Time Plains Drifter

by Cheryl Pierson

  Wasn’t that what it was all about? The Gambler nodded to himself. The war between good and evil could be waged in the most unusual places, sometimes—by the most unlikely people. Whoever would’ve thought the Almighty’s servants would roust young d’Angelico from the deep, drug-induced slumber the priest had seen to? Furthermore, they’d made certain the boy arrived in time to save his all-sacrificing brother, Cristian. Disgustingly, Rafe d’Angelico, at twelve years old, had the fortitude to seize the dagger and dispatch Father Ignatius most expeditiously, ending his reign of wicked terror over the small mission.

  The Dark One eyed the sweet tenderness in Jenni Dalton’s eyes, the fierce protective light of newfound love in d’Angelico’s. His thoughts of the two lovers ensnared him, echoing in the haunted look of envy that fleetingly passed over Josiah Kemp’s plain features. In silence, they followed, as Jenni and Rafe moved forward.

  ~*~

  Beck Jansen stood just inside Kip’s room, waiting for the preacher’s knock. It came, just as surely as Beck had known it would.

  The knock startled Elizabeth. She raised her head quickly from her seat beside the bed as Beck reached to open the door.

  Murdoch Bolton ducked through the doorway, glancing at Elizabeth’s gaunt face, then to Kip, and finally to Beck as Beck closed the door behind him. “I—um, wanted to look in on the boy first thing this morning, before lunch time at the mission. Soup lines start in an hour.” He walked close to the bed, bent and took Kip’s limp wrist in his fingers.

  Elizabeth said nothing as he stood watching Kip for a moment, then reached to touch his forehead.

  “Any change?” He glanced at Elizabeth, who shook her head wordlessly. He turned to look at Beck. “Mr. Jansen, will you join us in prayer?”

  Beck stepped forward and knelt beside Bolton on the floor, as they all joined hands.

  “Father in Heaven,” Bolton began, “You Who are the Master of Light and all that is Holy, please look to this boy, Kip Silvanos, and bring him back into Your merciful abundant goodness. Restore him and make him whole—” he turned his head and met Beck’s cool blue gaze, “with the touch of the angel among us and the love we hold in our hearts.” Bolton continued in his unfaltering low tones. “Please, Father, allow the touch of the angel to bring healing to this young man, that he may live his life for You and to Your glory. I ask this in the name of Your Son, Jesus.”

  Beck’s gaze held Bolton’s, but the preacher didn’t look away. Finally, Beck gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. “Amen,” he said softly, in answer to the preacher’s expectant look. As the reverend released his hand, Beck gently grazed his fingertips over Kip’s forehead, then rose slowly.

  Elizabeth still knelt across the bed from the two men, her eyes closed, lips moving in her own silent prayer.

  The preacher came to his feet and followed Beck to the door, his heart in his throat...waiting...waiting.

  Suddenly, Elizabeth gasped. “He—He blinked!” She glanced up at the two men. “Oh, Mr. Jansen—Reverend—he...I saw it!”

  Murdoch Bolton shot Beck a look of gratitude.

  “All glory to Him, Reverend,” Beck replied softly as Bolton nodded in mute acknowledgement.

  The preacher knelt beside Elizabeth and put his arm around her, sharing in her joy as Kipling Silvanos opened his eyes briefly and surveyed his world, a new man; forever changed.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Oh, Rafe, it’s beautiful!”

  Rafe twisted in the saddle to look into Jenni’s forest green eyes. She rewarded him with a glance that seemed to say she thought he was personally responsible for the setting at the base of the rolling foothills below. A crystal stream, surrounded by a dense thicket of elm, birch and sycamore trees casting their glorious shade stretched beyond in the small valley below.

  Rafe smiled at her delight, the adoration—of him—in her eyes unmistakable.

  He kneed his horse, starting down the slope toward the heavenly gurgle of the fast-running brook. Jenni followed close behind him.

  As they came to the flatter expanse of ground near the water, Rafe dismounted, held Jenni’s horse, and helped her down. She stumbled, but he caught her quickly to him, cursing himself inwardly for not thinking to stop sooner and give her a rest, unused to riding as she was.

