Time Plains Drifter

by Cheryl Pierson

  Rafe’s lips curved upward in sardonic amusement. “Charlie MacIntosh decided to cut Kemp out of his share, huh?”

  Beck nodded.

  “Well, not that it mattered to Cris and me, allowing as how we were already dead.”

  “But it did matter. You see, uh...things...weren’t supposed to...to happen like they did that night.”

  Rafe drew back on the reins once again, and the horse gave a snort of disapproval. Lightning swept through him, his whole body tightening. “What do you mean, Beck? Things weren’t supposed to—Just how were they supposed to happen? Are you telling me that you—that Someone Up There made a mistake?”

  Beck looked down, then heaved a sigh that sounded somewhat guilty. “Yeah. A big one.”

  Rafe felt sick. God. He couldn’t speak, but then, he didn’t have to.

  Beck’s voice was husky, with a regretful edge. “You and Cris weren’t supposed to die that night, Rafe. Josiah Kemp should’ve been the only one.”

  ~*~

  “It was you, wasn’t it, Beck? Your mistake,” Rafe snarled. It was the first thing he’d said to Beck since—earlier. Hours ago. He’d been too angry to put a thought into words—until now. After hours of silent seething resentment, the accusation spewed out of him like poison.

  They were riding slow across rangeland with shorter grass and rockier ground. The morning had turned to afternoon. Beck didn’t mention stopping, so Rafe didn’t either. Somewhere, during this long, tension-filled journey, Rafe had begun to come to terms with his situation. There was nothing he could do about it now, anyway. But he was still mad—pissed off worse than he had ever been in his life—this one, or the one he’d had before. Still, he thought, whatever They wanted would be worth just five minutes of feeling the freedom of this powerful animal beneath his thighs, the cool rush of wind combing through his hair like a lover’s fingers, the fresh scent of the world he’d been forced to leave so abruptly. And so needlessly, as it turned out.

  ~*~

  Beck glanced at him in the late afternoon light. The anger in Rafe’s ebony eyes was raw and fresh, the angel thought, even though it had been hours since Beck told him that his death had been—accidental. He sighed. Couldn’t blame him for still being hot about that. It would be hard to get used to the idea; not like my own death. I knew it was coming for days.

  A little mission in Texas. The Alamo.

  He and his cousin, Del, had been so blamed eager to run off down there with Crockett. Of course, when Colonel Travis drew that line in the dirt, Crockett stepped right over it and looked around at his Tennessee boys like—well, Beck knew it wasn’t in him to disappoint Davy Crockett, even if he was going to die for it. He and Del crossed over, too.

  Five thousand Mexican troops finally overran the adobe walls they’d battered with cannon fire for nearly two weeks, every one of them looking just as smug as if they’d done it in thirteen minutes rather than thirteen days.

  He’d faced five of Santa Ana’s men in their blood-spattered uniforms, their rifles raised, his own gun empty. He had his knife in hand in a flash. He took one of them with a well-placed throw just before the bullets struck him.

  At least, he reminded himself, his death had been of his own making. He’d volunteered. Stepped over the line. Not like Rafe and Cris d’Angelico.

  “Beck? Don’t I deserve an answer?” Rafe prodded him. “What kind of—angel, or whatever you are—are you, anyway?”

  Beck grinned to himself at Rafe’s question, but sobered as he silently answered it, An inexperienced one, back then.

  ~*~

  “Somethin’ funny, Mr. Jansen?” Rafe’s voice was cutting, cold. In his lifetime, he’d backed many hard-edged men down with that tone—with and without his badge.

  But Beck just waved carelessly, obviously unruffled. “No. Ain’t nothin’ funny. Don’t get all riled up again, Rafe.” After a moment, he continued. “I guess you could call me a kind of an angel.”

  Rafe snorted, disgusted.

  “No, maybe back then I wasn’t a very good one.” Beck read his thoughts, then went on at Rafe’s sharp glance. “Rafe, I truly am sorry about you and Cris. I—was pretty new at the time, and I—made a mistake.” He nodded. “Yeah. It was me, what let it all happen.”

  Rafe stared at the back of Beck’s head for a long minute, but when the angel turned to look back, he seemed as unperturbed as he always appeared to be, despite the seething anger his companion exuded.

