“Can you speak Lakota?” she asked.
“Some,” J.T. replied, and then frowned. He hadn’t had any call to speak his mother’s tongue in almost twenty years.
“Please take me back to Cedar Ridge.”
“Are you crazy? There’s nothing waiting for me there but a rope.”
“You can drop me off on the outskirts of town.”
“No.”
“But…”
“Dammit, I said no!” Unconsciously, he massaged his neck.
She couldn’t blame him, not really. And, deep inside, she knew, without knowing how she knew, that she would never get back to her own time without his help.
They rode all that day, passing through some of the prettiest country Brandy had ever seen. No wonder the Indians had fought so hard to hold on to the land, she mused. The sky was a bright azure blue, the trees were tall and green, the streams ran cool and clear. She thought of her own time, of the pollution that was killing the trees and poisoning the oceans. Recalling a trip she had made to Los Angeles a year ago, she grimaced as she remembered the graffiti painted on the walls and freeway overpasses, the smog that had burned her eyes. If the Indians had known the havoc the whites would inflict on their homeland, they would have killed the pilgrims and burned the Mayflower.
J.T. made camp at dusk. He chose a spot on a wooded rise where he had an clear view of the ground below.
“Get some wood,” he said curtly. “I’ll look after the horses.”
She didn’t argue this time. Humming softly, she dug a shallow pit, then gathered an armful of wood and twigs. She had a small toasty fire going and coffee cooking by the time J.T. finished unsaddling the horses.
For dinner, they ate jerky and cold biscuits looted from Cougar Johanson’s saddlebags. As she chewed on a strip of dried meat, Brandy thought longingly of the quick, easy meals she had taken for granted back home, spaghetti and meatballs and warm Italian bread, chicken and vegetables served over fluffy white rice. Even the microwave dinners she sometimes ate were better than this.
Sipping a cup of hot bitter black coffee, she wondered again how her animals were doing, what Gary had thought when she missed their date, what her parents would think when she didn’t call. She wondered how Nancy Leigh was doing with her spelling, and if Bobby had ever paid for the candy bar he’d stolen from the cafeteria.
But, most of all, she wondered if she would ever get home again.
J.T. sat across the fire from Brandy, his left arm resting on his bent knee. It didn’t take a mind reader to know where her thoughts were. She was thinking of home, likely hating him because he refused to help her get back. As if he could. Still, the thought of her hatred caused a sharp pain in the region of his heart. He didn’t try to analyze it; didn’t want to examine his feelings too closely for fear he might have to admit that he was beginning to care for the ebony-haired woman sitting solemn-faced across the fire. He had known prettier women, even bedded a few, but none had fascinated him quite like this one. The firelight turned her hair to flame and tinged the curve of her cheek with a splash of gold. His gaze moved to the rise and fall of her breasts, and he wondered what she would look like wearing nothing but black lace and firelight.
With a start, he realized she was watching him from under the veil of her lashes. “Something wrong?” he asked brusquely.
“No.” Her voice was smooth and warm, like the liquor she was named for.
“It’s getting late,” he said gruffly. “You’d better turn in.”
“You’re staring at me. Why?”
“Why?” He looked at her blankly. Why, indeed? It had been months since he’d been intimate with a woman.
He frowned at the memory. He had spent three weeks in jail waiting for the circuit judge to come and try him. In all that time, the only person he’d seen other than the sheriff had been Nora Vincent, the lady who owned the hotel. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve Nora’s friendship. Before his arrest, he’d stayed at her hotel a couple of times, that was all, but she’d brought his meals twice a day. She’d come to the hanging, too, the only friendly face in the crowd.
Before that, he’d been on the run, dodging a determined posse rounded up from some little cow town where he had stolen a couple hundred dollars. He’d had no time to think about finding a woman, no time to think of anything but getting away just as far and as fast as he could. But he couldn’t shake the disquieting feeling that, even if he had just made love to the most beautiful woman in the world, it wouldn’t do a thing to ease his yearning for Miss Brandy Talavera, schoolmarm.
