"Didn't get his name," he said. "Scrawny. Hairball. Earring in his nose like some kinda damned fruitcake."
Her chin came up fast, and she gave him her best glare, while trying not to laugh at his description. "I'd never have guessed you were the judgmental type," she said. "Scourge happens to be one of the most gifted students I've ever worked with."
"Scourge?" He looked at her as if she were crazy.
Taylor almost smiled at his reaction. She bit her lip instead. "It's a nickname. His real name's Stanley, and he hates it."
Wes grinned at her, shook his head. "And Scourge is such an attractive alternative."
She did smile this time. She couldn't help it. She'd been razzing Scourge about his choice in nicknames since she'd met him.
After a moment of sharing that smile, Wes said, "So you're a teacher?"
His rapid change of subjects took her off guard. She didn't answer. Instead she turned to lead him to her tent. "This one's mine," she said.
He dropped his duffel, slung the pack from his shoulder to the ground, then hunkered down to pull the neatly rolled tent from inside it. And when he hunkered that way, his jeans got a whole lot tighter around his backside. He glanced up at her, over his shoulder, caught her looking before she managed to steer her gaze back where it belonged and pretended not to notice. "Then you're not a teacher," he said.
"I teach. But I'm not a teacher."
"Sounds deep," he said, and when she looked at him, he paused in unrolling the tent and stared at her. "I'll take a stab, though. You teach to pay the bills. But what you love is digging for bones and broken dishes."
She couldn't seem to take her eyes from his. "You're not even close."
"I didn't think so." And still he held her gaze.
To break the tension, she got up and went to the opposite end of the nylon circle, gripping the edges and pulling it out flat. Wes reached back into his pack for the flexible poles, and quickly inserted them through the fabric.
"A woman of mystery," he quipped as he worked.
She helped him raise the tent, a perfect black dome standing neatly beside her gray one. So close she imagined if she poked her hand into the side of her tent, and he did the same from within his own, they could touch through the fabric.
It was a silly thought. A silly thought that made her tingle somewhere deep. He was looking at her, waiting. "I wasn't trying to be mysterious," she said. "Truth is, I still don't know what I am." She lowered her head, knowing it probably sounded lame.
"And this digging up the past is your way of trying to find out."
She brought her head up fast, because his words were so accurate. It startled her. "It never was," she said softly. And silently she added, Until now. Then she scratched that idea. She wasn't here to learn about herself, her past, her so-called heritage. She was here to do a job. Period.
Besides, she didn't need to look very far to find herself. Her heart was being boarded on a beautiful ranch in Oklahoma. Someday she'd have a home—a real home, not one of these temporary apartments. And she'd bring Jasper there. Feed her carrots and ride her at sunrise, instead of spending the odd weekend with her, between jobs. That was what she wanted out of life. All she wanted, really. Enough money to have that place, for her and her horse. She didn't need anyone else.
"I study the past because I'm good at it," she said finally. "And I learn enough along the way to make me qualified to teach it to others."
"But not enough to let you stop looking."
She blinked and looked away to avoid his eyes. "I dig, I teach, I write now and then. Whatever pays the rent." She glanced past him to see Kelly and Scourge watching the two of them intently, although when she looked, they both got back to work.
Wes unzipped the arched doorway of his tent, slung his duffel bag inside. Then zipped it closed again. "For what it's worth, Doc, I don't think you're gonna find yourself in that dirt you've been sifting."
She met his black eyes, and they made her burn. Because it was as if he knew. As if he knew exactly the lost kind of feeling she'd never really been without. The sense that he could see things she'd rather not share made her uncomfortable. She gave her head a shake. "I'm looking for artifacts, Mr. Brand, nothing more." She lowered her eyes. "And since we're swapping unasked-for advice, I don't think you're going to find this trespassing ghostly warrior by standing around talking to me."
"Good point," he said, and he touched the brim of his hat in a mock salute. "So why don't you show me where you saw him?"
She nodded, turned and walked. And Wes followed. She took him to the slight rise in the ground where the warrior had appeared. "He was right here."
