Fighting down a scream, Sarah searched for enough energy to struggle free, but Sam’s arm moved across her middle and rested there, pinning her beside him.
She tried to breathe. Fear claimed her thoughts as her body warmed beneath the blankets. Sam’s slow steady breathing brushed against the side of her face. The smell of whiskey whispered through the air. Sarah wiggled her nose, then decided it was better than the smell of blood.
After several minutes she relaxed, deciding he had no plans to ravish her. She allowed sleep to settle over exhaustion.
When she woke, just after dawn, she hadn’t moved. Neither had Sam. His hand still rested atop her. It took all her energy to force herself to slip into the cold morning and climb from the wagon.
She almost laughed at herself for even thinking a man so wounded could have been thinking of mating. He probably was only tired of having her shake the wagon with her shivering.
But he dreamed of Ruthie, she remembered. It surprised her that a man so hard, so cold, would mumble about a woman. Maybe he had loved once. Sarah felt suddenly jealous, for she’d never loved. However, he wasn’t with Ruthie, and she wondered if that didn’t somehow add to the pain he felt. Maybe she was better off having no one to worry about.
The air thickened into gray light, as though a cloud had nestled into the clearing overnight. For an hour she pulled dead branches from between the cottonwoods, letting the fire rage against the cold, but she couldn’t seem to warm the clearing. Once, she tried to climb between the roots and see what lay beyond the trees. Only more trees, choking out daylight. She called several times for the children, but wasn’t surprised when they didn’t answer.
Sam woke once, asking for more whiskey and managing to swallow a little jerky broth she’d kept warm. Sarah ripped another section from her skirt. He sat up without saying a word as she changed his bandage. The wound was red and ugly across his flesh, but at least it no longer bled.
Just before dark, as she set out the cans for supper, the three children appeared as they had the night before.
Sarah tried to act as if she wasn’t in the least surprised. “I was hoping you’d join me for dinner.” She set the can of peaches where they all could see it. “Maybe you’ll stay for dessert?”
Tonight she cut up a large potato and let it cook with three cans of beans. She wanted to make sure there was enough food, for she knew what it was like to leave a meal still hungry. While she cooked, she talked to them, answering questions they never asked. She told them that she and Sam were married, but left out the fact that they met when he bailed her out of jail.
Finally the oldest child set down her empty plate and studied Sarah before she spoke. “I’m K.C. These are my brothers, Dodge and Abilene.”
Sarah tried not to smile. “K.C. is short for?”
“Kansas City. My ma named us for the town she was in when we was born.”
Sarah finished her plate, then opened the can of peaches and offered each child a peach half. Again the smaller two used their hands while K.C. watched Sarah and tried to use her fork to cut the peach. When Sarah finished, she walked to the water’s edge and washed her hands along with the plate she had used.
None of the children seemed to feel the need to follow her example.
K.C. glanced toward the wagon when Sarah returned. “You gonna feed Sam Gatlin?”
“When he wakes,” Sarah answered, surprised the child remembered his name. “Is he a friend of yours?” The possibility that Sam might have been the one who left the children at this place crossed her mind. Or maybe K.C. had just listened when Sarah talked to Sam. She must have said his name twenty times in the two days they had been in the clearing.
“No.” K.C. giggled. “But I seen him before. I think he might have been Ma’s ‘happen-along.’ ”
“A happen-along?” Sarah asked as she collected the children’s plates.
“Yeah, you know. Ever once in a while this man happens along and comes to see my ma late at night. The next thing I start worrying about is if I’ll get another little brother.”
Sarah looked at Dodge and Abilene, trying to see any sign that either could be a child of Gatlin’s. They were too dirty to tell much, but neither had his dark eyes.
“Is Sam your father?”
All three children nodded in unison as if they’d practiced their response to such a question.
Sarah added another black mark to her husband’s growing list. Drunkard, gunman, probable wife beater, and now no-good father. How had she managed to marry the lowest of the low in several different categories?