“Stop staring at me.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, “but there’s not much else to look at.”
“I don’t care. Didn’t anyone ever tell you it isn’t polite to stare?”
“Not that I recall.”
She studied him through the shimmering light of the fire, admiring the stark beauty of his profile. And suddenly she wanted to know more about the enigmatic man who had so abruptly changed her life.
“Tell me about yourself, J.T..”
“I thought I already did that.”
“Not really. What kind of childhood did you have? Did you go to school?”
“School?” J.T. snorted softly. “The fine upstanding ladies of San Antonio were like to faint when they heard my mother had the gall to send me to school with their little darlings. They booted me out so fast it made my head spin.”
“But that’s not fair!” Brandy exclaimed, her sense of right and wrong outraged by the thought of a child being denied the right of an education.
“Well, fair or not, that’s the way it was. Didn’t matter where we went, it was always the same.”
“Where did you learn to read and write? I mean, you can read and write, can’t you?”
“Well enough to get by.” He picked up a stick and threw it into the fire, staring at the little fountain of sparks that rose from the coals.
“Did your mother teach you?”
“No. She didn’t know how.” He glanced up, his gaze meeting hers squarely. “But she was friendly with a man who’d been a teacher in the East before he got caught drinking on the job. Real friendly, if you get my drift.”
Brandy nodded. She understood exactly what he was saying. J.T.’s mother had prostituted herself so her son could learn to read and write.
“She must have loved you very much.”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “So, what about you? What were like as a little girl?”
Brandy stared into her coffee cup. How could she tell J.T. about her childhood when his had been so miserable?
“C’mon, Brandy, ’fess up.”
“I had a wonderful childhood,” she admitted. “I was an only child, my parents spoiled me rotten, and I loved it.”
When she was young, she had been glad she didn’t have any brothers or sisters, that she didn’t have to share her parents’ time or love with anyone else. But, as she had gotten older, and less selfish, she had often wished for a big brother to protect her from the bullies at school, for a sister to share confidences with.
“I guess you had all the toys and clothes a kid could want,” J.T. remarked, his voice bitter as he recalled the time his mother had taken a bad fall down a flight of stairs.
Unable to work, she had taken him to the local church, where they had been given shelter until she recovered. It had been Christmas, and two of the town’s rich ladies had come to the church, bringing gifts for the orphans and poor folk. He would never forget the way they’d looked at him, their eyes filled with pity for the “poor little Indian boy” in the ragged pants and too-small shirt, or the way they had looked at his mother, as if she was dirt. They had given him a shiny new top and a shirt of soft blue wool. He had smashed the top to pieces, thrown the shirt into the fireplace when no one was looking.
“My folks were very generous, but then, I was their only child,” Brandy replied, remembering the numerous presents that had awaited her on her birthday
s and at Christmas.
“How come your folks never had more kids?”
“My mom had a bad pregnancy. The doctors told her it would be dangerous for her to have another child. She wanted to try, but my dad wouldn’t hear of it.”
“He must have loved her a lot.”
“He still does.”
“How long have they been married?”
“Thirty-five years.” It was an odd discussion to be having with a notorious outlaw, Brandy mused.
“I guess they’re probably worried about you. Wondering where you are.”
“Yes.” She felt a sudden surge of hope. Perhaps now, when he knew how close-knit her family was, how worried her parents must be, he would agree to take her home.
J.T. looked at her across the fire. “It doesn’t change anything, Brandy. I’m not going back to Cedar Ridge. Not for you. Not for anybody.”
She hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath until she let it out in a long sigh of disappointment.
“I’m sorry, Brandy.”
“If you were sorry, you’d take me home!”
“Dammit, woman, even if I was fool enough to take you back to Cedar Ridge, there’s no guarantee you’ll make it back to your own time.”
