Time Plains Drifter

by Cheryl Pierson

  Kemp gave a surly nod. “All right.”

  “As to what you must do—I thought I’d already made that perfectly clear, Josiah.”

  “Well, no. I mean, sort of. I don’t know which one of ’em it is, to begin with. That would sure help if I knew which one I need to bring to you.” Kemp looked perplexed. “Another thing—how will I know where you are? To bring you the kid, I mean? Hell, you could be anywhere.”

  “Anywhere in Hell, you mean,” the demon quipped. “That shouldn’t pose a problem. Once you kill him—or her—”

  “Kill! Kill a kid?” Kemp put his hands out in front of him. “No, no, sir! I mean, I ain’t never killed a kid. An’ besides—that kinda gives me the willies, thinkin’ ’bout killin’ my own kin.”

  There was a ponderous silence for several long seconds. Finally, the Dark One smiled, his eyes like frozen shards of ice. “I know. Perverse, isn’t it?”

  ~*~

  Beck didn’t like it, not one little bit, but there was nothing he could do about it. He sat at the bar drinking water, observing Cash and Lance. They stood beside the stairway, eagerly watching the poker game going on at a nearby table. He knew they’d been discussing the only thing they needed in order to join—some kind of ante. They started toward him, and he prepared himself for being the only deterrent between them and the gambler, who was running the game.

  “Hey, Mr. Jansen.” Cash seated himself next to Beck.

  Beck nodded. “Hello, young ’un.”

  “Mr. Jansen, I was wondering—could you loan us some money—me and Lance, I mean?” He rushed on before Beck could deny him. “We were hoping to buy in to that game—” he nodded toward the table, “but we—we’re a little short.”

  Beck looked at the unsavory lot of card players assembled around the table. He couldn’t let that happen. There was one man he couldn’t allow them to ever play cards with. “Cash, I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “Now, Mr. Jansen, before you say no, just hear me out, will you? I’m a decent poker player, and so is Lance. We’re just wanting to make a few bucks.”

  “What for?”

  “Well, just—things we might need,” Cash answered evasively.

  Lance seated himself on the other side of Beck.

  “You never know what might come up,” Cash continued, “and everything’s strange to us, here. We have no job skills, and—”

  “Excuse me,” a smooth voice called from the table. “You. At the bar.”

  Beck turned to look at the man. It was the golden-haired, green-eyed card sharp who was running the table. A well-manicured hand beckoned to Cash. Beck would know him anywhere, no matter what disguise he wore.

  “Yes, you. Come here, boy.” A hint of impatience crept into the silky baritone. His eyes gleamed with a challenging light. “You do want to play, don’t you?”

  Lance looked at Beck. Cash was already sliding off the stool, heading for the table.

  “Cash! Hold up a minute.”

  Cash halted in mid-stride, turning to look back at Beck.

  Lance sat glued to the stool, unmoving.

  The Gambler’s shirt was almost foppish, the full folds of lace falling about his wrists like mounds of snow. Beck knew Milo didn’t need that kind of help to cheat. In any form, he recognized the Dark One, Satan’s own, as clearly as if the elegant man wore scales and horns rather than ruffles of silk.

  Beck’s blue eyes blazed fury across the space, bending the air around the table with such force that two of the players’ chairs blew across the wooden floor to the wall. They looked at each other in disbelief, scrambled to their feet, and ran out of the nearby batwing doors. The angel erased that memory from their minds as soon as they found themselves outside on the boardwalk. He lifted his finger and drew an invisible circle in the air. All movement, all talk in the bar stopped, frozen in time.

  A thin smile touched the Gambler’s lips, and he glanced at the two empty chairs a few feet away. He turned his attention back to Cash. “Come here, young man.”

  Cash glanced at Beck. A helpless look was in his eyes, even as he took another step forward.

  Beck stood and stretched out his hand. The air sizzled and cracked with energy. His eyes seared Milo with their intensity.

  “Becket Jansen,” the demon smirked. He raised a Cuban cigar to his lips and took a leisurely puff. “Same as always. Right makes might, and all that...folderol.”

