Trish lay on her back with her knees up, ready to spring from her bedroll and scramble away or fight. Old Curly's bedroll surprised her with its functional warmth that also served well as padding underneath. She opted to wrap the newest looking blanket around her, a finely woven Indian blanket of deep orangey red with a unique pattern near one end.
She stared at the night sky teaming with its abundance of stars, so unlike the night sky of her home in the outskirts of Seattle. There the night sky invariably glowed with the reflection of manmade lights on the overcast sky. Oh sure, there were clear nights, but she'd stopped noticing them about the time she'd mistakenly believed her career kicked into high gear. How could she have really believed the "Old Boys" considered her anything but a glorified office girl? They had given her the mandatory pay raise every six months with the occasional bonus of a title change. She knew betting took place on everything of public knowledge from a baby's birth date, time, and weight to who was shacking up with whom. Surely the office had run betting odds for if she, the oldest unofficial intern in the office, would pass her exams this time just like they had the time before.
The memories made her want to climb in a hole and disappear. She chuckled mirthlessly. She had done better than that; she had slipped through the fabric of time with a device she, no doubt, should have used years ago. But how had Grammy ever gotten it in the first place? Why didn't she listen to Grammy Patricia? I listened, alright. I just didn't believe her.
Had Trish listened with an open mind, she could be experiencing her umpteenth adventure rather than her first and by now she would know better than to fall victim to the likes of Old Curly.
"What's done is done," she sighed barely above a whisper. Realizing she'd verbalized her thoughts, she snapped back to her present situation.
A rather handsome stranger lay to one side of her. On the other side, and just beyond the fire, lay a dead man. She didn't know if she could trust the stranger and yet he hadn't killed her. He had actually, in a roundabout way, helped her kill the man holding her prisoner. She may have gotten away from Old Curly without this stranger’s help, but how long would it have taken and at what price? She was here alone and it had proven dangerous today. Maybe surviving seven days wasn't as easy as Grammy had made it sound. She needed to trust someone, why not him?
"Do you have a name?" she asked into the darkness.
He didn't answer right away. "Quinn. You?"
What if he asked about more than her name? She couldn't tell him she was from the twenty-first century. He'd never believe her and what if he asked where she was from? She didn't know anyone and she didn't know exactly what the year was. Her not knowing even the most common realities could easily be mistaken for amnesia. That's it!
"I -- I don't know."
"What do you mean, ya don't know? Every man has a name."
She had to think fast. A lie was easier to remember if it echoed the truth. "I just remember Curly fishing me out of the gulley. Nothing else."
He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking down at her. "Is that why Curly had you trussed up? Ya ain't lyin' to me?"
"I don't know why he had me tied up. He helped me out. I thanked him. The next thing I knew he'd lassoed me."
"He ain't your pa, is he?"
Her stomach wrenched at the thought. "Heavens, no. You think he'd wanna take a poke at his own daughter?"
"It'd explain a bit, though. Don't 'magine his fatherin' skills'd be much better than his othern'."
"What other?" Are we really having a conversation about a dead man?
His indifference toward the campsite revealed his disgust. He glanced at her while evaluating the situation. "Well, we gotta call ya somethin'. Got a name ya like?"
She didn't want to answer too fast. "For some reason I feel partial to Trish."
"Trish. Guess it's a'right. Nice meetin' ya, ma'am." He repositioned his hat on his head with a gentleman's nod.
Trish found his presence so near her disturbing and shifted onto her side, her back to him. She tried to focus on the flames of the fire but her eyes inevitably returned to Curly. She pinched her eyes closed, not wanting to remember the dead man on the other side of the fire or those frenzied moments leading up to his death. Fearing the memory more than the stranger, she rolled over and wiggled a bit closer to him, her chin tucked to avert her eyes from meeting his.
"Fire's gonna die down. Ya might be want'n to stay close to it."
"It. Not Curly."
"He's a real danger now," Quinn interjected in a sardonic fashion.
A shudder crawled up her back. How could she admit to him the horror she felt at what she had done? She couldn't verbally admit it to herself. "It's not Curly that bothers me. It's dead bodies in general. That blank death stare gives me the creeps."
He rolled out of his bedroll and circled the fire. On the other side he bent over the body and rolled it further away from the fire, face down. He returned, stepping over her.
"Anything else botherin' ya?"
She wanted to say lots of things bothered her, including being near him. Instead she answered, "No, thank you."
He settled into his bedroll, and moments later, serenaded her with his snoring. How could he do it? How could he be part of a murder, roll the victim over and sleep as if it were all in a day's work? Was he that hard? She stopped. Who had killed Curly? Had Quinn with his knife? Or had she struck the final blow? One of them could be found guilty of murder in a court of law, but the other would be an accessory.
If she should happen to be charged with murder, she would plead self-defense. If charged with accessory? She was guilty. The memory of her actions sickened her. She faced the fire. Maybe if she snuggled down just right, the rocks at the fire's edge would block her view of Curly. She watched the flames as the fire crackled but she couldn't ignore the dead man.
She turned over, her feet getting tangled in the bedroll. She sat up, her breathing coming in ragged gasps. She had to deal with this. Her gaze settled on Quinn. She didn't know the man. He had proven himself dangerous… no more so than she herself. The light from the fire flickered across his rugged features, turning the dark locks of hair fiery black. Could she trust this man? Did she have a choice? If she must trust herself to someone in this dangerous adventure of hers, she could do worse. She had done worse. She resituated her bedroll closer to him, chiding herself for finding him even slightly attractive. Pulling a few rocks out from under her, she turned to him for a smidgeon of human comfort and safety. The wolves howled and after a time she slept.
The Talisman - Crisscross Page 5