by Lisa Bingham
P.D.’s fingers unconsciously tightened on Elam’s shoulder. Once again, she was struck by the latent strength, by muscles honed to tiptop condition. But it wasn’t the upcoming competition that stuck like a burr in her consciousness. It was the thought of smoothing the shirt from his body and kissing him, right there, in the hollow of his shoulder.
The lights flashed and the camera made a muffled snuffle-snick.
“Once more.”
Flash! Snuffle-snick.
“Okay, head out the rear and circle around the building to the front again. Across the street, you’ll see another contest volunteer by the door to Miller’s Mercantile. He’ll give you the next set of instructions.”
Elam jumped from the chair, donning his cowboy hat again. Snagging P.D.’s hand, he led her out into the sunshine.
“No one said anything about a bunch of damned Peeping Toms watching us—and I read the rules cover to cover.”
P.D. giggled. “Did you really think they’d take it on faith that the contestants had followed every instruction?”
Elam only grimaced. “Then I guess you and I are going to have to get creative, because I don’t think either one of us is going to be able to wait that long for a little … privacy.”
P.D. opened her mouth to disagree, but she couldn’t. She wasn’t sure if she could keep her hands off Elam another hour, let alone days.
Since there was a queue outside the mercantile, Elam helped her slide the arm garter over her blouse, then she did the same for him, purposely letting her fingers trail over each hollow and bulge of his forearm and bicep. She knew she was playing with fire—especially when his eyes met hers and smoldered from within—but she didn’t care. For the first time she felt his wholehearted response.
P.D. wasn’t sure what had happened to put Elam so at peace with himself, but she was glad. Since he’d laid his feelings on the line, he seemed more at ease than she’d ever seen him, and more … present. As if he was living in the “now” and not preoccupied with the past.
“Next!”
They took their place in front of a balding gentleman dressed like a shopkeeper with a crisp bibbed shirt, arm garters, and a green butcher’s apron. He handed them a stack of gold pieces of cardstock printed to look like coins, and green rectangles labeled WILD WEST BUCKS, as well as an inventory of goods being offered for sale.
“You have exactly twenty minutes to peruse the list of possible supplies that can be found in the mercantile, hardware store, or livery stable. Bottled water will be made available to you at each of the checkpoints, as well as one lunch and ingredients for one dinner, but you’re on your own for the rest. After purchasing your supplies, come back to me so that I can record your time, then report to the starting line in front of the bandstand.” He lifted a stopwatch and said, “Go!”
P.D. didn’t even bother to waste valuable time. “You have more experience in this kind of thing than I do. I’ll get the weapons and ammunition to the bandstand and start taking them out of their cases. Meet me there.”
Elam dodged into the mercantile without even perusing the list. Lifting her skirts, P.D. raced back toward Elam’s family. To her relief, she noted that their guns had already been unpacked and their allotted ammunition for the day loaded into their belts. Helen helped P.D. don her holster, pulling it low on her hips.
“Make sure you drink water whenever you can and take regular breaks from the hikes. It’s supposed to be hot the next few days. You don’t want to get sunstroke.”
Which P.D. quickly translated into: We both know you’re not used to this long-distance stuff, so take it easy.
“Hopefully, I won’t be the first casualty on this adventure.”
Helen looked at a point over P.D.’s shoulder, and then grinned. “Oh, I doubt you’ll be the first. The Butterman twins have entered—and they’re seventy if they’re a day. Besides, it looks like Elam has everything figured out to your advantage.”
P.D. turned to find Elam heading toward her on horseback and immediately most of her nerves fled.
“You got a horse,” she breathed in wonder as he stopped the animal in front of her and dismounted.
“Took more than half our money, but since it was one of several being offered, I figured we could use the advantage.”
“What else did you get?”
“A pan, mess kits, a little feed for the horse, and a few basics for us.” He gestured to the bulging saddlebags and a rolled-up blanket that he’d tied to the back of the saddle. “I kept fifty bucks in reserve just in case they require us to purchase something along the trail.”
When she peeked into the bags, P.D. could see that Elam hadn’t been kidding about only getting a “few basics.” There was a package of jerky, another of dried fruit, canned pork and beans, a compass, a knife, a pan, a can opener, a ball of string, and a pair of fishhooks attached to a scrap of fabric. The other side held a canvas sack labeled OATS, another containing baking mix, a tiny container of salt, and chunk of raw sugar.
