Time Plains Drifter

by Cheryl Pierson

  “Jenni.”

  She laid the rag aside and began to unbutton his shirt quickly, then his belt and gunbelt. She didn’t answer, but he said her name again, this time with more urgency.

  She stopped at the second button of his Levis, and met his agonized gaze. “I’ve got to find out what’s wrong—why you’re bleeding—”

  “No—mystery there.” He gasped as the pain rocketed through him again, and he held on, trying not to black out just yet. “Took a bullet—my side—”

  ~*~

  “You’re shot?” Jenni couldn’t keep the rising panic from her voice. “You mean, Kemp—”

  “No, not—not Kemp. Doesn’t matter. It’s there. Gotta come out.” Rafe’s eyes slid closed.

  “Rafe—how? I’ve never done that before—”

  “Well, I guess...you’re gonna learn.” He tried to smile at her, but it wouldn’t come. “You’ll do fine.”

  She felt as if the blood was draining from her own body. Now she knew what the tweezers were for.

  She finished unbuttoning his pants, then gently pulled the shirt out of the waistband. He wore a white cotton undershirt, stark against the bronze of his skin, darkened with splotches of his blood.

  She reached for the scissors and gently began to cut the cotton material away from the still-oozing wound, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip in concentration.

  As she uncovered his bare skin, she could see the hole in his side. It was raw and gaping, a jagged mess of skin, blood and bone fragments. For a moment, she felt as if she were going to be sick. She swallowed hard and took a deep, steadying breath. The wave of nausea passed. She reached for the wet cloth to wipe away the blood.

  “Where’d the...stuff come from?”

  Jenni turned back to him. “Evidently, someone had an idea we were going to need supplies. The bag was just outside the entrance when I got here. I’m sure Milo had no idea it was here, so it had to be Beck or Cris who left it.”

  Rafe made no reply.

  She quickly ran her left hand under his back to feel for a possible exit wound. Of course, there isn’t one. Nothing, it seems, is going to be easy. Rafe winced as her fingers brushed the deep furrows caused by the lashes, and she pulled her hand back, wondering at the blood she came away with, feeling the tattered edges of his skin.

  “You’re bleeding,” she whispered, wiping her hand clean on the rag she held.

  “Tend to that—later.” He grimaced, and she noticed he was beginning to shake. “Dig this bullet out...first.” It seemed to take every ounce of his strength to speak.

  She laid a finger gently across his lips. “I will. You just rest now. And—and let me get everything ready.”

  She reached down to remove his knife from its sheath, then leaned across him to lay the blade in the flames. Standing, she walked to the ledge where she’d laid the medical supplies. She took everything—medicine, utensils, and bandaging, and put it in the enamel basin, carrying it back to where Rafe lay.

  She knelt beside him and removed everything from the bowl, then poured a small amount of water into it. Severing the white undershirt completely, she cut it all the way up to the neck, gently pulling it away from his body.

  Beneath the material, his skin was bruised and lacerated, further evidence of the beating that marked his face.

  Jenni’s eyes welled with tears. She blinked them back, the anger overtaking any other feeling that tried to surface. The demon’s handiwork, she knew. It was the only explanation; the reason Rafe had flagged coming up the incline—all of this, due to the demon’s incredible power. Milo had tried to kill Rafe, just as he’d said he would—

  “I have only to think it, and you die,” he’d said. What happened to prevent it? Had he sensed Beck was close by and been distracted?

  “A place of healing,” Rafe said of the cave. Would it be enough? She was only human—and now, so was Rafe. If only he possessed those same powers of healing he’d had when he’d made that grab for Kip—when the knife had glided into his shirt and disappeared, like a magician’s trick—

  The knife. It should be ready by now. She reached across Rafe and grasped the handle, pulling it, glowing, from the fire. She laid it atop the bandaging to cool, turning to wash the wound gently in preparation.

  Rafe winced at her slight touch. She looked up to meet his pain-filled eyes.

  “Ready?” he asked thickly.

  She masked the doubt she felt rising up inside her, giving him a quick, confident nod. “Yes. I’m—I’m ready. Whenever you are.”

  He sagged back against the floor, his eyes closing in exhaustion. “Let ’er buck.”