  Although he didn’t take his eyes from Beck, the angel could feel the grip the demon had on Cash. Beck strengthened his own grip on the boy, and saw the Dark One’s smile falter for a moment.

  “Milo,” Beck acknowledged. “You change your appearance, but the vile stench of Satan’s spawn follows you. Testing your strength. As usual.”

  “It’s—what I do.”

  Beck shook his head reproachfully. “And still, they send a boy to do a man’s job.”

  The smile disappeared completely from Milo’s face.

  Beck’s grin broadened. He felt the demon’s pull increase a little on Cash, and strengthened his own hold to compensate.

  “Is he the one?” The demon asked.

  Beck didn’t answer. He concentrated on not letting Cash take another step forward.

  “I could take him, you know,” Milo stated flatly. “Any of them. You can’t guard them all, Becket. And, well, d’Angelico—” he shrugged, “I fear the marshal will be of little or no use to you.”

  “You let me worry about that, Gambler.” Beck could feel the demon’s grip on Cash relaxing. Cash turned slowly and came back to the bar stool as if in a trance.

  “Just a warning, Becket,” the mirthless grin was back. “You don’t know which one it is, either. Could be any of them.” He puffed on the cigar once more, thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll just...take them all.”

  Beck didn’t let his expression change, even though the possibility of that happening scared the hell out of him. He chuckled. “That would be so like you, Milo. Bumbling, inept, accidental luck. Getting the one you really want through process of elimination.”

  “How else are we supposed to know?” the Gambler snapped.

  Beck shook his head. “It will be revealed. At some point.”

  The demon looked at Beck slyly, his electric green eyes narrowed. “I’m tired of waiting, though. Aren’t you? And just why is this one so important to you, Jansen?”

  Beck kept his face impassive. He knew the “why,” just not the “who” yet. It was still hard to believe that anything good could come from Josiah Kemp’s lineage. The soul he and Rafe had come to save, though, was going to play a significant role in changing the world. The lineage could not be broken at this point. Everything happened for a reason. Beck shrugged. “I don’t get tired, Milo.”

  “No. You don’t, do you? You just try to ‘figger things out,’” the demon responded, aping Jansen’s accent. “But I know...something. If this child lives, the world as we know it will be saved; bettered—eventually,” Milo murmured silkily. “You know...I can’t let that happen.”

  Beck’s eyes didn’t flicker. “And you know I can’t allow you to prevent it.”

  “The world will be forever changed for the good if that vaccine is developed!” the demon hissed.

  Beck smiled, forcing down the cold dread that overcame him. Milo knew. How? Beck affected unconcern. “When, Milo. Not ’if.’ When the vaccine is developed. You will not stop it.”

  Milo’s eyes burned hot with anger. “Bugger me if I don’t!” he shouted, lunging to his feet. “Will Kemp’s ill-gotten bastard be the one to discover the vaccine, or be saved by it?” He sought some shred of knowledge in Becket Jansen’s cold, veiled stare.

  Beck only shook his head. “Now, Milo, you’re the Gambler.” A small, taunting smile touched his lips. “You figure it out.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Jenni had been so preoccupied with staying in the saddle for the past four hours and worried about Joel that she hadn’t noticed the wind had quickened, the sky dar
kening as the thunderheads rolled in.

  “We better stop here,” Rafe told her reluctantly, nodding toward a small ramshackle house in the distance. “Wait the storm out. Looks like it’s going to be a bad one.”

  Jenni nodded, swallowing her protest as she glanced up, seeing the roiling black clouds for the first time. It was true, she reminded herself, some things never did change, no matter what year it was. It was April in Oklahoma—tornado season.

  They had to find shelter immediately.

  She followed Rafe toward the cottage, relieved to see a lean-to for the horses a few yards away.

  As they rode into the overgrown yard, it was obvious the tenants had long since vacated. The runners of morning glory vines climbed along the front porch posts boasting new growth, the purple flowers adding a splash of color to the drab weathered wood.

  Rafe swung down, calling a cursory greeting. He opened the front door at the answering silence, his gun drawn. As Jenni made a motion to dismount, he lifted a staying hand, not sparing a backward glance before he disappeared into the little cottage.