"On a horse, right?" Wes asked.
"Yes. A big black. A stallion, I think. Probably four years old, or more."
The man frowned at her. "How can you possibly—?"
"Well, it was dark, but I could see some," she told him. "That horse was no colt. Didn't have that lean, sleek line to him. In fact, he looked a bit overweight."
"I'll be damned." He stared at her, shoved his hat back a bit, stared some more. "So you know horses as well as history?"
She smiled, thinking of Jasper. "Yeah, I know horses."
Shaking his head, Wes knelt, and she saw him examining the ground. Then he shrugged and got up. "No hoofprints."
She frowned. "Well, the ground is hard here. He might not have left any."
"Okay," he said. She got the feeling he was humoring her.
"You are aware that skilled warriors, when they wanted to employ the element of surprise, would wrap their horses' hooves in cloth to muffle the sound. When they did that, there were seldom any clear tracks."
Wes straightened up, searching her face. "You get that from a history book, Doc?"
"No," she said softly. "I got that from a Louis L'Amour book."
"I'll be damned."
"That's the second time you've said that," she told him, but he was looking at her in some kind of mingling of surprise and … she wasn't sure, but it looked like a hint of panic.
"Is something wrong, Mr.—?"
"Wes," he said. Then he shook himself. "Er, how well did you see him?"
"The horse?"
"The rider."
She tapped a forefinger against her chin and thought back, lowering her lashes to conceal her eyes. "Well enough." Well enough so that she'd seen him again, in her dreams.
"Can you describe him to me?" Wes asked.
He was going through the motions, she thought. He didn't believe she'd seen a thing, probably thought it was all in her imagination. And it made her angry, but she nodded anyway.
"He was wearing paint on his face. His hair was long and dark, and he wore it loose." She tipped her head sideways, examining the hair tied behind Wes's head. "As long as yours is, I think," she said. Then she frowned. "You know, with hair like that, I don't know how you could call Scourge a hairball."
"Scourge looks like he's wearing a lemon yellow dust mop on his head."
She almost choked on her laugh, because she'd thought the same thing about Scourge's hair so often.
"Go on," Wes said, while she swallowed her mirth. "What was this ghost wearing?"
"Not a hell of a lot." She smiled a little. "Then again, I figure any man who looked like he did would probably prefer going naked." He glanced at her sharply, and she lowered her head. "That was stupid. Sorry." She peered up at him again, but he seemed totally at a loss for words.
She cleared her throat and reminded herself this was serious. Good as the rider looked, the man could have been dangerous. And he might come back. "He was wearing some sort of loincloth, I think. His arms and chest were bare, and so were his legs, clear to the hip."
Wes licked his lips. "I thought you said it was dark."
"Well, there was moonlight. And once I put my back to my gas lamp, I could see a little better."
"Oh."
She tilted her head.
"So," Wes said, "you say he looked to be in … er �
� fairly good shape."
"He looked like he belonged on a calendar." She pursed her lips in thought. "Maybe he really was a ghost after all," she said. "I never saw a real man look that good." Then she walked a few steps to the east, her back to Wes. "He rode off in this direction, and that was … uh … Wes?"
He looked up, seemingly surprised to see that she'd moved on and continued speaking. He was still standing in the same spot, blinking in what looked like shock and looking as if the heat was getting to him a bit, judging by the flush of color in his face.
"Yeah. I'm with you," he said. And he hurried up to join her.
The way she described Wolf Shadow had shaken Wes right to the core. And the way she looked when she described him was even worse.
For God's sake, she acted turned on by the guy.
But the guy was him!
Only, she didn't know that. And he didn't seem to know much of anything. And besides, she was scared, too. Scared enough so that she'd made him promise to arrive here before dark. Scared enough so that hint of fear in her eyes had been all it took to extract that promise, and maybe his liver, if she'd asked for it, as well.