  Jenni reached for the cooled blade. She held the knife poised a moment, just over the jagged hole the bullet had made, then made a swift cut, widening it.

  Rafe’s hands clenched into white-knuckled fists, his body went taut, he sucked his breath in sharply.

  Jenni reached for the tweezers, wondering how she would be able to see what she was going after in this shrouded darkness. She brought the candle close to Rafe’s side, setting it on the stones. It was some help, but not much.

  She held the edges of the bullet hole open, dipping the tweezers in. The blood began to run freely once more as one side of the wound slipped from her splayed fingers. She pulled it open again, the tweezers going in deeper.

  ~*~

  Rafe gasped and cursed, heaving up under her hands for a moment before he was able to gain control. He held himself hard against the pain, shaking with it, beneath her touch as the metal points went into his flesh.

  Jenni pushed the ends together, closing them around something solid. She lifted, and it moved. Rafe gritted his teeth, bucking under her again.

  “Rafe, hold still, darling. Don’t move.”

  “I’m tryin’...”

  “Think I’ve got it— Just...give me a minute, here.” She was talking more to herself than to him, trying to bolster her own courage.

  “Jenni—” he gasped.

  Quickly, she brought up the tweezers, the slug between the pointed ends.

  Sponging sweat from his face and neck, she wiped his corded chest, then washed the blood from the wound. She bit her lip. “Should I—sew this up?”

  Rafe lay back wearily against the cool stone floor as the pain gradually abated. “No,” he said with a short laugh. “There’s an easier way. Quicker.”

  Jenni squeezed her eyes shut, knowing what he meant. “You want me to cauterize it?”

  Rafe’s lips twitched, but he lay still, trying to steady his breathing. “You’re a...quick study—for a city girl,” he teased. “Are you up to it?”

  She nodded, unable to speak. She thrust the knife back into the flames.

  He touched her arm as she leaned across him. “It’s almost over, Jen.”

  But it’s not, she wanted to protest. You’ve lost so much blood, and your back is cut to ribbons—

  Yet, in the end, she found that her words were swallowed up by the concern in his eyes—for her. How could she voice her own worries? It would only add to the weight on his shoulders if she did. She forced herself to smile, to touch his arm in reassurance that she did not feel. Turning away quickly, she busied herself with the bandaging so he wouldn’t see her anxiety. He’d see it soon enough, she thought, when she laid the hot metal against his flesh. There’d be no hiding her emotions then.

  Rafe turned his head slowly to where the knife rested in the fire and said, “Should be ’bout ready—”

  She knew it would be. Yet, somehow, she found herself hoping the wound would just go away—heal itself, like before. But Rafe wasn’t an angel anymore. He was human, because of her. “I made you human again, didn’t I?” Her words startled her and she looked down at him.

  “No, Jenni. I did that, pretty much all alone. It started even before...you. This isn’t your fault.” Rafe gave a slight, rueful smile despite the pain. “If anything—we did it together—the minute we—” He stopped abruptly.

  “I’d nev
er hurt you,” Jenni whispered. “Never.”

  “I know,” he murmured. “But, you’ve got to—this time. Just...make me well, Jenni.” He held her gaze with his, and she knew what he was asking. It was time. She had to do it. She leaned across him, and reached for the knife.

  CHAPTER 32

  Cris finished spreading Rafe’s blanket over Kemp’s body. He couldn’t help thinking of the irony of the situation—using his brother’s bedroll to cover the man who had killed him in their other life. Now—everything was different. Kemp did the best he could to make up for that transgression from before—the four deaths he couldn’t seem to wash himself clean of. But, he’d never had any intention of shooting Rafe this time around—or of harming his great-great granddaughter and the baby she carried.

  Beck Jansen appeared suddenly at Bolton’s side, looking grim-faced and decidedly angry.

  Cris had no trouble discerning Beck’s agitation. It surrounded the normally unflappable angel like a dark cloud, and Cris had an idea he knew why. “Are Rafe and Jenni safe?” he asked, standing up. “What about Milo—did you see him? And the others?”

  “I saw him, all right,” Beck seethed. “As for the others—they’re just waiting for us to make the next move.”