  Jenni could hear him walking slowly through the house, his footfalls deliberate and hollow-sounding on the bare plank floors. She bit her lip anxiously, wondering what he was looking for. She didn’t like being separated from him, she realized. This was crazy. She thought of Kody and Anna, how quickly they’d come to care so deeply for each other.

  Was she in love with Rafe d’Angelico? The idea was absurd. She barely knew him. Yet, when she’d ridden behind him, her arms encircling the lean grid of his waist, she’d felt—something. He’d noticed it too. “Can you feel it, Jen?” he’d asked.

  Yes. She still did, stronger now than ever.

  Rafe put his head outside the door, ducking through the narrow frame.

  “Come on,” he said, reaching up to help her down. “I’ll get our gear, you go on inside out of this wind,” he yelled to make himself heard above the wail and rush of the storm.

  Jenni nodded. “The horses—we can’t leave them out here!” she shouted.

  He cast a glance back at the animals. “I’ll get ’em in the lean-to! Go on inside!”

  Jenni slid off quickly and handed Rafe her reins, then hurried up onto the porch. She watched as Rafe quickly got the horses under the lean-to and looped the reins around the hitching post there, then ran back to her through the tall grass. Just then, the skies opened and rain pelted him.

  Small pieces of hail fell. The horses whickered nervously as it hit the wooden structure over them. Rafe took Jenni’s hand, leading her back into the house. He was soaked, and Jenni hurried into the kitchen to see if there were any linens in the top of the pantry.

  Whoever had lived here must have loved the place. The kitchen had been cleaned, and as Jenni opened a cabinet door, she noted the sparse pans lined up tidily against the wall. She opened another door to discover a beautiful china sugar bowl that was half full, and a can of beans on top of a can of condensed milk.

  Rafe walked to the bed and lifted the covers and pillows to be sure there were no mice or spiders hidden. Satisfied, he removed his gun belt and laid it on the night table, then began to shed his wet clothing and boots. Jenni found a clean but ragged towel and brought it to him, offering to dry his back as he shrugged out of his sodden shirt. But he took it from her, shaking his head. “I can do it,” he murmured, turning away from her quickly. “Thanks.” After a moment, he sat down on the chair, watching Jenni explore as he finished drying off.

  She came toward him slowly, wrapping her arms around herself tightly. To have been so full of questions before, she certainly was at a loss for words now, she thought. A wry grin curved her mouth.

  Rafe patted the side of the bed in invitation, and she sat down next to him. The hail was sporadic now, although rain was hitting the snug little cabin in sheets.

  Water for the morning glories, if the hail doesn’t destroy them, Jenni thought, her gaze going out the front window to the thirsty flowers winding their way along the rough posts and roof of the porch. “It’ll wash out the trail,” she whispered to herself.

  Rafe’s teeth glinted white against the stubbled growth of beard. His dark eyes were warm with a teasing light. “I think I can still find my way to Fort Sill. I’m pretty familiar with the lay of the land.” He gave her a wink. “This is my territory, Jenni. I don’t need to follow a trail to find them.” He shifted and began to pull off his boots. “Besides, it might do Joel some good to get a brief taste of military life. I’m sure it’s changed quite a bit over the years, into your time. Prob’ly won’t be what he’s expecting.”

  “They won’t hurt him, will they?” She began to unbutton the high top shoes and pulled them off, breathing a sigh of relief as she wiggled her toes.

  Rafe shook his head. “No, they won’t hurt him.” He stood up and motioned her to turn around. “I need to take off these pants—let ’em dry.”

  Jenni turned her back to him, and heard the slap of the wet material as he pulled them off and laid them across the back of a nearby rocking chair, along with his shirt. The bed sagged with his weight. She felt him pull the covers over himself as he leaned back, propped against the wall.

  “They won’t hurt him,” he repeated, “but it might make persuading him to go back with us a little easier if he has a real life encounter with the cavalry routine.”

  “How long will it take us to get there?” Jenni turned to face him.

  “At the rate we’re going—”

  She grimaced at the teasing note in his voice. “I know I’m holding you up. If I wasn’t with you, you might have already caught them rather than having to go all the way to Fort Sill.”

