Lady Outlaws

by Lady outlaws (NCP) (lit)

  He nodded and stole another quick glance to Romano before standing. “Keep him warm. He’ll be weak for awhile but the antibiotics have worked.”

  Sara’s eyes blurred with tears of gratitude.

  A frantic pounding on the door made Sara flinch. “Maria! Sara! Abra la puerta!”

  “It’s Antonio,” she said. Stumbling past the waking Maria she shoved the table away from the door. It flung open with a hard bang.

  “Sara,” Antonio said. “Where is Devon? Is he not here with you?”

  “No. This is…” she turned to introduce the Professor and blinked. She and Maria were the only ones in the room with Romano. She had to shake herself back to the immediate conversation.

  “I told him to wait for us,” Antonio said, taking a firm hold of her shoulders.

  “He was here,” she said, still dazed from the encounter with a ghost. “He left again, after hearing shots. What happened? Was it Horn’s men?”

  “No. Better for us if it had been.” Antonio looked to the bed. “How is my brother?”

  “Resting,” she smiled, knowing it to be true. “He’s over the worst. He is going to be just fine.”

  “Antonio,” called a weak voice from the bed.

  The brothers clasped hands; Antonio peered down with sheer relief. “You frightened us all, Romano. Prayers have been answered.”

  “It’s what happens when a saint takes personal interest in a sinner’s plight.”

  Maria crossed herself and sobbed.

  “My time has not come yet,” Romano said, smiling through a sluggish expression.

  “Not for many years, brother.”

  “’Tonio,” Romy sighed, fighting sleep. “Where’s Devon?”

  “Don’t you worry,” Antonio soothed. “I am going to go get him, now.”

  Romano’s lids fluttered shut. He whispered in Spanish. Then he slept.

  “What did he say?” Sara asked, noticing Antonio’s face had frozen with surprise.

  “He say there are angels on horseback. He say they come and go with the light in the sky. What does this mean?” Antonio waited for an answer from Sara, as if she understood.

  “It means,” she whispered, “That you had best hurry.”

  “Si. We must go now.” He rose, and hurried to the door.

  Sara resumed the vigil she had kept over her husband, secure in knowing he would live and be strong again. They both would. And as the lightning flashed outside, illuminating the room in a glow of white, she breathed deeply.

  Angels on horseback. Angels that traveled through the lightning as though it were nothing more than a stepping stone. It was what brought her here; it was what directed her destiny and it was what saved Romano’s life.

  And now it was what would save Brandi.

  * * * *

  Any time is a good time for a hanging.

  The words filtered through the heavy air, jumbled, distorted, bouncing about with no meaning, no substance, no sense. The echoes rumbled together, forming a ball, sparkling with light, miniature flashes of white and yellow. Like a carnival firecracker they sizzled over Brandi’s head, and showered down over her without harm.

  Beyond sensation, she recognized no fear or hurt or anguish. All of it had been sucked away, leaving her to float, a tiny defenseless vessel in a place void of anything except impenetrable peace.

  ‘Please, if only to have the chance.’

  ‘Be careful what you wish for.’

  ‘Any time is a good time for a hanging.’

  The voices had no essence, yet, certain of their existence, Brandi lifted a weightless hand to touch them. If only she could hold the dancing lights, sway with them in a dance of everlasting serenity, then she would be so grateful. Then she could let her spirit go, knowing she had done all that had been asked of her. Then she could rest.

  But as soon as her finger came within reach the lights scattered, forming a window, the glass crinkled and frosted, obscuring the visions within. Something within had moved. She was certain of it and squinted closer to see what each shimmering image would reveal.

  Like a jerky silent film it played out before her eyes. The saloon in Dry Gulch. Devon, standing next to her at the bar. The open sky, and a campfire by the river. Sara, waving goodbye from the back of Romy’s horse. Sadie, laughing, sitting at her kitchen table. Horses. Escaping across the countryside. The meal at the restaurant. Jack Holland tipping his hat. The crowd at the theatre and then Devon, smashing his way through the broiling fist fight. Lila’s face filled the screen. “I believe you,” she said, although no sound erupted from her smile. Antonio. Maria. A little girl’s laughter. Sara, dressed in her wedding gown. Devon. “I knew then you were the woman fer me.”