  He hadn’t answered the first question, Cris noticed, irritated. “Rafe?” he asked impatiently. “Is he all right—and Jenni?”

  “They’re in the cave,” Beck answered evasively.

  Cris took a step forward. “Dios,” he muttered, his mind playing over all the possibilities in a flash. “Well? What happened?”

  “They’re all right.”

  Cris let go a deep sigh of relief. “Thank God.” There was more, though. He looked expectantly at Beck. “Let’s hear it all.”

  Beck scratched the back of his neck, and took a deep breath. “I had Milo dead to rights.” He met Cris’s eyes. “I had my hands right around his neck, choking the very life out of him—” He began to pace as he was talking. “He was turning blue, trying to talk me out of killing him—and he was scared. It felt good.”

  Cris glanced down, unable to hide the disappointment he felt. “What happened, Beck?”

  Beck pounded his fist into his open palm. “Jenni’s sister.” His jaw flexed, and he looked at the ground.

  “Perdóname?” Cris was certain he’d misunderstood, the Spanish slipping out in his surprise.

  “Jenni’s sister,” Beck repeated, looking at him this time. “Victoria Dalton. Born July fourth, 1985. Also Josiah Kemp’s great-great granddaughter.”

  Cris felt every pound of the ton of bricks seemed to hit him, right between the eyes, at this revelation. He didn’t say anything. His voice wasn’t working just now. He’d had no idea—and evidently, neither had Beck.

  Beck nodded his agreement with Cris’s silent shock. “Milo said he’s got something planned for her, Cris. If I’d killed him, we wouldn’t know when—or where—or what. I thought maybe—as long as he’s around, there’d be a chance of us figurin’ it out. Now, I’m thinkin’ maybe that judgment call on my part was piss-poor. Maybe I shoulda just ended it and taken our chances—”

  Cris blew his breath out, silently shaking his head, his hair falling across his forehead. “We’re in a hell of a mess, Beck,” he finally muttered. He glanced at the forest’s edge across from where they stood, where the demon’s henchmen gathered. “You might as well know, no matter what, I intend to save my brother and hopefully give him, and Jenni, a chance at being happy together, if that’s possible.”

  A sudden thought jolted him as he spoke those words. Beck had seemed vague about Rafe’s and Jenni’s well-being. “That is possible, isn’t it?” He pinioned Beck with a steady stare. “They are really all right, aren’t they?”

  “I—hope so,” Beck replied noncommittally.

  “Beck—”

  “I’m gettin’ to that, Cris. Just hold on a minute.”

  “What happened?” Cris roared.

  “Milo got to Rafe before I could. He wounded him—”

  “Wounded him? How bad?” Cris’s voice was edgy and hoarse.

  “Put a bullet in him—somewhere,” Beck ground out. After a split second, he added, “Lashes, and a...a hard beating.”

  “How could he—” Cris couldn’t find his words for a moment. When he did, his anger exploded. “How could you let that happen?”

  “All he has to do is think it, Cris! Don’t you understand? I was almost there—”

  “Almost there? Almost there? Well, Beck, if he just has to ‘think it,’ you just ‘un-think it’! Surely you’re at least as powerful as that damned hellspawn who seems to get away with whatever he wants!”

  “I am that powerful, and then some, Cristian,” Beck replied coldly. “But I’m afraid the cave is strictly off limits—neutral territory, where neither good nor evil may enter. You know that.”

  Cris stepped forward, his fists clenched unconsciously. He stopped himself a short distance from where Beck stood. “Do you mean to tell me, Becket, my brother may very well die again because you can’t get into that cave to heal him?”

  Beck bowed his head. “I did all I could do. The rest will be up to Jenni—and Rafe.”

  “That’s not good enough! I don’t care what you have to do to make it right—either you do it, or I will.”

  “No matter what it costs you?” Beck asked softly. “You’ll risk everything you are now...and what lies ahead—to do this your way?”

  “I owe him that,” Cris shot back. “And so do you.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that there may be a reason that I need to hold back, now, for what may come later on, Cris?”

  The two angels stared at one another for a long moment, neither backing down.

  “I—have a suggestion, Beck...Cris,” Bolton offered hesitantly from where he stood watching the confrontation. “It might work. At any rate, it might be worth a try. I don’t think we’ve anything to lose, at this point.”