  She raised her eyes to his, her hands splayed against his chest, his arm around her shoulders.

  “I didn’t do this, you know, Jen.” He nodded toward the wooded glen, the murmuring stream, the red and yellow mix of Indian Paintbrush and Black-Eyed Susans growing near the water’s edge. He looked back down into her upturned face. “But I would have made it all just for you, if it was within my power—just to see that look in your eyes one time.”

  A fish leapt from the brook, breaking the water’s surface fully before diving once more beneath the clear water to continue its journey. They both turned at the sound it made as it jumped into the air, then quickly dove under once more. She gave a soft, enchanting laugh at the entertaining antics of the trout.

  “Come on,” Rafe said, taking her hand. “We’re too late to have him for dinner, but I bet there’s more where he came from.”

  “We don’t have any fishing poles, Rafe. Besides, that could take hours.”

  Rafe grinned. “Don’t need ’em, Miss Dalton. I’m going to demonstrate one of my many talents—one I’m sure you aren’t aware of.”

  Jenni raised a brow. “I’m quite familiar with most of your—um, talents, Marshal.”

  He laughed aloud at that, and shook his head. “Not this one. I’m going to show you how my brother and I always caught fish. By hand.”

  He led her further along the creek bank to a small rock overhang. The water was calm there, eddying in slow-moving drifts at the base of the long, flat stone.

  “Just like it used to be,” he murmured under his breath. He rolled up his shirt sleeve carelessly and lay down in the shade of the trees on his stomach, across the rock, his hand and bare arm extending down into the water, barely making a ripple.

  Jenni knelt, leaning over the edge of the outcropping to watch. Rafe lay completely still, his hand relaxed and open.

  As their eyes became accustomed to the dappling patterns of light and shadow, the fish were visible beneath the water near Rafe’s capable fingers.

  “Rafe—” Jenni whispered in wonder.

  “Shhhh, quiet, Jen.”

  With lightning quickness, Rafe lunged, closing his fingers around one of the fish, bringing it up out of the still water with a smacking splash. He gave a cry of triumph. Jenni jumped back, gasping. Rafe tossed the squirming, writhing trout far enough up onto the bank behind them so it would be unable to make its way back to the water.

  “Keep an eye on him, Jenni.”

  There was no choice, Jenni thought, since the fish continued to jump and twist, trying to get back to the water.

  “He’ll slow down in a minute,” Rafe assured her. “Then you can go gather some wood and take him back to where the horses are. That’s the place we’ll want to make camp—”

  The fish was slowing down, just as Rafe predicted, and hadn’t completely stopped thrashing before it was joined by Rafe’s second catch. He put his hand into the water for a third try.

  He lunged and closed his hand around the next target, bringing it up with a curse and dropping it almost as soon as his hand broke the surface. The triumphant fish wriggled back into the water.

  “Dammit!” Rafe grasped his wrist with his left hand, and in a moment, a slow trickle of crimson mingled with the water. “Got me,” he said, wiping the blood away quickly on his pants.

  Jenni looked at him, wide-eyed.

  He laughed and swiped his wrist across his jeans again. “It’s okay. Just a gill—he won that one...Jen? What’s wrong?”

  “You’re bleeding!”

  “Yeah, so what? Like I said, it’s not bad. I’ll let you give me some expert medical treatment tonight, querida—” His voice trailed off as she scooted forward and reached f
or his hand. The bleeding had slowed, but was still evident. His teasing smile faded at her serious look.

  “Rafe, you didn’t bleed—at all—when the knife went into you.” She gently wiped at the dribble of red. “Now—” She looked up at him. “What’s changed?”

  He shook his head, at a loss. She was right, but damned if he had the answer. He remembered the way he’d tried to prepare himself at the instant he’d known that knife was going into him—and the surprise he’d felt, the relief, when there was such a small amount of pain it had felt like a razor nick. But when he’d pulled the knife out of himself and felt a good length of its blade slide from his skin, he’d been anything but relieved. He’d tried to keep the panic from his face, and thought he’d managed it pretty well—for a man who had just unintentionally wounded himself—or should have—with the accidental turn of the knife. And there had been no blood. He looked down at his wrist once more. More blood oozed, and he wiped it on his jeans.