  The window cleared. Standing in front of her was Anthony Fault. He stretched out each hand and she stood, without even sensing she had moved.

  “Professor,” she heard herself say. “I guess we shouldn’t have thought you were so eccentric after all.”

  “I guess not,” he answered.

  “Things didn’t quite work out the way we planned, though, did they?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, I’m dead now.”

  “What makes you think you’re dead?”

  “Because none of this could happen. It’s not real. Or, has it all just been a dream and I’ve finally woken up?”

  He kept holding her hands. There was no earth beneath them so she was pleased he did so. “It’s not a dream,” he said.

  “Where am I?”

  “Let’s just call this the room between rooms. A small place between worlds.”

  Two others suddenly shared the space. They stood behind the Professor’s shoulders. Fritz Hardin and Vance McCoy. “Hello, again,” Fritz said.

  “Hi.” She wasn’t alarmed or surprised. No emotion was allowed within this strange place. Their being here was perfectly normal.

  “My prize students,” the Professor smiled. He hadn’t once taken his eyes of her.

  “Now what?” she asked. “We all just stand here?”

  “No. I just wanted to see you, one more time.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home. My part is done.”

  “What happens to me? What do I do now?”

  “Follow your heart. Do so and you will never stray.”

  “Will I ever go home again?”

  “No. Your place is here. It always has been.” He let go of her hands. Without moving he began to fade, taking the others with him back into the frosty mist.

  “Don’t go,” she pleaded. “What if I need your help again?”

  “You won’t.” He lifted his hand, a gesture of farewell.

  Blurred into a shimmering mirage all three were replaced with another image. Devon, standing behind the shed. Sorrow and failure. “A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do”. The cottage. Romy, reaching for the knife tucked in his belt. A fight. He was losing.

  The gun went off.

  The blast melded into a vicious snap of thunder. The light flashed. The window smashed shut, breaking the frosted glass.

  She whirled backwards.

  Pressed against the hard earth, she screamed. Another gunshot ripped through the air. Then another and another. The hands that had intended to molest her were gone. She dared not look. Sounds of confusion were everywhere. Shouts, curses, shrieks of pain.

  Boots pawed the ground in a macabre dance. She rolled; her only thought was to escape. But a body was sprawled there preventing her attempt to flee. A vacant death stare peered back at her. It was Budd, a neat small hole in his forehead oozing blood.

  Brandi froze, transfixed by the lifeless eyes that continued to bore into her. Somehow her mind convinced her that even in death he would try to clutch at her, and she grabbed clumps of earth in a desperate attempt to crawl away. And when fingers actually did seize her shoulders she screamed again and kicked fiercely.

  “Brandi! It’s okay. It’s me.”

  Her thrashin
g continued despite knowing that it was Devon who held her within a steely embrace.

  “Ssh,” he cooed, rocking her, strumming her hair and shoulders. “Ssh, now. It’s over, darlin’. It’s all over.”

  It had to be another dream. It couldn’t be Devon. Devon was dead. He had been hung on the branch meant for her. The branch that had silhouetted the black thunderclouds.

  Slowly she lifted her gaze, frightened at what she might see. An imposter. Whoever was holding her had to be an imposter. Or a ghost.

  “Devon,” she cried. “Oh, Devon. It is you!”

  “Yes, darlin’,” he soothed.

  She buried her tears within the folds of his jacket, wave after wave of relief erupting in her chest. His arms muffled the sounds that continued around them, sounds of stamping feet and shouts and splattering rain.

  “You’re okay now,” he whispered over and over. “We both are. Everything is gonna be fine.”

  Brandi held onto him. Every ounce of strength left in her body flexed each arm. She wouldn’t sink into despair, not while she held on. And she would never let go. Never.

  Minutes ticked on. The fray around them subsided. But still he rocked her, warm palms strumming her back. “Brandi-girl,” he sighed in her ear. “Oh, my precious Brandi-girl.”

