ACCORDING TO HIS ODOMETER, they’d traveled just under a hundred miles when the first sense that something wasn’t right sank into his consciousness. They’d twined along the Needles Highway—a most impressive and at times confounding landscape. He’d been tempted to change his mind about walking to the top of Harney Peak when they stopped at Sylvan Lake, but by then the morning was almost gone, so he’d chosen to head to Custer State Park, instead.
And he was glad he had. The views were amazing, the road just challenging enough to be able to drive and talk. And the conversation had been heady. Kat was not only sweet and accommodating, she was smart. And she knew her Black Hills lore. He liked it that she didn’t buy history’s attempt to whitewash reputations.
“Seth Bullock is a perfect example,” she was saying, leaning closer as she had every time she had a point to make. Normally, he’d have enjoyed the contact, but at the moment, his skin was tingling—in a not-so-pleasant way—around the areas where she’d put his tattoos. “He was strong enough to hold on to what he grabbed in Deadwood and smart enough to make friends with powerful people, like Teddy Roosevelt. Did that make him a good man? The people who lived in the little town near present-day Belle Fourche—I can’t remember the name at the moment—might not have liked him much when he made a deal with the railroad that changed the line from their town to a spot through his land. Sure, he offered citizens of the town free lots if they wanted to move, but what about the ones who’d invested their life savings on a dream that he crushed?”
“I guess the HBO show got canceled before that happened,” Jack said, trying to keep from wiggling.
She sighed and leaned into him a bit more. “Yes, well, just because a person is portrayed one way on television doesn’t make it the truth. I mean, the actor who played Seth Bullock was excellent. Great eyes. Did you know that one of Seth Bullock’s grandsons said his granddad never needed a gun because he had a stare that could stop a bull elephant?”
Jack didn’t know that. Nor did he care, particularly. Something was wrong, but he didn’t know what to do about it. He’d have to tell her soon if it didn’t get better. Luckily, she hadn’t seemed to notice anything was amiss.
“And one thing I’ve learned from Libby’s experience is that TV and reality are quite often very far apart. If something isn’t entertaining, it isn’t relevan—” She paused. “Is something wrong? You seem really tense.”
He swallowed. “I think I may need some of the sunscreen you brought. My neck feels a little hot.” At least, he hoped it was the sun and not something else making his skin burn.
She pulled back and a second later he felt her fingertip prod his shoulder. Then the nape of his neck where the tattoo started.
He heard her swallow. “I can’t see the color exactly because of my sunglasses, but the skin looks a little puffy. Let’s stop somewhere for a cold drink and I’ll check it out.”
A nice ice bath—or jumping into one of the lakes they’d passed—sounded better, but he followed Kat’s directions into the town of Custer. A few minutes later, they were seated across from each other at a pizza joint.
“Char claims this is the best pizza in the Hills,” she said after taking a long drink from the glass of water the waitress had left with the menus. “How does your back feel?”
He stuck his fingers in his glass and fished out a couple cubes of ice. “It’s starting to sting a little. Is that normal?”
He ran the instant relief around the back of his neck, locating the source of the anguish. The tattoo.
He looked at Kat, who was frowning. “If you’re having an allergic reaction to the dye, it sure came on fast. From what I read, most reactions happen ten to fourteen days after application. Maybe we should find a clinic to check it out.”
He made a scoffing sound. “I told you, I’m not allergic. But even if I were, I don’t need a doctor.”
She shook her head. “Men. That’s exactly the reaction I’d expect from both of my exes. What is it with your gender? Haven’t you heard of anaphylactic shock? This could be serious.”
“The tattoo itches a little. Maybe that’s the way the ink dries. No big deal. Can we order? I like pepperoni-and-mushroom.”
“Me, too.” Her smile looked conciliatory. “Actually,” she admitted shyly, “I like pepperoni and anything.”