  “I expect you’re still a might unsettled, Rafe. Death’s a hard thing to accept—especially when it’s your own.”

  Rafe’s expression changed subtly, the harshness gradually leaving the lines and planes of his features as he came abreast of Beck. “How? How did you die, Beck? And where? I bet it wasn’t some damned apprentice angel who killed you!”

  A smile of tolerant remembrance crossed the angel’s face. “No.” He shook his head and chuckled. “No. It was my own stupidity—and recklessness.”

  “How so?” Rafe pulled the front of the chambray shirt forward and peered in at his left shoulder. The hole made by Kemp’s first bullet was only a puckered scar the size of a nickel. His scrutinizing gaze traveled farther down, to the place where bullet number two entered. It must have hit his heart, from the looks of the scar. It had to have hit dead-center. No wonder he went so quick. It hurt like hell, he remembered, but it didn’t last long—and neither had he.

  “Beck?” He looked up at Beck, his earlier question forgotten in the face of this new dilemma. Rafe squinted against the late afternoon sun. Funny thing about the sun. He couldn’t feel it. It didn’t seem warm. He hadn’t really felt it all day. Not like he would have if he’d been alive, really and truly...alive.

  “Kinda strange, ain’t it?” Beck asked just as though Rafe had commented aloud. He was glad to change the direction of the conversation; didn’t like to think about that day in Texas so long ago.

  “Why can’t I feel it?”

  “You ain’t supposed to feel it, Rafael.” Beck drew up short and faced Rafe, twisting in his saddle. “You’re dead—still dead. You won’t be able to feel anything like the warmth of the sun on your back, or the cool, fresh feel of the wind in your face. You won’t taste whether the beans are burned, or the whiskey’s strong enough. You won’t know the difference between the smell of a cheap whore or the sweetness of the honeysuckle blossoms—and the best thing is, if you cut yourself shaving, you ain’t gonna bleed.”

  As Rafe started to speak, Beck held up a silencing hand. “Reason being, you ain’t gotta worry ’bout having a heart, or blood or—or anything else like that. Not anymore.”

  “So where did I come from this time around? I have a body that’s—not real?” He shook his head in disbelief. “My back hurt when you woke me up. I have scars—”

  “It’s a real body all right,” Beck assured him. “There’s nothing of an angel about you yet, Rafe. Except—no blood to speak of. And no heart. You won’t feel pain.”

  “But what about—other things? And how am I healed up like I am?” He glanced at the scar on his chest again. “Kemp couldn’t have aimed better than he did.”

  “Every wound you had is still with you. A reminder of when you were alive. I’ve...got a few of those myself. But they won’t trouble you, those old scars won’t. Even the ones on your back, from the mission—” He broke off at Rafe’s quick look.

  “When you ask, ‘what about other things...’” He went on slowly, “just what ‘other things’ are you wondering about?”

  “Pleasure.”

  Beck blushed red.

  Rafe laughed at his obvious discomfort. “Hell, Beck,” he said roughly. “It could be anything from a warm bath to a hot whore I’m wondering about.”

  “You can’t really...ah...feel. I mean, you said yourself you couldn’t feel the sun—”

  “I didn’t say it. I thought it.”

  “You won’t have any of those human feelings, Rafe. If you do things like you should, I mean. No burnt
beans or honeysuckle; no warmth in the sun or chill of a fall morning. Nothing.”

  “No heart, huh?”

  Beck shook his head, looking pleased, not noticing the steel in Rafe’s expression.

  “Can’t feel. Can’t smell. Can’t taste—hell, I can’t even bleed. Can I take a piss? ’Cause I sure as hell feel like I could do that—”

  “You might feel like that, Rafe, but in a while, those...er...bodily urges will go away—if you don’t give in to them.” Beck watched him anxiously.

  Understanding threaded through Rafe’s mind. And if I do? If I do give in to them?

  The thought was a dull roar to Beck. “Oh, boy, you—you’re gonna land me in a heap of trouble, Rafael d’Angelico!”

  Beck looked thoroughly worried, and it made Rafe even more curious...more determined.

  “Tell me the truth, Beck.” He nodded toward the copse of elm and birch trees. “If I go out yonder and take a leak, then what?”

  “Well—” Beck moistened his lips, his cobalt eyes more serious than Rafe had seen since he’d ‘woken up.’ “Rafe—you can’t.”