  Her cheek bumped against his shoulder as Devon picked her up. She refused to open her eyes, blocking out the nightmarish scene she knew had unfolded. She didn’t care who lay dead or wounded, or who the rescuers had been. All she cared about was Devon.

  Even when he propped her into his saddle she refused to look. And when he straddled the horse behind her she held his arm, lids screwed shut. A miracle had touched their lives, that much she knew.

  And as they rode away from the continuing voices, Brandi vowed to never look back again.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Thought you might be interested in reading this.”

  Antonio passed a newspaper to Devon. He smiled knowingly and then returned to the courtyard to unsaddle his horse. For the past month while they rested he had spent a precious few days in Laredo on business. In actuality he had made a court appearance, fingering the rustlers who attempted to steal his cattle that fateful night. Rustlers named Flicker Jack, Biscuit Bob Laing and Peddie Hebb. All three were behind bars.

  Devon leaned forward over the table and unfolded the newspaper. He adjusted the bandana he wore round his neck to conceal the rope burn that stubbornly refused to fade. It bothered him more than the cut in his cheek, the cut from a spur. That cut represented a refusal to obey a madman’s order; the burn was a reminder that he nearly paid for the disobedience with his life. Devon carried a lifetime of scars for being a young man. At least each one was on the outside. His spirit was freed. Almost.

  His blue eyes scanned the page.

  “Dev,” Romy said impatiently. “What does it say?”

  Romano had little memory of his altercation with Budd. The fever had blotted much of it from his mind. And Sara decided it wasn’t worth dwelling on. When he woke the next day he told her he had dreamt of a mysterious saint who had appeared to him in the haze, one who touched his arm, cleansing his blood, taking the fever from his body. He didn’t remember making any comment about angels riding the light in the sky. Or if he did, he didn’t speak of it.

  “Victor Trilby is dead.” Devon sounded empty despite this being what he wanted.

  “Dead?” Romy exclaimed. “How?”

  “Kicked in the head by a horse. Crushed his skull.”

  “Clever horse,” Brandi said.

  Devon stared blankly into thin air.

  “Isn’t this what you wanted?” Brandi asked, breaking his contemplation.

  He shook himself. “Yes. Yes, of course. I just can’t believe it’s over.”

  “Well,” Brandi announced. “I think this calls for drinks all round.” Pushing her chair back she went to the cabinet where Antonio kept the tequila. Four glasses were placed on the table around the newspaper.

  “There’s more,” Devon said, reading on. “Apparently Horn tried to play down his association with Trilby. Listen to this: The remaining members of his so-called posse have all confessed that they were witnesses to unnecessary acts of violence and murder. Upon further investigation the scandal deepens. The man who sought to one day become governor had hired the talents of Samson J. Horn in an unremitting endeavor to abolish the state of outlaw factions. On the premise of advancing capitalism, Horn states that Trilby had spent thousands of dollars to win favors from the steel, cotton, cattle and railway barons by protecting their businesses with an iron fist, eliminating thieves and the unsavory, with the hopes of securing votes in his quest for political advancement. In the process, according to witnesses who have stepped forward to testify against him, innocent people have lost their lives. Mr. Horn continues to deny that his deeds went afoul, stating he has bravely and honorably done the state a service with his justice. Condemned by a jury of his peers, Samson J. Horn is scheduled to die by hanging.”

  Devon fingered the bandana round his neck. It was tied loosely but he was convinced it would constrict suddenly, and take his breath, strangling him slowly, as the noose had done only weeks earlier.

  Before his horse had moved out from under him, Devon remembered focusing on Brandi, concerned only for her plight, not his. They had begun to molest her and tear at her clothes, none more so than Budd, and fury burned into his mind because he was unable to help her. If the horse had actually bolted, the jerk might have easily snapped his neck. As it happened, it merely cantered forward, and he slipped gently into the air. The rope pulled tightly, forcing his chin up, his ears pounding with the gurgling from a throat that couldn’t draw breath. He kicked for the earth that wasn’t there. His body swung in a semi-circle and the light grew ever brighter.

  Death crawled through him one inch at a time.