He'd finished chores in record time after she'd gone. Then packed up his things and tossed them into the back of his Bronco. He'd gone back inside just long enough to write down his bid on the old Cumberland place, and then he'd sealed it in an envelope and dropped it off at the town clerk's office. After that he'd made a quick stop to check in on Turtle.
He'd arrived at Turtle's place shortly after noon, and the old goat was actually out of bed and dressed for a change. Seeing him looking more like his old self chased a good portion of the troubling thoughts from Wes's mind, and he even smiled. "You're looking better!"
"Because I know you intend to set up camp at the site, Raven Eyes," Turtle said. "And because I know you'll remain there until you've found a way to protect the sacred ground."
Wes shook his head slowly and took a seat at the small Formica-topped table in the trailer's kitchen. Turtle took a cold beer from the ancient fridge, handed it to Wes and sat opposite him. He sipped tea, and that alone let Wes know he wasn't completely recovered yet. "I'm going to try, Turtle, but I can't promise it's going to work. Taylor says—"
"Taylor?"
"Doc McCoy. She's the one in charge of the dig."
"Ah … Sky Dancer."
Wes searched Turtle's face, brows raised in question.
Turtle's only answer was, "It is a good name."
Blinking, Wes shook himself. "Okay, if you say so. Anyway, she didn't say a thing about finding evidence that Emerald Flat was ever anything other than a regular village."
"It was," Turtle said, interrupting him. "It was sacred to the shamans of my clan. It is sacred to me."
"But why are you so sure all this is true?"
Turtle closed his eyes slowly, then opened them again. "I believe it is true. The why does not matter."
Wes sipped his beer and counted to ten. Then, as calmly as he could, he said, "The Wolf Shadow thing isn't going to work, Turtle. She isn't all that afraid of him."
"Yes, she is," Turtle said as if he knew it beyond any doubt.
Wes took a breath, bit his tongue. "Okay, she's a little afraid, but there's more."
"She's attracted to him," Turtle said.
Wes gaped.
"This is good, my friend. If she fears him, his power over her is strong, but if she wants him, it is even stronger. You must appear to her again as Wolf Shadow. Soon."
Wes shook his head. "She wants me out there so she'll have protection from him … er … me," he said. "She even made me promise to be there before dark. If that ghost shows up and I'm not in my tent, she's going to want to know why."
"Then lure her away. Away from the camp. And while she's away, appear to her then. She can't blame you for not being close by if she's the one who leaves."
Wes grated his teeth, shook his head. "She'll never go for it. Look, my setting up housekeeping out there on the flat is supposed to end the need for this Wolf Shadow nonsense. If I'm right there to watch what—"
"It's not enough." Turtle smiled serenely, sipped his tea. Then he closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead. "I'm feeling weak again, my friend. Perhaps I got up too soon."
Wes's frown vanished, swept away by concern for his friend. "We shouldn't even be talking about this," he said, getting to his feet, taking Turtle by the arm. "It gets you all stirred up. Come on, lie down. Take it easy. Don't worry about any of this, Turtle, I'm gonna take care of it."
He put an arm around Turtle's fragile shoulders and eased him into the living area, three steps from the kitchen area in this cubbyhole of a place. He helped the old man onto the green-tartan couch that sagged in the middle, and pulled a woven horse blanket off the back to cover him.
Turtle asked, "Tonight, Raven Eyes? You'll try again tonight?"
"Yeah, tonight, sure," Wes said. "If it's humanly possible. Now rest, okay? Just relax. It's gonna be okay."
After assuring himself Turtle was all right, for the time being at least, Wes had continued on his way here. To look into the huge ebony eyes of the woman he was supposed to be scaring off. And to learn that she liked horses and Western novels, and had a sense of humor, and was afraid of something. Something besides his ghostly visit. Herself, he thought. Her past. Her blood. She was afraid of it.
There was no way in hell he could lure the doc away from the camp that night. He watched and waited for an opportunity, stuck close to her side all evening, just in case she'd wander off, giving him an opening. He could get into costume in five minutes flat. There would be no time to "borrow" his brother's oversize horse this time, but if she knew horseflesh as well as she seemed to, that probably wouldn't be a good idea, anyway. Besides, he didn't need the horse. All he needed was an opportunity.
