The Outlaw and the Runaway

by Tatiana March

  Refreshed by the cool water, Celia straightened and glanced over to where Roy was cooking breakfast. A jolt went through her at the sight of him. Last night, she had offered herself to him, and only his sense of honor and caution had prevented her from becoming a fallen woman. Perhaps it was just as well that they would be parted. Given the opportunity, she might tempt him again, and the next time he might not show such restraint.

  With a wry smile at her thoughts, Celia set off to join Roy, who had dished out the pan bread and was packing up their bedrolls, getting ready to leave. She halted when a hint of something pink beside a stone caught her attention. On a closer inspection it turned out to be a tiny clump of wildflowers. With a touch of guilt about depriving other travelers of their beauty, Celia stepped closer and reached down. She’d pick just a few. They would look lovely tucked into her upsweep.

  Beside the stone something flashed, like a rope uncoiling, striking at her. A sudden pain gripped her hand, as sharp as a vise snapping shut over the delicate bones. Celia yanked her arm away. Petrified, she stared at the twin puncture wounds on the back of her hand. On the ground, something slithered away with a rattling sound.

  A rattlesnake.

  She’d never seen one before, but there could be no mistaking the sound, or the burning pain in her hand and the two bleeding holes by her knuckles. Mesmerized, her gaze riveted on her throbbing flesh, Celia stood frozen in terror. In her mind, she could see the venom spreading like a stain beneath her skin, like an arrow racing toward her heart.

  She found her voice. “Snake!”

  Unable to move, she couldn’t whirl around, couldn’t run, as if turned to stone by the fear. Behind her, she could hear the thud of footsteps and then Roy’s frantic voice. “Where? Is it gone? Did it bite you?” He skirted around her, his booted feet stomping at the ground, his gaze scanning every nook and crevice by the rocks. When he could be sure the snake was gone, he spun toward her, his face pale, his uncovered blue eye fraught.

  “Did it bite you? For God’s sake, Celia, did it bite you?”

  Wordlessly, she held her hand out for him to see. To benefit from complete vision, Roy tore the patch away from his brown eye, blinking in the morning sun. Gently, he slipped his fingers around hers and leaned closer to study the puncture marks.

  “Did you see the snake?” He glanced up at her. “Tell me what you saw. How did it feel? How does it feel now?”

  “It was like getting my hand caught in an animal trap. Sharp, strong pain. I didn’t see the snake until after...it made a rattling sound when it slithered away...it was black-and-white, I think...with a pretty pattern along its body.”

  “Diamondback rattler.” Roy tugged her arm downward until it hung straight at her side. “Don’t move. Keep as still as you can. Some snakebites are dry, without venom.”

  Celia hovered on her feet. “It hurts...and I feel hot and cold...like a fever.” Even as she spoke, she could feel a touch of light-headedness, the onset of nausea. The barren, rusty-red hills surrounding the valley seemed to undulate in her sight, like a mirage.

  Roy swore under his breath and sank to his knees in front of her. “Stay still,” he instructed, his attention on her hand. “It will slow down the spread of the venom. Take slow, deep breaths, and try to keep calm.” He pulled his knife out of his boot. “This will hurt, but try not to move.”

  Celia tensed herself against the pain. A deep, grudging anger at fate rose inside her, consuming her with such intensity it helped her to block out the sensation of the blade piercing her skin. Was this all she was going to have? A glimpse of happiness, a taste of what life could be, and then every dream and hope snatched away by a slow, painful death.

  * * *

  Roy emptied his mind, the way he’d learned to do as a child when the world around him became too hostile, too cruel to bear. Focusing on nothing but the twin puncture marks on the back of Celia’s hand, he made a small, careful cut with the tip of his knife, enlarging the snakebite to let the blood flow out. When the bleeding slowed to a trickle, he pressed his mouth to the wound and sucked out the blood, keeping her arm as immobile as he could.

  If only he knew more about doctoring! Some advised to suck out the poison. Some burned the skin around the bite with a hot iron, but the breakfast fire had already reduced to ashes. It would take too long to get the flames going again, to allow him to heat the blade of his knife. So he did what he could, sucking and spitting until the flow of blood dried up.