  He couldn’t explain it. “I don’t know.” He nodded toward the shore. “Come on, Jen,” he said, his tone subdued. “Let’s cook what we’ve got. I’ll come back for more if we need it.”

  “Hungry, Rafe?” She asked the question very quietly, as if she didn’t know whether to dread the answer or not. She focused her attention on his wounded wrist.

  He lifted her chin with his right hand, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Yeah. I’m hungry, Jen. I’m going to eat, and drink, and when we go to bed tonight, I’m going to make love to you under the stars, and think how lucky I am to be alive. I don’t give a damn what Becket Jansen says. This is all I’ve got—you and me, right now, and I’m going to grab every last minute of it.” He swallowed hard. “No matter what happens, how this all comes out, if I end up in Hell—I’ll burn remembering you; remembering the words we’ve said, the look in your eyes when we made love, and the way your hands felt across my skin. Angels can’t feel that, Jenni.” He shook his head and looked away from her, his fingers twining in her hair. “I’ll take whatever they may dish out, as long as it means one more night with you. That’s my idea of heaven, sweetheart. The memories are mine to keep...whether I’m burning—or not.”

  He leaned over her, his lips almost touching hers. Just before he kissed her, he whispered, “No one can take that away.”

  ~*~

  Lance never cared much for soup, but he decided, finally, this wasn’t too bad. Here, everything was homemade. The soup and bread were no exception.

  He and Cash had helped dish up the soup to the needy men who had come through their line. He’d watched as the Reverend directed them to sweep, or mop, or wipe down the tables...something to earn their meal, to keep their dignity.

  “I don’t know how long I can keep doing this, Cash.” Lance watched as a stoop-shouldered old man began to laboriously wipe down the tables. “It’s depressing. I’m thinkin’ maybe—” Lance began, then fell silent. Finally, he said, “I’m thinkin’ tomorrow I’ll ride out of town and see if some of these ranches need a good hand.”

  Cash glanced at him. “Doing what?”

  “I want to train horses.”

  Cash wiped his mouth and took a drink of his water. “Sounds good, if that’s what you want to do.”

  “Why don’t you come with me? We can ride out tomorrow to the Bar J. I overheard one of the men talking about it. He said they need help.”

  Cash shook his head. “No.” He leaned forward, not looking at Lance. “No, I’ve decided...I think I’ll just stay here—”

  “Cash, you’re holing up here like some—some hermit or something!” He brought his hand down sharply on the table. The old man looked up from under grizzled brows and frowned. “I—I mean, here we are, busted back in time and we have the opportunity to see things and do things we never could’ve done in our time! Don’t cha see?”

  A brief grin flashed across Cash’s features. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself. Guess that’s why I’m gonna do—what I’ve decided to do.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “You said it. Here, we’ve got the chance to do, to see, to be what we can’t in our own time.”

  “Yeah! A real ranch hand!”

  “No. That’s not it for me.”

  Lance leaned forward, his eagerness fading at Cash’s somber tone. “Then—what?”

  Cash sat silent for a moment. “A preacher,” he answered slowly. “I want to study with Reverend Bolton, Lance.”

  “You?” Lance finally managed to say. “A preacher?”

  Cash grinned. “I’ve been thinking about it now for a while.”

  “Since that bar scene.” Lance’s voice was accusatory, and he heard it. But he couldn’t stop it.

  “Yeah,” Cash answered quietly. “The more I’ve thought about it, the more ‘right’ it feels. That bar scene scared me, I won’t lie. It made me realize there is a choice between good and evil.” He looked down at the table. “I...wasn’t strong enough then. I was a fool. If Beck Jansen hadn’t been there, I—”

  “I know, Cash. Look,” Lance let out a deep sigh, “you’ve gotta do what’s right for you. Taming wild horses seems boring compared with doing battle with the devil, but to me, it’s something different. Something exciting. I just want to be somebody’s hero...even if it’s my own. I’m just disappointed you won’t be going with me.”

  “Going where, young man?” The old gentleman peered at Lance, motioning for him to lift his plate so he could swipe at the table beneath.