Her stomach rumbled at the lack of “real” food. She was used to walking into the cooler of her restaurant and choosing from a plethora of culinary supplies. This didn’t look like enough for a snack, let alone several days.
“Don’t worry,” Elam said next to her ear. “I won’t let you starve.”
“I’ve had your cooking, remember?” she said. “And I don’t see any Cap’n Crunch.”
Elam laughed, sliding a rifle into a side holster below the saddle, then he circled the animal to put the shotgun on the opposite side. After he’d assured himself that the weapons were safely stowed away, he returned to strap on the holsters that Bodey held out to him, while Jace tucked the rest of their ammo into the saddlebags.
“If you’ll give me your keys, I’ll drive your truck back home,” Jace said. “We’ll have it ready for you at the end of the contest.”
P.D. clutched the halter lead, hungrily drinking in the sight of Elam as he tunneled into his pockets and tossed the fob toward his brother. Then he wrapped the leather belt around his hips and tightened the thigh string. At long last, he pulled his hat down tight, buttoned his leather vest, and took the reins.
“Do you want to be in the front or the back?” he asked.
She considered her options, but decided it would probably be easiest for Elam to maneuver if she rode behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“Back.”
Elam swung deftly in the saddle, taking a minute to adjust the angle of the weapons. Then he reached down to her.
P.D. had thought it would be a struggle to get on the gelding with the cumbersome addition of her skirts, but Elam swung her easily onto the mount behind him and waited while she settled on top of the bedroll.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
She wrapped her arms around his taut waist. He laid his own hand over hers, squeezing. Even through his leather gloves she could feel the warmth of his skin.
“All set?” Bodey asked.
“Yeah. We’re good.”
Bodey held up the bag with P.D.’s belongings and Elam tied it around the pommel of the saddle.
“Are you gonna win, Elam?” Barry asked excitedly.
“We’re sure going to try, Barry.”
“Will you bring me back a present?”
“It’s not that kind of trip, Barry. But if I see something in my travels that I know you’ll like, I’ll bring it back to you.”
Barry grinned and said, “All right, Elam! Bring me something good!”
“Are you sure you have everything?” Helen said, snapping open her parasol to shade her eyes from the sun.
P.D. nodded. “As much as we’re able to carry, anyway. Somehow, I don’t think we’ll be lucky enough to keep the horse for the whole trip.”
“Watch out for snakes.”
P.D. had been adjusting her skirts and Helen’s comment made her look up so fast, she startled the horse. “Snakes! Is it snake season? What kind of snakes?”
As the last of the contestants took their places, P.D. could see that at least thirty couples had decided to vie for the ten-thousand-dollar prize. Besides Elam and her, there were several teams on horseback, one with a team and a wagon, and a pair of elderly women who had opted for a carriage.
“They won’t get very far with that if we’re sent into the mountains,” Elam murmured. “There aren’t too many trails wide enough for a buggy.”
From what P.D. could see, she and Elam were definitely traveling the lightest, and she hoped that the tactic would be to their advantage.
From the bandstand, the mayor rang a huge metal triangle with a ball-peen hammer. Immediately, the crowd hushed.
“Do we have all of the contestants at the starting line?”
The mayor was answered by a volley of shouts and whistles. The man, dressed in a top hat, frock coat, and elaborately embroidered vest held up a hand for silence. “Welcome one and all to the first Wild West Games. We hope it will prove to be an annual event.”
Again, he waited politely for the applause and cheers to subside. Then, he said, “I’m sure you’re well aware of the rules and regulations of the contest—after all, you signed your names saying you’d all but memorized them when you plunked down your two-hundred-dollar entry fee.”
Elam glanced over his shoulder. “You paid two hundred dollars to enter?”
She nodded. “Bodey paid his half. He kept telling me that we’d be an unbeatable pair.”
“What do you think now? Think we can win?”
She offered him a slow smile. “Oh, yeah.”
His eyes crinkled at the edges and he turned back to listen to the rest of the mayor’s review of the rules. Finally, after warning them to wear their numbers at all times, and reiterating that they would be monitored throughout the competition—with or without their knowledge—the mayor said, “Please find the envelopes you were given at the Photo Emporium, but keep them sealed for a few minutes longer.”