She pulled out her forest-service map and showed him where they’d been and the road she planned to take back home. He pretended to pay attention, but the truth was growing more apparent by the minute that she was right and he was wrong. Very wrong. The fire was spreading from the tattoo on his back to the others. He wrapped both hands around the tall, red-plastic water glass to keep from scratching the spots that now felt as though an army of ants was setting up camp under his skin.
He shifted his shoulders without meaning to.
Kat’s eyes narrowed. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it.”
He slumped back in the booth, sighing as the air-conditioning-chilled vinyl made contact with the burning cross on his back. “My arms and chest are starting to tingle, too.”
He waited for an “I told you so,” but instead, she got up and walked away. Jack watched her cross the room to the pay phone hanging on the wall. She thumbed through the phone book suspended on a chain beside the phone. Her back was to him when she tucked the receiver under one ear.
She returned to the table at the same time as the pizza arrived. Jack’s appetite had waned. Nerves, he figured. He hated doctors almost as much as he hated needles. “Thank you,” he and Kat both said when the waitress slid the steaming hot pie in front of them.
“There’s an urgent-care facility a few blocks away. We can walk there, if you want. The receptionist said it was quiet at the moment and they could see you right away.”
He could tell she was serious about having him looked at—probably to protect her own interests, since her tattoo had created the problem. “Nobody ever died of itching.”
“One of my half-brother’s uncles died of an allergic reaction to shellfish. He didn’t even know he had a sensitivity until it was too late.”
Jack scowled. “I’m not going to die in the next ten minutes. Can we eat first?”
She didn’t say anything. Maybe she was used to men acting like stubborn fools. She sat and slid a piece of pizza onto her paper plate. After a brief pause—to pray or see if he’d changed his mind, Jack wasn’t sure which—she started eating.
She ate with gusto. Jack would have, too, if he could have kept his mind on chewing. He tried, but it was no use. The problem was a problem.
When the waitress returned to check on them, Jack had no choice but to ask for their bill and a take-out box. Kat pulled some extra napkins from the dispenser and offered to leave the tip.
He had to give her credit. He didn’t know a single person who wouldn’t have said, “I told you so.”
Forty minutes later, a young doctor with an English accent gave Jack the news. “Beautiful work. Too bad you’re allergic.”
“How is that possible? I’ve never had a reaction to anything.”
“You’ve probably always been allergic to whatever was in that ink. You just never got exposed to it before now. I can give you a shot to keep your symptoms from getting worse, and I’ll prescribe a cream to help with the itching.”
“Am I safe to drive my motorcycle back to Deadwood?”
The man’s face scrunched up. He consulted his watch, then sighed. “Generally it’s best not to drive or operate heavy machinery after taking this shot. You will probably feel drowsy within the next half hour or so. Your wife is in the waiting room, correct? Can she drive?”
Jack didn’t want to explain who Kat was, so he merely shook his head and said, “We’re both on the bike. She doesn’t have a motorcycle license.”
“Well, then, I suggest you get a motel room in Custer, have your wife fill the prescription I’m going to give you and tuck in for the night.”
Jack swallowed and let out a sigh of fru
stration. The cost of guide services was definitely going up.
“I’M AN ADULT, Char. The man is sick. The drugs knocked him flat. He’s not a threat and there are two separate beds in the room. I’m perfectly safe.”
Kat had called her friend after a great deal of soul-searching. She’d weighed her other options—catching a bus, calling one of her half siblings for a ride or hitting the street to find another room—this motel had only the one left when they’d registered. In the end she’d decided to take the path of least resistance. She’d sleep in the spare bed in Jack’s room and beat him into submission if he tried anything fresh. Not that he could. He was out cold from the shot he’d been given.
“I only have one thing to say to you, Kat,” her friend replied. “What would Libby do?”
Kat smiled for the first time in hours. She felt miserable. Responsible. And pissed off. She should have listened to her intuition and refused to use that crummy old ink. She planned to throw it in the toxic chemical recycling as soon as she got home.