  “I’m gonna look for a job tomorrow. Out at the Bar J Ranch.”

  “Do tell!” The old man stopped swiping. “Doing what?”

  “I hope to become a bronc rider. I want to work with horses.” Lance’s voice filled with pride.

  “Bronc buster, huh? I done that a time or two. Know how to get out there to the Bar J?”

  “Come to think of it, I guess—well, I never asked.” Lance frowned, then hope lit his eyes as he laid a hand on the grizzled man’s shirt sleeve. “Do you know how to get there? Could you show me?”

  The grin that sparked a light in the aged green eyes seemed somehow familiar to Lance. He shrank back a little, feeling suddenly ill at ease.

  “We’ll head out there tonight.”

  “What—what did you say your name was?” Lance gulped.

  The grin widened. “Luther...Gamble.” The old man nodded toward the door to the mission where a lone figure stood, waiting just outside. “My friend and I, we go just about anywhere we want.” His eyes narrowed appraisingly, and he laughed as if at some private joke. “Just you trust in us, boy. We’ll get you to the Bar J. We’re getting stronger by the minute.”

  ~*~

  “It’s pretty early to make camp for the night,” Jenni murmured. She leaned against the rough bark of the oak tree at her back, setting her camp plate on the ground beside her. The fish was excellent, but her stomach felt queasy now. She must have gotten too hot.

  Rafe cast her a teasing glance. “Hey, woman. I’m trail boss of this outfit. I say we make camp near the water.” He forked the last bite of fish into his mouth and set his plate aside, too, resting his back beside her. “You look pretty worn out, Jen. Joel, he’ll be all right, like I said. Cavalry life’s tough, but from what I’ve seen of those kids, they could stand a little...adversity.”

  Jenni smiled. “Are you saying they’re spoiled, bratty, rich kids born with silver spoons in their mouths who, even at age sixteen, could benefit from a good old-fashioned ‘whuppin’?”

  Rafe raised a dark brow. “Yeah. Guess that about says it all.” He laughed. “But they’ve changed some already.”

  “Yes, they have,” she agreed. “Did you ever have kids, Rafe? I mean...before?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t want to talk about it?” she asked softly.

  He looked up at her quickly. “I don’t have anything to hide, Jenni, if that’s what you’re implying. I told you the truth—I was never married. I never had kids.”

 
; “Is that because you were Catholic...or careful?”

  “Both,” he shot back, a defensive edge to his voice. He sighed. “I wouldn’t make a baby with a woman without marrying her.” He met Jenni’s cool green gaze. “And...no one ever claimed me for their pa. I was just—never that serious about anyone—to want to get hitched, I mean.”

  “Love ’em and leave ’em—is that your motto?” Jenni’s voice was crisp.

  Rafe let his head tilt back, resting it against the tree. “I guess I never figured myself much of a family man, Jen,” he said in a level tone. “Never could see myself as a farmer or a rancher...coming home to a wife and a passel of br—uh, babies.”

  “Why not? You seem to like my kids—” she broke off at his look. “I mean, my students.”

  “They aren’t bad, not really. Right now, they’re scared and shaken up. They’ll come around in time, I’m sure.” He studied the ground for a moment. “Once they realize there’s no going back. Ever.”

  Jenni was quiet a moment. “I don’t think any of them mind that. I’m sure there’ll be ups and downs—missing families and friends—but...they seem to be adjusting well.” Her look was puzzled. “I don’t understand their acceptance. It’s such a big change—”

  “Maybe they were ready for that. Everybody needs change.”

  “Even federal marshals?” Jenni teased gently.

  He gave her a wry grin. “Yeah. I suppose I could change—if I had to.” He became silent for a moment. “I guess I’d have to have a damn good reason. I love marshaling. It’s all I’ve ever done. Something new every day. But I have to admit, living in the saddle gets less and less appealing the older I get—” He shook his head, and looked into the distance. “I’m talking like a damn fool. Like someone who has a life ahead of him to plan and dream about.”

  Jenni laid a hand on his arm, rubbing slowly down the tensed muscles until she reached for his hand. He grasped her fingers in his, tightly for a moment, as if he meant to never let her go.