomach pressed upward against his throat, the sour mash churning and burning.
"Them thievin' bluebellies had..." Zeke's chin dropped to his chest. "They raped and murdered my ma and baby sister, Padre."
Helplessly, Luke reached out to touch Zeke's shoulder, but the man didn't look up. Still looking toward the ground, Zeke drew a shaky breath.
"Them scalawags bolted when they seen me, but one of 'em dropped some papers." Zeke nodded and lifted his chin. "Had their names right there in my hands. The law didn't do nothin', so I hunted 'em down myself."
"My God." Luke drew a shaky breath.
"Took me twenty-three years." Zeke sighed again. "Sure, I got married and raised a family, but I never forgot. Never forgave..."
"Why would the law hang you for that, Zeke?" Luke shook his head. Even in his time, judges had shown leniency to those who'd committed justifiable homicide, though there'd been none for an innocent man like himself. "I don't understand."
"I didn't have no proof." Zeke laughed with no trace of humor. "My wife had been dead over a year when I heard about two outlaws livin' across the border in Indian Territory. My girls' husbands had the farm well in hand by then, so I did what I had to do."
"You went after them, and..."
"Made sure who they was first, then I killed 'em with my bare hands." Zeke's voice trembled with fury even now. "In my mind, it was like that day when I first come home and found..."
"So you were arrested, tried and convicted of murder," Luke said, remembering his own ordeal.
"Yep. Marshal hunted me down near Tahlequah and took me back to stand trial. I told him the whole story." Zeke chuckled and shook his head. "I believe he woulda turned me loose, if not for his oath and all."
"Oath?" Luke closed his eyes for a moment, wondering if a U.S. Marshal's oath was as binding as a priest's vows? "Yeah, right. Justice and retribution."
"Somethin' like that." Zeke seemed calmer now. "Judge Parker let me speak my piece, but the jury said guilty. The war was over, they said. Next thing I knew, they was buildin' the gallows."
Guilty...guilty...guilty...
A shudder rippled through Luke as he remembered being restrained in the electric chair all over again. The terror. The pain.
The injustice.
Zeke exhaled. "I never got a chance to tell my girls the truth. Ab broke me outta the jail there in Ft. Smith, and we run like the devil was on our tails." He slapped his thigh with his crumpled hat. "Ab thought he owed me, 'cuz I saved his hide at Pea Ridge. I shamed my family and turned Ab into a criminal right along with me, though nobody knows who sprung me, 'cept you. Them's my only regrets."
Shame and guilt...
Sofie stretched and swung her legs over the edge of the narrow bed. As she sat upright, the floor seemed to rush toward her again. She swayed slightly and grabbed her head. Placing one hand on the bed frame, she assured herself that falling was not imminent.
What had Mrs. Fleming given her? A strange sweetness coated her mouth and she grimaced. She'd kill for her toothbrush and some potent peppermint toothpaste. The corner of a clean, wet rag wrapped around her fingertip just wasn't the same.
Feeling more stable, she searched her mind for information. She'd fainted, but why?
Her mother. She'd remembered her parents. Hearing Mrs. Fleming tell Jenny about her mother had triggered a painful childhood memory. Would more memories follow?
Then she'd had a bizarre dream about a television game show. That memory made her look around the room, wondering again why there were no electric lights, phones, or televisions in Redemption. She shivered. Or a wall thermostat that would pr
oduce instant warm air.
She remembered those things. They were real.
Weren't they?
She shivered again, but not from cold this time. How could she remember things that couldn't possibly exist? Why had she been wearing men's clothing upon her arrival in Redemption? What was the significance of the tattoo on the side of her breast? No amount of scrubbing had made it fade, and she felt certain it never would.
Rising, she walked over to the mirror and pulled down the neckline of Dora Fleming's voluminous flannel nightgown. There it was, the circle with lines drawn through it, and a butterfly beneath it. The word "peace" appeared just beneath the symbol.
Mrs. Fleming had said Sofie was branded like a steer, and she'd said it with extreme disapproval.
Then another memory intruded. Following the strange game show dream, she'd had another, much more pleasant one. Redness crept up her neck and flamed in her cheeks. Warm lips, a heated embrace, her breasts swollen and–
My God, she'd kissed Father Salazar. A priest!
No, no. Only a dream.
Her breath froze in her throat as she remembered the sound of his voice when she'd begged him to kiss her.
"Then will you go back to sleep?"
Had it been a dream? Uncertain, she watched her blush intensify. Her ears felt as if they'd blow off the sides of her head any minute. How could she be sure without asking Father Salazar?
Instantly, she shook her head and regretted it. Pain stabbed through her skull and she made her way back to bed. Of course it was a dream. A priest would never have kissed her that way.
So thoroughly. Deeply. Hungrily.
Trembling, she sat on the edge of the bed again and stared across the room at the lace curtains. A dream, Sofie. Nothing but a dream. Get it straight and don't forget it again.
A soft knock sounded at the door, thankfully interrupting her disturbing memories. "Come in."
The door opened and Mrs. Fleming walked in carrying a tray and smiling. "My, you look much better this morning." She closed the door behind her and crossed the room. "I brought some tea and toast. Dr. Wilson didn't want you to have anything else until we're sure you're all right."