  Celia was swaying on her feet, her face ashen. Roy picked her up in his arms and carried her to the remains of the smoldering fire and lowered her to a sitting position on the ground. “Can you stay upright? It’s important to keep the area of the bite below your heart, to slow down the spread of the venom.”

  “I’ll...I’ll try.”

  Kneeling in front of her, Roy smoothed her hair back from her brow. Her skin was cold, clammy with perspiration. “I’ll get the horses,” he told her. “You stay here. Keep as still as you can.”

  He fought the anguish, the terrible fear. If he gave in to it, it would cloud his mind, stop him from thinking straight. But he’d been right last night. He was no good for her. Already, he’d nearly caused her to drown, and now this... At the thought of what the next few hours might bring, Roy’s eyes stung. Refusing to admit it was the pressure of tears, he slipped the cotton patch back over his brown eye.

  “It hurts,” Celia whimpered. “My hand hurts.”

  Roy didn’t know how to put these things to a woman, so he chose to be blunt. “Rattlesnake bites don’t kill at once. It will be a day or two before we know how bad it is. It would be better not to move you at all, but there’s a place an hour’s fast ride away. Miss Mabel’s Sunset Saloon. You’ll be more comfortable there, and she knows about doctoring.”

  “Miss Mabel’s Sunset Saloon...a bordello?”

  “Not anymore. Not really. The women there are too old for the job. It’s a saloon, the only one for fifty miles. The only proper building for fifty miles, to think of it. Miss Mabel pulls teeth, sews up cuts, digs out bullets. She is a doctor and a priest in one—she listens to those who want to confess their sins, comforts those strong enough to live, writes letters on behalf of those who are about to die. She’ll help you.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  “No,” Roy said grimly. “I won’t let you.”

  He brushed a quick kiss on Celia’s lips and went to saddle the horses. For a better division of weight, he loaded all their packs on Baldur. After he was ready, he dressed the wound on Celia’s hand, and then he lifted her onto Dagur and settled in the saddle behind her, cradling her across his knees.

  Balancing between the conflicting needs to make haste and to keep the injured girl as still as possible, Roy set off along the trail up to the plateau. A terrible weight pressed upon his chest, like a stone crushing his lungs, choking his breath. He’d never had anyone. If this was how it felt to lose someone you cared about, perhaps loneliness wasn’t such a bad thing, after all. He tightened his arms around Celia and increased his pace. At least at Miss Mabel’s she would have a comfortable bed and laudanum to take away the pain.

  * * *

  Miss Mabel’s run-down pleasure palace was a big, turreted frame house with echoes of grandeur from the nearby gold-mining town that had played out almost a decade ago. The town itself had been looted and vandalized, the buildings burned for firewood. Miss Mabel’s bordello stood on a hillock to the north, a relic from the past, surviving on the occasional passing trade and the patronage of outlaws who rode down from their canyon hideouts.

  Roy pulled Dagur to a halt outside, dismounted, tied the horses to the hitching rail and gathered Celia in his arms. Over an hour had passed since she’d been bitten. She was conscious, but pale and listless. Not pausing to knock, Roy lifted one booted foot, kicked the front door open and strode into the parlor, a huge, shadowed room furni
shed with ornately carved gambling tables and sagging velvet sofas.

  “Miss Mabel!” he roared.

  Deeper inside the house, a door banged. With a rustle of green satin skirts, a small, fine-boned woman with graying hair twisted into an elaborate chignon burst into the room.

  “There’s no need to holler—”

  “Snakebite,” Roy cut in. “Diamondback rattler.”

  Miss Mabel took in the situation at a glance and spun around. “This way.”

  Roy followed her up the stairs. The crimson carpets were frayed, droplets missing from the crystal chandeliers, the gilt-framed mirrors mottled with age. When something broke or wore out, it didn’t get replaced. Every dollar Miss Mabel could save went toward providing a pension for her ladies, now retired from their profession.

  Only two of the prostitutes remained, and when they were fixed up with enough funds to live out their days in comfort, Miss Mabel intended to leave. And before leaving she planned to put a match to the house, to stop it from turning into a den of vice and unruliness.