  “I’m listening,” Cris murmured, his voice deadly quiet. He turned to face the preacher. “You’re right, Murdoch. We don’t have one thing to lose. Not now.”

  Beck studied the ground, finally raising his blue gaze to Cris, then to Bolton. “Nothing,” he said, “except Victoria Dalton.”

  ~*~

  The knife felt strange in Jenni’s hand. She grasped it and pulled it from the fire. It glowed red as she held it up.

  “Just lay the blade...flat. Across—” Rafe motioned toward the bloody hole in his side.

  Jenni lowered her hand, positioning the knife, then moved to put her left arm across his chest.

  Rafe’s slitted, puffy eyes closed, as he tried to shut out everything else—to get ready for what he knew was coming, knowing it was impossible. There was no preparing for the gut-wrenching pain of the hot metal strip on his raw skin, the smell of his own flesh cooking beneath that knife. There was only the ability to bear what had to be. He drew a deep breath, feeling the waves of heat singeing the flesh, just before the knife met his side with its white-hot heat.

  A harsh cry forced its way past his lips before he could fight it back. Even with Jenni’s weight across his chest, he pushed upward, mindless with the agony, before some semblance of reason restored itself to his mind and he held himself in check, shaking beneath her.

  Jenni lifted the knife, and a wisp of blood smoke trailed upward from his side. She didn’t move away yet, just turned her head to look into his face. A crimson trickle ran from his lip where he’d re-opened the split skin. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his breathing was a rapid, shallow rasp. Jenni slowly pulled away from him, careful not to touch any more of the bruises than she had to. She laid the damp, cool cloth across the wound, then reached for the salve, uncapping the container.

  Rafe’s eyes opened slightly, and he turned his head to watch her. He reached up to grip her wrist. She glanced at him, startled.

  “You...okay?”

  A faint smile touched her lips and she nodded. “I’m fine,�
�� she tried to say, but her voice came out an unsteady whisper, not ‘fine’ at all. She cleared her throat and looked away from him, wondering if she could keep up this façade of strength. She didn’t feel strong anymore. She was plain scared.

  She smeared the healing salve across the still-warm wound as gently as possible, forcing away the stinging in her eyes. This was no time for tears, she told herself fiercely. She bit her lip in concentration and shrugged back a lock of copper hair.

  “Can you turn for me, Rafe? Just onto your side—not all the way. I need to see what he did to your back.” She would not meet his eyes.

  “Look at me, Jenni.” He made no move to do as she asked, to turn. He laid a hand on her thigh. “Jen?”

  Finally, she let her gaze go to his.

  He saw what she was trying so desperately to keep from him—the fear, the sympathy, and the reproach—still there. He sighed heavily.

  “Don’t be...mad at me—not now.”

  She shook her head. “No, darling. I’m not mad.” She dampened a clean bit of bandaging and wiped his face, giving particular care to his lip. He reached for her hand and grasped it in his, stopping her ministrations.

  “I didn’t have a chance to...to talk to you—” His gaze held hers, willing her to understand. “I didn’t want you thinkin’—” he sighed, “what you’re thinkin’.”

  “You asked me to marry you. Is that why? Because you knew I was pregnant?”

  “No.” He shook his head and tried to wet his lips. His tongue was thick as hell. He struggled to sit up.

  Jenni hurriedly reached for the canteen and raised his head to help him drink. After two swallows he pushed the canteen away. He had to make her understand.

  “I found...something this time that—I never had had. Before, I mean. When I was—alive.” He looked away from her as he searched for the words to explain. “You, Jenni. You showed me that all the things I never thought could be mine were there for the asking. You made me want—need—all the dreams I’d given up on. But, I had nothing to give you in return—nothing except myself. I thought—giving you my name would make it real, make them just leave us the hell alone to share whatever time we had left.” He gave a mirthless chuckle, brittle and self-derisive. “Crazy, maybe. But it was the only thing I could do—I was just so desperate to make a grab for the brass ring—” he broke off abruptly and forced himself to meet her eyes, no matter how painful it was to see the reproach there. But it was gone, replaced by only the love and concern she felt for him, and the anxiety at the situation they found themselves in.