  And yet there had been an odd ecstasy in finally succumbing to the unfolding darkness. Peace accompanied it; soon, his mind said, soon it will all be over.

  “Devon. Snap out of it.”

  He blinked several times, shaken by what his memory had presented so clearly. Brandi was standing beside him, cupping each side of his face in her hands.

  Sweat had popped out over his temples. He fell into her embrace, weakened and trembling.

  He spoke little of what happened, as if talking would bring back the scene with renewed clarity. In moments of solitude and during dreams, however, those vile moments slashed through his brain as though it had happened yesterday. And it did so now, as Brandi folded her arms around his neck and cradled his cheek to her breast.

  So thick was the pounding of his dying heartbeat he barely heard the shot that severed the rope. The ground rose to his feet and knees and he knelt into it, swallowing huge amounts of air. Dimly aware of the white bulk beside him, he was too weak to crawl away from Horn’s gun, pointed directly at his head. The gun dropped when the man staggered at another shot, one that shattered the sleeve into a flooding stain of bright red. Some of the blood splattered Devon’s face and without even thinking Devon had snatched the cocked weapon and spun, but Horn’s flight had been intercepted by three of Antonio’s swarming rancheros. The great bounty hunter was pleading for mercy, far too occupied with his own survival to issue any more punishment to an outlaw.

  Through the confusion Devon spotted Brandi. Budd continued to maul her, but with hatred, not lust. Across the ground, past the sizzling campfire, through the rain, Devon aimed the gun and shot, killing the one he had once called friend with one fatal bullet to the head. Brandi collapsed and for a terrifying moment Devon feared she was dead. Magic took hold of his limbs as he raced to her side, where he saw her eyes were opened, staring at Budd in terror, and crying. He scooped her into his arms and held her with a warmth and a pleasure he thought had been stolen from him forever.

  And there they sat as Antonio’s men guarded the surrendering posse.

  Now, as they held each other again, the memory o
f near death lost its sting. Trilby was gone. So was the price on Devon’s soul. And Horn was gone, too, waiting for a final justice that only the law could procure. The ordeal was well and truly over.

  A month of rest at Antonio’s home had helped them all recover physically. Reading the news about Horn’s incarceration and forthcoming execution would help heal their spirits. It all seemed too good to be true.

  “Ready for that drink?” Brandi smiled, giving him one more hug before resuming her seat at the table. She uncorked the bottle and began filling each glass.

  “None for me,” Sara said, placing her hand over the rim of the glass.

  Brandi was surprised. She rarely saw her friend turn down a drink. “Why not? Don’t you feel like celebrating?”

  “Oh, I do,” she smiled. “But for the health of my baby I think I’ll have water instead.”

  All eyes turned to her in surprise. None more so than Romy. His whole face creased with a proud grin. “Sara?” he whispered.

  “Um,” she beamed. “The signs are all there. This morning I was sick.”

  The wheels of the Professor’s prophecy had begun to turn.

  Brandi’s final mystical rendezvous with the Professor was a secret she kept to herself. The room between rooms, as he had called it, was a place where they were meant to say their compassionate good-byes. It was also a place where she had been told that there was never any going back, a philosophy she held dear. The only part of the experience she shared with Sara was that she knew, mystically deep in her heart, that they were meant to stay here, and had nothing to fear from the lightning that would so often filter through a summer sky. Nature’s supreme force had brought them to Devon and Romano because, as they had guessed, it was meant to be. The power of love had reached through the frosted glass of time to reward them both with what would be a lifetime of happiness.

  Follow your heart. Do so and you will never stray.

  And if the Professor’s prophetic wheels were going to continue to turn, then soon Brandi would find herself with child. In the distant future Anthony Fault would be born. Further still, he would stand in front of a class of skeptical students, to proclaim a resounding belief in the reality of various theories of time with its ability to be manipulated at will, and they would shake their heads in skepticism at such eccentric ideas. Brandi smiled, wondering if someday beyond that again, his theories would prove true and make him as famous as those who surmised the possibility in literature and endless scientific proposals. She would never know, for by then, she would be dust; buried with her would be his proof of time travel, and their involvement in it.