“I should have left the knife in his back,” she mumbled as she scrubbed the dishes. “Maybe before I stepped up and helped him, I should have asked why someone stabbed him. Who knows? Maybe they had good reason. He didn’t bother to tell me, and Denver didn’t seem the least surprised that someone would want to kill him. In fact, she hinted men might be forming a line to do just that.”
Sarah glanced over her shoulder. The children watched her as if she were some kind of curious animal. She wasn’t too sure if K.C. was telling her the truth, or simply saying what she thought Sarah might want to hear.
“Do you know where your mother is?” Sarah asked.
“Nope,” K.C. answered without emotion. “Last time we seen her was in Fort Worth. She was dead in a box.”
“But how did you get here?” Sarah found it hard to believe anyone, even a man like Sam Gatlin, would leave three children out here alone.
K.C. wrinkled her face in thought.
Sarah guessed the child debated telling the truth. “It’s all right, you can trust me. Even if I wanted to, I have no one to tell any secrets to.”
“Tennessee Malone told us not to tell nobody. He said if we want to get to our father, we better not talk to anyone.”
Sarah tried again. “Who is Tennessee Malone?”
“He said he was a friend of our pa’s and he’d take us to a place where we’d meet up with our pa, but all he did was leave us here.”
Sarah tried for another hour, but the child had no more answers, only that the day her mother died, a man they’d never seen before named Malone loaded them in a wagon. Then he dropped them off with a thick wrap of jerky and told them Sam Gatlin would be there in three days.
Only Sam never came and K.C. said she’d watched the moon turn full three times. When the jerky ran out, they’d survived on berries and roots.
“We’ve been hungry for a long time,” K.C. said. “Could we have another peach?”
Sarah knew she should ration the quickly dwindling supplies, but she couldn’t say no.
After feeding them another two cans of peaches and all the bread that was left, she wrapped the children in the huge shawl and put them close to the fire so they would stay warm. She spent the second night in the clearing listening to Sam mumble in his sleep and trying to figure out why he hadn’t come for the children. Had he thought that if he waited long enough they’d be dead and he wouldn’t have to worry about them?
Sarah had no idea if he was their father or why he hadn’t helped them. Maybe he married her so he’d have someone to take care of them. Maybe Malone’s message never reached Sam. Maybe it did, but Sam didn’t care.
She scooted into the corner of the wagon, next to the rifle, and curled into a ball. She didn’t want to touch him tonight, not even to get warm. So far every day she had learned more about her husband. And it was all bad.
As the night aged, she shivered and finally slipped beneath the covers and into the warm place at his side. But tonight there was far too much to think about to sleep.
The next day mirrored the last. Sam seemed to be sleeping sounder and his wound no longer bled, but he never opened his eyes or responded when she talked to him.
Dawn crept through the cottonwoods on the morning of the fourth day with Sarah wide awake. She’d made up her mind that there was only one thing to do. She had to take the children back to town and talk Denver into watching over them unti
l Sam was at least coherent. Maybe he’d have some answers. If he had money for supplies, he might have money to hire someone to watch over the children for a while.
She woke him by pulling the buffalo robe off him. His eyes were rimmed in red and bloodshot, and his face looked pale beneath his weathered tan. He stared at her as though he were trying to remember where he’d seen her before.
He growled like a bear, but Sarah didn’t back down. “I can’t lift you out of the wagon, Sam Gatlin. You’ll have to climb out if you want breakfast.”
“Go away. I’m not moving.”
“You are if you plan to eat.”
“Forget breakfast,” he mumbled. “Where’s the whiskey in this bar?”
Sarah sighed, realizing he still talked out of his head. She wasn’t sure if he was drunk or in so much pain he didn’t care where he was. “The whiskey is a few feet from the wagon, along with your breakfast.” She’d made a table of water, whiskey, and jerky. It wasn’t much in the way of rations, but she thought it would keep him alive until she returned, or he got strong enough to look for the canned goods.