  “I don’t mind. It’s just—time’s not on our side.”

  The wind cried around the corner of the cabin, and Jenni thought how much it sounded like the sorrowful wail of a woman. Then there was silence, stretching out between them, broken only by the noise of the storm.

  “Who are you, Rafe? Really?”

  ~*~

  Jenni’s voice was quiet, but Rafe recognized the determination. He’d told himself to go slow, to be careful of his words, but Jenni—she had known...something. Enough to make her wonder.

  “And don’t think you can pass it off so easily as you did last time, Rafe d’Angelico,” she added after a moment.

  He looked at her questioningly.

  “‘I’m me. Rafe d’Angelico,’” she mocked, reminding him of the last time she’d broached the topic. “I want the truth this time. All of it.”

  Rafe sighed heavily. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

  “You had something to do with that comet, right?” Jenni persisted.

  “No. That really was a coincidence.”

  She gave a short laugh. “It’s been my experience that— there is no such a thing as coincidence—especially one that important.”

  Rafe opened his eyes and found her watching him intently.

  “Everything happens for a reason. Everything.”

  Even being killed and coming back from the dead. Rafe wanted to say it, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to scare her. He still didn’t know what his true purpose was—only what Beck had told him. Precious little, at that. But, what was the other purpose? This feeling of attraction between himself and Jenni Dalton?

  He looked away from the demanding look in her green eyes and she gave a sigh. She reached for his hand, and he closed his fingers around hers.

  “Please, Rafe. I’m...I’m afraid. The world I knew is gone, just like a magician’s trick—gone. There’s no way we can go back, and to be quite honest, I’m not so sure all of the kids would go back—even if it was within my power to make it happen.”

  “Jenni—” he held his arm out in invitation to her, and she came to him, laying her head on his shoulder as he repositioned himself lower in the bed. Black bangs feathered across his bronze skin, and Jenni nestled into the curve of his arm, her head resting on his chest.

  They lay toge
ther in silence for a moment, then Rafe said, “Do you trust me?”

  She nodded against him. “I probably shouldn’t, but, yes—I do trust you.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been burned before.”

  “Plenty of times.”

  “Jenni, I won’t hurt you.” His voice was husky.

  “Just tell me the truth. I can accept—whatever it might be.”

  “I’m...not...” What now? Not human? Not alive? His fists balled.

  Jenni reached for his left hand and massaged it wordlessly until he relaxed again. “Not...real?” she finished for him.

  His breath rushed out, and he felt as if he’d been sucker-punched in the gut. He fought the urge to get up and pace; walk the floors until there was a worn track an inch deep in them. Instead, he shook his head.

  “I’m real,” he managed to whisper. “Just not—alive. Not...human.” He closed his eyes, unable to meet the questioning look she gave him. He waited for her to push away, out of his sheltering embrace—and run. Anywhere. Away from him. Out into the storm.

  Instead, he was surprised to feel her arm go across his waist, her fingers settle gently against the warmth of his skin.

  “Did you hear me, querida? Escuchame...listen to me. I’m not—” The Spanish words crept in, his accent thickening slightly, belying the worry and frustration he tried to cover.

  Jenni lifted her head and met his eyes, holding his tortured gaze as she slowly moved toward him. Just before her lips met his, she smiled. “Si, Rafael,” she whispered gently. “Tú eres. Tú eres...todo. You are. You are everything. I—I don’t know how to say the rest of it in Spanish, but to me...you are all there is. Everything. No matter what else you may be.”

  He flexed his fingers through the silky texture of her hair. She put her lips to his, breathing into his mouth, as if giving him life, sharing hers with him. He sighed, letting his tongue meet hers in the sweetest kiss he had ever known.

  “You are everything,” she’d said. Answered him in Spanish, and God, it sounded so beautiful to him, so comforting and familiar—just as Jenni herself was all those things—somehow. Her fingers trailed down his back without hesitation, cool against the heat of his own skin. His breathing hitched as her hands went lower. “There are no coincidences,” she’d said. “Tú eres todo. No matter what else you are, you are everything to me.”