“But it’s a chance.”
“A damn slim one.”
“But it’s the only chance I’ve got.”
J.T. shook his head. “Forget it.”
“I hate you.” The words were quiet and laced with venom.
“Most everybody does,” he replied flatly. And turning his back to her, he rolled up in his blankets and closed his eyes.
Brandy stared at him, suddenly ashamed. What if he took her back to Cedar Ridge and he was arrested? Hanged? How could she live with that on her conscience? And yet, how else was she ever to find her way back home?
And then a new thought occurred to her, one that chilled her to the bone. What if it didn’t matter what she did? What if there was no way back?
Chapter Eleven
They rode for three days, seeing no one, but J.T. refused to turn back. Like a man driven by some internal devil that would not be stilled, he rode from dawn ’til dark, pausing only to rest the horses. Brandy remained silent and withdrawn. During the day, he ignored her, his thoughts focused on finding the Lakota. But at night, alone in his blankets, she was foremost in his mind. His body ached for her, burned for her, fueled by the memory of the kisses they had shared, the way she had felt in his arms, as if she belonged there.
He could see her now, lying on the other side of the fire. Was she asleep? Thinking of him? Hating him? Let her, he thought sourly. He’d never needed anyone in his life before, and he certainly didn’t need her. Hell, he barely knew the woman…
What difference did it make if her hair was like black silk, and her skin smelled always of sunshine and flowers? He’d hardly noticed that her eyes were a clear soft gray, or that her lips were pink and perfectly formed, or that her breasts…
With an effort, he dragged his gaze away from her shapely form and stared at the starlit sky. After a time, his eyelids grew heavy. Before the hanging, he’d never had any trouble sleeping, but now, knowing the nightmares that awaited him, he fought to stay awake.
A dreamcatcher, he thought. That was what he needed. Hovering in the nether world between sleep and awareness, he seemed to hear his mother’s voice, telling him the legend of the Lakota dreamcatcher.
J.T. frowned, trying to remember the tale, something about Iktomi, the trickster, and how he had taken a willow hoop decorated with feathers, horse hair and beads and began to spin a web. And as he fashioned his web, he spoke to one of the elders of the tribe about the cycles of life, and how life is a circle. A man begins as an infant, then moves on to childhood and adulthood, and then, when he is old, he must be taken care of again, as he was when he was an infant.
There were many forces in a man’s life, the spider said, some good, some bad. And all the while, he continued to spin his web, working from the outside towards the center. To find happiness, a man must listen to the Great Spirit and follow His teachings. He must not interfere with Nature, but be a part of the land, of the circle that was life. When Iktomi finished speaking, he returned the hoop to the elder. “This web is a perfect circle,” he said, “but there is a hole in the middle. If you believe in the Great Spirit, the web will catch the good ideas. The bad ones will go through the hole.”
The elder took the web back to his people. In turn, they made dreamcatchers of their own. The web captured the good dreams, the good thoughts and ideas, but the evil dreams escaped through the hole in the middle…
He clung to that thought as sleep claimed him.
* * * * *
It was mid-afternoon the following day when J.T. saw the tumbleweed wagon. He experienced a sudden, gut-wrenching urge to run like hell as the cart rolled toward them. He eyed the six outriders warily, wondering if they’d give chase. In the end, he decided it was better to keep going rather than arouse their suspicion. There was nothing worse than a nosey lawman. With luck, they’d pass by without a word.
Brandy noticed the barred wagon a few minutes later. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing.
“Prison wagon,” he replied curtly.
Brandy squinted against the sun, trying to get a better look. Six heavily armed men accompanied the wagon. One lawman rode ahead, the other five were spread out around the wagon. A seventh handled the reins of a four-horse team.
J.T. edged his horse nearer to Brandy’s as the lawman riding point galloped toward them. “I don’t have to warn you to keep your mouth shut, do I?”
“Is that a threat?”