He didn’t seem to see anything but the bottle. When she didn’t offer to get it for him, he slowly moved to the back of the wagon under protest.
Sarah helped him down. When he slid off the gate, she almost buckled beneath his weight. Slowly they crossed the distance to a makeshift bed of leaves Sarah had arranged for him.
While he downed a long swig of whiskey, she told him her plan. “I have to take the children to town. With the nights getting colder, they can’t stay any longer.” She didn’t mention that they’d eaten half the month’s food supplies. “I left you food within easy reach. If I don’t get lost, I should be back by tomorrow night. It’s not the best of plans, but it’s all I could come up with. You can’t go to town in the shape you’re in, and the children can’t stay out here in the cold.”
“There are no children here,” he answered as he pulled the buffalo robe over him. “I’ll try not to be dead when you get back.” From the way he said the words, Sarah guessed he felt so bad he didn’t much care one way or the other.
“Good,” she answered without feeling. “Be alive. I don’t want to have the trouble of trying to bury you out here.”
“Bring a shovel back, just in case,” he said, already half asleep.
Sarah swore she heard a laugh beneath the blankets. An hour later, when the children were fed, cleaned, and waiting in the wagon, Sarah checked his wound. If possible, it seemed to have healed a week’s worth since yesterday. He didn’t open his eyes while she wrapped a clean bandage across him. His skin still felt hot, clammy, and she knew when she returned, she might just need that shovel.
She tried to cover him and make him comfortable before climbing into the wagon. He mumbled, “What children?” once but showed no sign of listening when she explained.
Ten minutes later, when she climbed onto the wagon’s bench and picked up the reins, Sarah turned around to make sure the children were still ready to leave.
All three were gone.
Frustrated, Sarah climbed down and called for them, but they had vanished. She tried everything, setting out food, yelling for them, crawling into the brush. Nothing.
After rebuilding the fire, she forced Sam to eat a few bites and began a quest to find where they had crossed through the brush. She worked her way into the foliage as far as she could and still there was no sign of them. Nothing.
They had simply slipped from the wagon while she was tending Sam and disappeared. She waited long after dark, but they never returned. Finally she unhitched the horses once more and sat down beside Sam.
To her surprise he looked up at her with unclouded eyes. “Back so soon?” he asked.
“I didn’t go. The children vanished, so I couldn’t take them to town. I can’t even find them.”
Sam looked as if his head had cleared of pain enough to follow the conversation. “You’re missing the kids that just appeared?”
“Yes!” Sarah answered, frustrated.
“Maybe you just imagined they were here.” He scrubbed his face as if fighting his way out of a hangover. “I’ve sure been having some crazy dreams.”
“Maybe I did.” Sarah set her chin on her bent knees. “And maybe I just dreamed we had supplies.” Her gaze fell on the empty boxes beside the wagon, then back at the bare table where she’d stacked Sam’s supplies. Only the half-full whiskey bottle remained.
SIX
SAM FORCED HIMSELF TO MOVE. THE PAIN IN HIS BACK competed with the throbbing in his head. Slowly, like a man laden with lead, he stood, letting the night’s cold add another measure of discomfort to a body he thought had already reached full capacity. His mind floated with the pain.
Move! He took a step. Keep moving or they’ll bury you! With each stride he stopped and rested, bracing raw will against the desire to retreat. He’d faced this hell before and he knew the way out ... refuse to give in to the torture. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember where he was, or how he got to this place. If he lived, his head would clear in a few days. All that mattered was controlling the terrible throbbing that broke in waves across his senses.
Whiskey still clouded his mind, blurring dreams with scraps of reality.
Early morning drifted across the clearing without warmth. Hesitantly Sam staggered toward the water. He thought of bending down for a drink but knew the agony would be too great. He pressed his lips together, holding in a cry, as he unstrapped first his holster, then his trousers. Thankfully, someone had already removed his boots and Colts. He would never have been able to pull off his boots, and he’d not allow his Colts to fall into the sand.