  “Which part of her body and how long ago?” Miss Mabel asked as she flung open a door to an airy, sunlit room with a big brass bed made up with freshly laundered linen sheets.

  “Back of her hand. Almost two hours ago.”

  “What have you done so far?”

  Gently, Roy propped Celia to sit on the edge of the bed. She was awake, but her skin was deathly pale, her eyes dull and vacant, and her sluggish, docile manner seemed unnatural. Roy supported her while he described how he had tried to suck out the venom and how he had done his best to keep her still during the ride over.

  With an impatient gesture, Miss Mabel ushered him out of the way. She crouched in front of Celia, took hold of the injured hand and studied the wounds, now a pair of small crosses from the tip of the knife instead of the round holes from the fangs of the snake. Carefully, Miss Mabel examined the skin on Celia’s arm, and then she took each of Celia’s hands in hers and compared them, sliding her fingers over the forearms, feeling their shape.

  “What is this girl to you?”

  The question took Roy by surprise. He swallowed. If I could have a woman of my own, she’d be the one I want. The knowledge had been burning inside him every mile as he raced along the trail, but he hesitated to put it into words, to acknowledge the emotion that would make the loss even harder to bear.

  “A friend.”

  “Well, Mr. Hagan,” Miss Mabel said with a quick glance up at him, accompanied by a wry smile. “If I promise you that she’ll live, will you clean the well and chop the logs out by the barn?”

  “She’ll...she’ll live?” Roy blinked, that burning sensation in his eyes returning. The pressure in his chest seemed too great to tolerate, as if the air had become too heavy, his body no longer obeying his commands. “Are you certain...I mean, how can you know?”

  “See here.” Miss Mabel traced her fingers along Celia’s forearm. “Had it been a bad bite, this arm would be twice the size of the other. The skin would have turned blue by now, with the flesh inside dying. I guess the snake might have just killed something for his breakfast and he was low on venom, or he didn’t consider her big enough a threat to use up his supply.”

  “How can you be sure? She seems real sick.”

  “She is in shock, her faculties dulled by fear. That needs no medicine apart from a pot of hot, sugared tea.” Miss Mabel flapped her hand. “Go. Get out. I need to strip her naked and get her into a nice, hot bath. If she is nothing but a friend to you, I can’t let you watch.”

  Roy shuffled on his feet. “I...”

  “Go,” Miss Mabel said, with a touch of kindness now. “You’ll just get in the way. You’ll be much more use cleaning out the well, and the physical exertion will do you good, calm your nerves. By tonight, she’ll be feeling better, and you can fuss and hover at her bedside, the way a man does with his friends.”

  * * *

  Roy swung the ax to split a log stump in two. Midmorning sun baked down on him, dispelling the last of the night’s coolness. Sweat poured in rivulets down his naked back and chest as he labored at the woodpile, attempting to keep his emotions under guard.

  The hour when he’d raced against time to bring Celia in, not knowing if she would live or die, had been the longest of his life. For the first time in his troubled existence, he’d felt plunged into a darkness so deep it seemed impossible there would ever be light again. If that was what caring for a woman did to a man, he wasn’t sure he was equipped for it.

  “Mr. Hagan!”

  Roy dropped the ax and hurried to the kitchen door. Miss Ada, one of Miss Mabel’s aging ladies of the night, was hovering on the doorstep.

  “Is she all right?” Roy blurted out.

  “Calm down, Mr. Hagan. Miss Celia is having a bath. I thought you might like some lemonade.”

  Roy accepted the tall glass the woman was holding out and gulped down the cool, sugary drink while Miss Ada looked upon him with approval. Tall and thin, with russet hair streaked with gray, Miss Ada tended the bar, probably consuming more whiskey from her rose-patterned teacup than all the customers combined.

  “It’s very quiet around here,” Roy commented as he handed back the empty glass. So far, he’d seen a pair of prospectors and a trader with a mule train. “Is anyone from Red Bluff Gang about?”

  “No.” Miss Ada turned the glass over in her hands, looking puzzled. “Haven’t seen anyone in two weeks. Must be something big going on.”