  “Can’t piss?”

  “No!” Beck’s lips compressed tightly, as if to keep the words from exploding forth. He closed his eyes against Rafe’s dark scrutiny. Finally, he said, “If you do...go,” he looked toward the edge of the woods in the distance, “then, you’ll just delay what’s going to happen anyway. You’ll become like...like me, only—”

  “It’ll take longer.” Rafe surmised. “And meanwhile, I’ll get to indulge all my bodily urges—”

  “Don’t do it, Rafe. Now, I...I ain’t read every thought in your mind,” he said uneasily, “but I been around enough to know what most men think of, first rattle out of the box. So, I figger—you’re prob’ly thinkin’ about—” he gulped, “headin’ into the nearest town of any size and findin’ you a willin’ woman.”

  Rafe shrugged. What if that thought has crossed my mind? Soft green eyes and auburn hair like fine silk. A cute nose and full lips that begged to be covered by my own... And that kiss...it was only a dream—a dream from another lifetime ago, when I was alive. He stared past Beck, lost in confusion, trying to find his way out of it and make sense of what was becoming of his world.

  “Well, you can’t do that, Rafe!”

  “Why not?”

  “It ain’t what you’re here for, for one thing,” Beck retorted, resorting to his customary practicality.

  Rafe wanted to ask what he was here for, but first, he needed to resolve the other issue. The issue of exactly what his limitations were.

  “So if I do these things that a...a human being, a man—would do, then I won’t become an angel. Is that right? I won’t become like you,” he corrected quickly, seeing further explanation spring to Beck’s eyes at his use of the term “angel.”

  Beck nodded somberly. “That’s right. You’ll just end up being a mortal man for—” He clamped his lips shut, then finished with. “For a long time.”

  “Forever?”

  “No.” He took his hat off and raked a hand through his hair. “You won’t be able to live forever, or to read minds like I do, or speak languages, know things—ah. Rafe, there’s a lot of things you’ll need that you won’t have! A lot of...uh, well...‘gifts.’” He took a deep breath. “And, not only that, but—if you turn away, you could be lost—you could wander forever. I can’t let that happen to you, just ’cause you don’t understand what you’re doin’.”

  Rafe flung himself off his horse, his lips compressed tightly. Without a word, he strode toward the woods. It took Beck a moment to realize what he was doing, but when he did, he slid down from the saddle and ran after him.

  “Rafe! Hold up a minute!”

  Rafe didn’t answer.

  When Beck caught up to him, he gripped Rafe’s arm. Rafe shook his hand off and rounded on him, his eyes burning with anger.

  “Let me tell you something, Becket Jansen. I am going into those woods for some privacy. I’m going to think about—things. And I’m going to relieve myself, in more ways than the obvious. And when I come out of those woods, I’m going to do just what you mentioned earlier. I’m going to head into the nearest town, soon’s I can figure out where in the cornbread hell we are. Then, I—”

  “Rafe, no!” Beck looked horrified, but it didn’t stop Rafe.

  “I am going to find a whore, a bottle of whiskey, a bath, and a meal. And I’m going to enjoy every last stinkin’ one of ’em!” His voice was a full roar, like that of a wounded lion; angry above everything, yet, the pain was there, evident to his own ears.

  Beck drew back, eyes wide. “You’re—You’re hungry, too?”

  Rafe wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his so-called “life” right now. Instead, he turned with a curse and headed for the stand of trees once more. After a few more steps, he looked back over his shoulder to see Beck standing right where he’d left him. Good. He stopped and spun around angrily.

  “Yeah. I’m hungry. I’m tired. And I’m desperately in need of a good woman for the night. I plan to have it all, Beck. Don’t worry—I won’t hold you accountable—for what you didn’t do sixteen years ago—or what you are unable to do now.” He didn’t know why he felt the perverse need to taunt Beck with what he intended. He could see the worry in the angel’s expression grow with every word. Suddenly, unable to bear the anxiety and disappointment in Beck’s sapphire eyes, he turned away. But he kept walking.

  ~*~

  Beck let him go. He couldn’t stop him, and he knew it. He hadn’t explained things like he should have. Somehow, I’ve botched it again. But, he had to admit, Rafe had a stronger will than any man he’d ever known—in any life. He shook his head, wondering what would become of Rafael d’Angelico this second time around.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Kip!”