His gaze was as cool as his voice. ”Damn right.”
J.T. reined his horse to a halt, his hands folded nonchalantly over the saddlehorn.
Moments later, the lawman rode up. “Afternoon,” the deputy said.
“Afternoon,” J.T. replied.
“Where you folks headed?” the lawman asked.
“South Pass City,” J.T. flashed Brandy a warning glance. “We’re gonna try our hand at gold mining.”
“Getting a late start, aren’t you?”
J.T. shrugged. Gold had been discovered in South Pass City back in ‘67. When the Carissa Mine hit a rich vein, hundreds of prospectors had flocked to the area, hoping to find the motherlode. By ‘68, the town’s population had hit two thousand as saloon owners, bankers, merchants, freighters and blacksmiths followed the miners. Last he’d heard, there were near thirty mines and dozens of sluicing operations to be found on the hillsides.
“I don’t see as how that’s any of your concern.”
“No, I guess not. You look familiar. Have we met?”
“Not to my recollection.”
The deputy nodded, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. “It’s not safe for the two of you to be riding out here alone,” he remarked, his gaze fixed on J.T.’s face. “You might want to ride along with us as far as you can.”
J.T. stared past the lawman. The tumbleweed wagon had come to a stop a few yards away. The other lawmen had dismounted and were gathered in front of the wagon. “I don’t think so.”
“You might want to change your mind. We passed some Indian sign a’ways back. The Sioux are lookin’ for trouble.”
“I’m obliged for the warning.”
The deputy nodded. “Mind if I ask your name.”
“It’s Lusk. John Lusk.”
“Where are you from, Mr. Lusk?”
“Denver.”
The deputy looked over at Brandy. “And you’d be?”
“She’s my wife,” J.T. interjected smoothly.
“Is that right?” The lawman was talking to J.T., but he was watching Brandy’s face.
Brandy stared at the lawman, her mind racing. Now was her chance to get away. J.T. wouldn’t dare try to make a stand against seven armed lawmen. All she had to do was tell the deputy who J.T. really was. They’d take him into custody and see her safely to the next tow
n. From there, she could take a stage back to Cedar Ridge.
She glanced at J.T.. He looked relaxed, as though he had nothing to hide. And then his gaze met hers and she knew, without a doubt, that he was perfectly aware of what she was thinking. Looking closer, she noticed that he wasn’t nearly as at ease as she’d first thought. A muscle ticked in his jaw; his eyes were wary, like an animal sensing a trap.
Brandy licked her lips. The lawman was waiting for her answer. He was looking at her oddly. At first she thought it was because she was dressed in buckskins, and then, with a start, she realized he thought she was J.T.’s mistress.
“Are you his wife, lady?”
“I…” She couldn’t do it. No matter what he’d done, no matter how much she wanted to go back to Cedar Ridge, she couldn’t turn J.T. over to these men. “Yes,” she replied firmly. “I am.”
She saw a brief flicker of surprise in J.T.’s eyes.
“Is that all, Deputy?” J.T. asked.
“I reckon so,” the lawman said. “Good luck to you, Mr. Lusk. Ma’am.” With a tip of his hat, he rode back to his companions.
J.T. watched the wagon until it went out of sight behind a low rise. Then he faced Brandy. “Why?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know damn well what I mean. You were going to tell that law dog who I was, and then you changed your mind. Why?”
“Because I don’t think I can get back to my own time without you, that’s why,” Brandy retorted, though that was only half the truth. The other half was that she couldn’t abide the thought of J.T. being hanged a second time. She jerked her gaze away from his. She didn’t even want to think about why the mere idea of his facing a rope again filled her with such horror. Refused to admit that it had anything to do with the attraction that hummed between them even now.
He was watching her. She could feel his gaze on her face as surely as she could feel the sun’s heat. Glancing up, she saw that he was grinning at her.
“You don’t have to look so smug!”
The Angel and the Outlaw Page 11