  Roy replied with a grunt and returned to the woodpile. He would have preferred to leave Celia in Miss Mabel’s care while he fetched the money for her, but to collect what was owing to her father she would have to make her demand in person. Further, if there was some big scheme under way, Lom Curtis, the most paranoid of men, might not allow him to ride out and deliver the funds to Celia. The best plan was to take her to the hideout and send her away again as fast as possible, before she came to any more harm.

  * * *

  Water trickled down from Roy’s damp hair as he made his way up the stairs. When he’d finished at the woodpile, ready to tackle the task of cleaning the well, Miss Henrietta—the third woman living in the ramshackle bordello—had appeared by the kitchen door, calling out his name and clutching a pile of towels and clean clothing.

  “No point in wasting the water you’ll need to haul up,” Miss Henrietta said and shoved the stack of garments at him. Big boned, robust, with long, flowing hair that remained jet-black despite her age, Miss Henrietta ruled inside the kitchen. She also kept order on the premises and, when required, was capable of ejecting troublemakers.

  Roy accepted the towels and the clothing. After cleaning the top of the well shaft of mud and algae, he hauled up bucket after bucket, until the water ran clear. While doing it, he stripped naked and used a coarse piece of linen cloth to scrub his body clean, standing out of sight behind the well canopy. Not the luxury of a hot bath but refreshing nonetheless, and on his way to look in on Celia he paused by the kitchen door to thank Miss Henrietta for the clean clothing.

  “No need to thank me.” Miss Henrietta waved a carving knife to emphasize her words. “Thank all the lazy men who discard their dirty garments instead of bothering to have them laundered. Gives us something to hand out to unwashed mud hogs like you.” The knife pointed at his chest. “And pull that patch away from your eye, Roy Hagan. That pretty lass of yours told me she likes to see all of your face.”

  That pretty lass of yours.

  The words echoed inside Roy’s head as he knocked on Celia’s door, both eyes uncovered. He knew he had no right to encourage her to think there could be anything between them. And yet, the way his hand shook on the doorknob betrayed how much he wanted Celia to belong to him, how fervently he wanted to give her the happiness she deserved.

  “Come in!”

  He twisted the knob, pushed the
door open and walked through. The shutters stood open, but some kind of thin, gauzy drapes had been drawn across the wide window. Late-afternoon sunshine filtered in through the yellow fabric, painting the room with a golden glow, but the light was muted enough not to hurt his brown eye.

  “Roy!” Celia tossed the covers aside, jumped out of bed and ran to him. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining. Her hair tumbled in a flurry of curls down her shoulders. She was wearing a white nightgown, very prim and proper, high at the neck and down to her toes, but beneath the garment he could see the outline of her breasts.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Look. Look.” She lifted her hands and thrust them out in front of him, loosely fisted to display the back of her knuckles. “No swelling at all, no sign of venom. Miss Mabel says your knife did more damage than the rattlesnake.”

  “I’m sorry I cut your skin.”

  “Sorry? Sorry?” Celia waved her arms about, more animated than Roy had ever seen her before. “For trying to save my life?” She paused, the residue of fear flickering across her features. “Miss Mabel says that if it hadn’t been a dry bite, even if I survived, she may have been forced to amputate my hand, because the venom makes the flesh rot. But I’m fine, fine.”

  Lifting her arms high overhead, Celia shrugged away the lingering traces of terror and danced around the room, looking like an angel in the golden light. She finished her circle and came to a halt in front of him. Her expression grew serious. “While I thought I was going to die, two things weighed on my mind. I didn’t want my father to know that I was dead. And I regretted that we hadn’t made love last night.” Her voice fell and she looked down at her bare toes. “I hated the thought of dying a spinster, unloved and unwanted.”

  “Celia...I want you...but you know we can’t...”

  “No.” Vehement now, she lifted her gaze up to his face. “I’ve always dreamed of being happy. Always, I’ve waited for a better tomorrow. But now I understand that tomorrow might never come. I want to be happy today. I want to be happy now, even if it is just for a fleeting moment.”