  Jenni turned at the simultaneous sound of the Mustang’s roaring V-six and Elizabeth Kittrell’s squeal of delight.

  Gathering in the open field in the middle of the night to witness a comet was no more appealing to Jenni now than it had been when she’d learned what was expected of her earlier the previous afternoon. She’d tried to rest, but it had been impossible, between her worry and her anger. She’d hoped that Kip and his entourage might forget, but he needed the extra credit too badly. She calmed her pounding heart, watching as Kip Silvanos maneuvered the cherry-red Mustang to an abrupt, showy stop on the side of the road where Elizabeth, Kody Everett, and she parked.

  Elizabeth and Anna Marlowe detached themselves from the group and hurried to the driver’s side door, obviously waiting for the “master” to emerge. In a few minutes, Kip stepped from the car, a cigarette dangling from his full lips.

  He barely glanced at the girls. Too preoccupied, Jenni thought, with looking the part he’d picked for himself—an outlaw, no matter how much money his parents might have.

  She watched Lance, Joel, and Cash emerge from the car, following Kip and the girls as they walked toward where she stood with Kody.

  “Hello, Kip.” Jenni nodded. “Fancy meeting you here. I had no idea you were interested in—science.”

  Kip took a long drag from his cigarette. His dark gaze ranged over her with a look that told her exactly what he thought of her. “I don’t give a damn about science, Miss Dalton.” He puffed again, and blew the smoke upward. “And that’s why I’m here. Extra credit. See, you didn’t scare me this afternoon in class. Wouldn’t have mattered to me at all if your class was the only one that I have—as you so kindly and illegally put it—a ‘borderline’ grade in.” He shrugged offhandedly. “But, I got more than your class to think of. There’s a couple more I ain’t doing so well in, either. Science is one of ’em.”

  Jenni wanted to ask if English might be the other one, but she let him continue.

  “So,” he grinned widely, “here I am. Me and the boys.” He nodded back over his shoulder at his entourage.

  “I’m ready to get this show on the road.” Cash Leighton looke
d skyward, then glanced at his Rolex watch, identical to Kip’s. He moved his wrist to catch the moonlight. “Two-fifteen. I thought this comet thing was supposed to be showing up by now.” He scowled accusingly at Jenni. “So, where is it?”

  She gave him her best pasted-on, teacher smile and smoothed her coppery hair back behind her ears. Dr. Peters’ words from earlier that afternoon rose to her lips. “Well, after all, Cash, we can’t expect the comet to appear at our convenience, now can we?” Her gaze was drawn back toward the night sky. “It’ll be here soon, I’m sure. The literature said that our part of the country should be able to see it between two and two: thirty-eight.”

  “Actually, it will probably be visible closer to two-thirty,” Kody said. He pushed his glasses upward on the bridge of his nose.

  All eyes turned toward where he stood, his face upturned. At the sudden silence, he looked around at the others.

  Elizabeth giggled, as always, but there was a quick expression of sympathy on Anna’s pixieish features.

  “Actually,” Joel Todd began in a mocking tone, “how did you learn about this exactly, Kodiak?”

  “From the Internet. And out of the library. There are a few books—” he started, then shook his head. “Not many, though. It appears every one hundred-twenty years, and we should be able to see it for probably no longer than three to five minutes.” Kody nodded at the envelope in Jenni’s hand. “You probably already knew that, though.” Hesitantly, he continued. “I’ve done some research myself, and from where we are, in central Oklahoma, we should be able to see it quite clearly between approximately two: twenty-eight and two: thirty-one. Two: thirty-three, if we’re lucky, and get the full five minutes.”

  The enthusiasm in the boy’s voice was obvious as he warmed to his subject. Jenni let her own gaze wander about the unlikely group. “Anything else?” she prodded.

  “Yes, there were two things that could be noteworthy.” Kody paused once more. “It—It appears that this comet has never been photographed.” He rushed on. “Which, in itself, is amazing to think about, because cameras were in existence and were widely used by 1895, the last time it appeared. One man, a scientist named William Baldwin, tried unsuccessfully to photograph it during its appearance. However, the photographs he was able to take showed nothing—not even a trace of the brilliance of the comet’s tail.”