He watched her when the sun began its spectacular descent, sinking lower on the western horizon, painting the desert with a blaze orange brush. He saw the way she fidgeted and kept glancing off in the direction where his alter ego had made his first appearance. Getting nervous by the look of things. Pacing back and forth in front of her tent. Wes sat on the ground in front of his own tent, with an open notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other. He had planning to do, careful planning. The bank loan wasn't quite enough to cover the cost of all the renovations that old Cumberland place would need, if he were lucky enough to have put in the winning bid. He'd have to make the money stretch, cover the necessities first, and save the frills for later on.
Every once in a while he felt Taylor's eyes on him, glanced up fast to catch her looking at him. As if to assure herself he was still there. Close by. But when he met her gaze, she quickly covered whatever she was feeling with an "I couldn't care less" sort of expression.
Wes set his notebook aside and walked up to her anyway, nodded down at her small camp stove and the pan of water boiling on its single butane burner, and said, "It's gonna boil dry pretty soon."
She glanced down, frowned. "I forgot about it."
"Well, you have a lot on your mind."
She drummed up a scowl for him, and he wondered if he were right in assuming he'd been the thing distracting her.
Or maybe not. Maybe it was Wolf Shadow she'd been thinking of just now.
She ducked into her tent and emerged again with a sealed plastic bag full of dehydrated food, which she apparently intended to drop into the water for her dinner. He must have made a face, because she paused over the camp stove, and sent him a questioning glance. "What?"
Wes shrugged. "I just didn't expect you'd be so … citified."
"Citified?"
"Modern. Civilized. I mean, you're the one trying to find yourself in the past, aren't you?"
"You said that. I didn't." She glanced down at the bag of food, then back at him, and she looked puzzled. She was cute when she was puzzled, he discovered. "And what does that have to do with this, anyway?" she asked, lifting the bag.
He shrug
ged. "Maybe nothing. Or maybe…" Giving his head a shake, he looked at the area around him, dimmer now, bathed in the last pale blush of the setting sun. Scruffy-looking trees, and a small patch of forest to the northwest, with that pond and the cave where he'd hidden his props nestled inside. To the east was civilization. Walking that way would bring you to the dirt road and Turtle's trailer, and beyond that actual towns began springing up. To the south was desert. Not the kind of place most people thought of when they thought of desert. No sand or dunes. Just hard-packed ground and rock formations rising up like living things. Nothing much grew out there. Arid, barren land. Folks around here called this patch of nowhere the Badlands. And whether it was technically accurate or not, Wes thought it fit.
This flat was like an oasis. A gentle haven set within the harsh country. Lush greenery and life, right in the middle of no-man's-land.
"What is it, Wes?" she asked, coming to stand closer to him, searching his face, the plastic bag of food forgotten.
"I was just wondering … what it was like here a hundred years ago. Or two hundred."
"Or six," she said in a voice softer than he'd ever heard her use. "I was wondering about it myself, just last night. Six centuries ago is when the first Comanche people set up camp here on this flat."
He shook his head. "Bet they didn't eat from any boilable bags, Doc."
She frowned at him. "Of course not. They cooked over a central fire, over there." And she pointed.
"So why don't we?"
She blinked, surprised maybe by his suggestion. "Wes, it's dry here. It would be dangerous to…" But her words trailed off as she gazed toward the spot she'd indicated, and he thought she was picturing it, maybe.
"We dig down a little," Wes said, "surround the fire with stones the way our ancestors did."
Her eyes glowed in the dying breath of sunlight, just before it slipped lower and vanished amid the barren hills to the west. "We could have a few pails of water standing by, just in case."
Wes smiled. He couldn't imagine why he was smiling, or why he was so enthused over something as simple as a campfire. He and Turtle sat beside a campfire more often than not. So what was the big deal here?
Maggie Shayne - Badland's Bad Boy Page 4