With grim determination he stepped into the river.
For a moment the blast of icy water outran all other pain. His knees buckled from the force, and he crumbled into the current like a warrior made of sand.
The cold water, rushing past his chest and face, made his legs, now somewhat accustomed to the temperature, seem warm. For several heartbeats Sam remained underwater, welcoming the feel of nothing but waves circling him. Finally a need for air forced him up. He planted his feet wide apart on the rocky bottom and stood, allowing a hundred streams to rush down his chest to where the river rounded his waist.
Plowing his fingers through his hair, he lowered once more. This time the current welcomed him as wet-warmth replaced the chilly air’s touch. He floated for a while, inches beneath the surface, enjoying feeling weightless. No time. No place. No problems. The thought crossed his mind that he could continue doing nothing. He’d drift downstream like a log, bumping against the shoreline, rolling in the current, until he reached the ocean.
A strange sound, like a bird’s cry or a woman’s scream, bubbled around his ears. He stood once more, pulling reluctantly from the peace of drifting.
“Are you crazy?” A shout echoed off the walls and bounced back and forth along the canyon.
Sam looked about, trying to tell where the noise originated. At first all he saw was the clearing, the trees, the water.
Then she came into view. A tiny, half-pint of a woman standing at the water’s edge with her fists on her hips. She looked every bit as if she planned to wring his neck when she got hold of him. He found it impossible to believe such a dainty creature could have created such volume.
“Get out of that water, Sam Gatlin, before you catch your death!” She paced inches from the shoreline. “I didn’t keep you alive for four days to have you drown yourself.”
Sam tried to bring her into focus, but water dripped off his hair into his eyes. The woman multiplied like ripples on the waves. Surely she was only in his imagination. She couldn’t be real. He’d never even seen a woman like her, curls the color of sunbeams tumbling across her shoulders and skin as pale as moonlight.
She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever encountered and obviously madder than hell at him. All he’d done was stand waist deep in a stream. The past few days were fuzzy in his hea
d. She seemed like part of a dream he’d had, more wishing than real. He knew he could never do anything to hurt such an angel even in his dreams. So why was she so angry?
Maybe she thought this stream was hers and him a trespasser?
“Name’s Sam Gatlin!” he yelled by way of introduction.
She stomped her foot and, if possible, rage rose in her tone. “I know who you are, you idiot. Get out of the water!” She leaned closer to the edge, as if irate enough to come in and get him if he didn’t follow orders. “I swear, you’d think that knife I pulled out of you sliced right through your brain and not your back.”
Sam frowned. He vaguely remembered someone pulling a knife from his back. Someone said there would be a condition, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it was. Someone had helped him into a wagon, someone fed him soup. “Do I know you, lady?” He might as well ask before he got close enough for her to take a swing at him. If he’d seen her kind of rage in a man, Sam would have made sure his Colt was ready to pull.
“Of course you know me, Sam Gatlin. I’m your wife.”
She showed no sign of kidding.
“But if you don’t get back in that bed right now, I’ll probably be your widow by noon.”
Sam saw no choice but to head toward the shore. She looked as if she meant every word she said. Besides, he didn’t know how much longer he could stand. The river must have seeped into his brain along with some of the bottom mud, for his thoughts were muddled.
As he stepped up to the shore, he heard her sharp intake of breath and looked up.
She might be the one who pulled the knife from his back, she might even be his wife, but one thing Sam knew ... she had never seen him without clothes. She stared at him with a mixture of horror and curiosity.
Sam groaned. He’d seen the same kind of stare from folks looking at freaks at tent shows.
He wasn’t a man who thought of himself as modest, but if he could have vanished in thin air, he would have. She looked at him with huge round eyes, and it crossed his mind that this lady might never have seen a man before.
Jodi Thomas Page 5