“Well, Libby got knocked up by a man she barely knew. Are you sure we want to go there?”
Char’s laugh eased a bit more of Kat’s tension. “Good point. Hey, you’re a responsible adult and the guy’s swoo is completely nonfunctioning, right? Along with certain important body parts, I gather. So why exactly did you call me? Permission? Or confession?”
“Neither, you goose. I wanted to let someone know where I was in case Jack wakes up in the middle of the night and murders me.”
“Hmm…maybe I should come after you. Custer’s not that far away. I could be there in an hour after I close up.”
Kat sighed into the small phone. Jack had insisted she use his cell to make her arrangements. “If you can find someone to pick you up, I’ll pay for their gas,” he’d said. “This is completely my fault and I feel like a total schmuck.” Not something either Pete or Drew would have admitted.
“No,” Kat said to Char. “Don’t change your plans. He’s already sound asleep. I bought a book in a gift shop down the street. I’ll read until I can’t keep my eyes open, then sleep in the chair.”
“I thought you said there were two beds.”
“There are, but it just struck me that I barely know the guy, Char. I’m not that comfortable around him.”
“You looked pretty comfy behind him on that bike.”
Kat wandered to the railing and looked at the motorcycle parked below the second-floor room. She had felt at ease with Jack until he started to show signs of an allergic reaction. She blamed herself, even though she’d tried her best to talk him into using henna.
“He’s a nice guy. Smart. Funny. But still a guy. When I tried to talk him out of using that damn black ink, would he listen? Heck, no. He’s as bullheaded and single-minded as either of my exes.” She let out a sigh. “I’m starting a new chapter in my life, Char. One that doesn’t depend on a man to make me happy, fulfilled or even to pay the bills.”
“I know, Kat. And I’m pulling for you, but the guy is pretty cute. So unless you tattooed his pecker, he might be able to get it up. If you’re there, anyway, what would a little safe sex hurt?”
Kat’s bark of laughter made two strangers strolling along the sidewalk look her way. She ducked her head, blushing. “You’re almost as bad as Jenna. She says the most outrageous things.”
“And look how things worked out for her. She wound up with a great guy and a dog. I’m just saying, think about it and keep your options open. A lot of places have complimentary condoms at the front desk. You could ask. In case he makes a sudden, perky improvement.”
Kat rolled her eyes. She was a mother. She hadn’t had sex in…well, a very long time. She might consider some friendly, noncommittal sex once she completed her degree and had a job. Movies and sex every other Saturday night with a single coworker or something. But she sure as heck wasn’t going to jump the bones of a perfect stranger who was nearly comatose from an allergic reaction she’d caused.
Shaking her head, she said good-night and tucked the phone in her pocket. She’d left the door slightly ajar so she could quietly slip inside.
“Is your friend coming? Did you tell her I’d buy the gas?”
Kat licked her lips and walked to the bed closest to the bathroom. Jack was stretched out like a man staked to die in the sun. Before going outside, she’d applied the thick white cream to his tattoos, which now resembled shiny black etchings outlined by a raised foundation of brilliant-red flesh. He’d stripped down to his navy blue shorts but had modestly pulled the top sheet up to the middle of his chest.
“She can’t come. I told her not to break her plans because you weren’t in any shape to attack me if I stayed here.”
He opened his eyes and turned his head slightly. “My mother likes to believe she raised a gentleman. Her number’s on my phone under ‘Mom’ if you need reassuring.”
That made Kat smile. He really was a nice guy. Normal. Decent. She’d be fine. “How do you feel?”
“The itching is better, but my brain feels groggy. Definitely a good thing we’re not on the bike. But I feel bad about screwing up your night. You didn’t have a date, did you?”
Her hackles went up. That was the kind of question Pete would have asked. Before she could set him straight, he added, “I mean, as a single mom, if you have a night off without kids, you have every right to do something fun. And watching a dumb-ass guy who didn’t listen to your very sound advice squirm in itchy agony probably doesn’t qualify.”
Her temper disappeared. “Oh, don’t be so sure. I don’t get the chance to gloat all that often.”
His snicker sounded sleepy and she expected him to start snoring, but instead, he mumbled softly, “Beautiful, smart and a sense of humor. Perfect combination.”
He thinks I’m smart?
She shook off the small shiver of pleasure his words gave her. “I bought a book to read. The light won’t bother you, will it?”
She waited for an answer, but the only sound that came from his perfectly shaped, utterly masculine lips was a light snore.
Smiling, she unlaced her boots, kicked them off and tucked her stocking feet under her as she settled into the surprisingly comfortable wing chair. With a nice fat pillow from the bed under her arm, she got comfortable and prepared to read about the early pioneers’ attempts to bring social structure to the raw, turbulent towns of the pre-annexed Black Hills.
She loved the subject matter, and the author’s writing was intriguing, if not gifted.
But the sun and wind and fretting over Jack’s condition quickly caught up with her. Her eyelids fluttered closed and her breathing evened out. Just a quick nap, then she’d watch Letterman, she told herself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE PEN FELT heavy and awkward in her hand. She couldn’t explain why. As a teacher, she’d done her sums in ink ever since leaving school. Miss Marshall, her teacher, had proclaimed Katherine the smartest student and had awarded her a good-conduct ribbon, as well as a brand-new pen-and-ink set she’d gotten from back East.
The pen remained one of Katherine’s most prized possessions. Perhaps because, from that point on, she’d felt as if her life had controlled her and not the other way around. Her parents had convinced her to move with them to the frontier where teachers were in short supply.
But so were doctors. And when the influenza came, it took them both. And her younger siblings.
Thank the good Lord above that she had a job, or else her life could have been much, much worse. She’d managed to save enough money from the tiny stipends she earned to keep the land her father had claimed—until the railroad came.
Of course, they’d paid her pennies on the dollar for the claim her father had given his life to procure. And her strident voice—a lone, strident voice, it seemed—against the bullying tactics of the railroad had cost her her teaching position. The board of citizens voted to find someone less confrontational. But they gave her a good recommendation to assuage their lily-livere
d consciences.
And so she’d answered an advertisement for a teacher in the Dakota Territory town of Deadwood. Room and board provided.
“And did it ever once occur to me to ask if the room included walls that kept out the snow in the winter and grasshoppers in the summer?” she murmured under her breath.
She’d sat down beside the small hearth of her dilapidated home to compose a list of complaints. Money abounded in this mud hole they called a town. She’d seen the gold for herself, spilling from a cloth bag gripped in the stiff fingers of a corpse that very morning. The man’s body hadn’t been discovered by the vermin some called men, or he surely would have been naked, as well.
She’d done her civic and humane duty and gone to the sheriff—a brooding hulk of a man who terrified her just a hair less than his gun-toting friend. The man they called Mad Jack. Not to be confused with Jack McCall, the infamous idiot who killed the town’s most talked-about resident, Wild Bill Hickok.
Sheriff Seth Bullock and Mad Jack—she had no idea if the man had a surname or not—disposed of the body, but not before sharing a smoke and nudging it with the toes of their filthy boots. She’d gone home in disgust, planning to begin the search for a new position in another town. Even Kansas City would be better than here. Possibly Denver.
She had nothing holding her here—even though she’d grown to care for her students. But how could she possibly expect to make a difference in a place where life was so cheap and decency so far from anyone’s mind?
She began to write. As was often the case when she was composing, she became so absorbed in the process that she lost her connection with the world around her. She didn’t realize the door behind her had come open until she felt a cold shiver trace down her back. She twirled and saw him standing in her doorway.
Her heart climbed into her throat, making speech impossible. She gripped the pen as if to use it as a weapon. A study in futility. The man was known to have survived numerous gunshots and knifings. Death by pen? The thought made a nervous giggle bubble up and slip past her lips.
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