P.D. pulled the yellow envelope from Elam’s back pocket.
“In your envelopes, you will find a set of instructions to guide you to your first checkpoint. There are a half-dozen versions, so don’t follow your neighbors.”
Like a true professional, the mayor waited for the titter of laughter to fade.
“Remember that over the next few days, you’ll be led over pillar and post. Although you won’t necessarily start at the same point, you’ll all complete a similar course. You may even cross paths with your fellow contestants now and again. Keep to your own clues … and may the best team win.”
With that, the mayor lifted the ball-peen hammer.
“On my mark …” He paused dramatically, then brought his hand sweeping down. “Go!”
The hammer had barely touched the iron when Elam spurred their mount into a gallop. P.D. held on for dear life as the horse sprang into motion in a single bound.
“Open up the envelope, P.D.!”
She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to do that and remain seated, but she finally tore it open with her teeth, then wedged it between their bodies so that she could pull out the paper.
“We’re supposed to find Wilson’s Mill. They’ve only given us a crudely drawn map with some vague compass markings.”
“Which way?”
“West. Near as I can tell, it’s up in the foothills near the service road to the television towers.”
Elam altered their course, urging their mount to even greater speed. P.D. held on tight, pressing her cheek against his back. Even through the layers of his clothing, she could feel the muscles of his shoulders grow taut with his efforts to control the horse.
At first, the terrain was fairly flat, but the ground soon began to rise. Time and time again, Elam found his way blocked by lengths of fences strung with barbed wire. But finally, he located a dirt access road that led into the hills.
“Where to now?”
P.D. had wrapped her arms around him so tightly that the map was crumpled against his waist. Forcing herself to loosen one hand, she peered over his shoulder while Elam squinted from beneath his hat, then surveyed the terrain ahead, adjusting his course south.
“Look for a river, stream, some kind of water. The trees should be thicker near the banks.”
“There!” P.D. pointed to a spot to their right.
Elam reined the horse toward the water, and then, when the foliage proved to be too thick to ride along the bank, he plunged into the middle and began heading upstream.
After a few hundred yards, they were able to see a set of structures up ahead.
“That must be it,” Elam stated.
As they grew closer, they could see that a plywood “water wheel” had been placed next to the river, along with a canvas scrim, which had been painted to look like a small rock building. A sign emblazoned on the side proclaimed, WILSON’S MILL.
Finally, the bank opened up to a shady meadow and Elam was able to spur the horse into a canter toward a pair of officials who waited next to a makeshift hitching post.
Just as the horse was reined to a halt, a flash of movement from the trees caught P.D.’s attention. Turning, she realized that another set of contestants were racing toward them.
“Elam, look!”
They’d barely come to a full stop when Elam reached for her arm. “Hurry and dismount.”
Grasping Elam’s forearm, P.D. slid to the ground. As soon as her feet had touched the earth, Elam slid down beside her.
“Let’s go!”
They raced to the officials, who recorded their time. Then they were handed a sheet of paper with their instructions for the course.
Elam scanned the contents. “We have to chop a log in two, pan for gold in the river, and then complete the shooting stages.”
P.D. had barely digested the sequence of events when Elam took her hand and ran to a set of crossed two-by-fours set up next to the scrim.
“Do you want to go first?”
P.D. shook her head. She needed a minute to get her “land legs” again before she handled an ax.
Elam grabbed the handle, which had been propped up next to a pile of logs. Motioning for P.D. to stand back, he took his stance, then swung the ax in a high arc, burying the blade into the wood.
If they hadn’t been in a hurry to finish as much as possible before the second pair of contestants arrived, P.D. knew she would have thoroughly enjoyed watching Elam work. There was something primitive and inherently male about the bunching of his shoulders and arm muscles as he swung the ax over his head again, and again, and again. The log thumped and shuddered with each strike until, finally, after less than a dozen hacks, the wood splintered and cracked in two.
Handing P.D. the ax, Elam quickly set another log on the stand.
“Think you can handle it?”
P.D. nodded, saying, “Oh, yeah.”
Unbeknownst to Elam, she had plenty of experience cutting wood. One of the main sources of heat in the bus that had served as her childhood home had been an old potbellied stove piped into the back window. Once her parents had found a spot to stay for a few days, a few weeks, a few months, it was P.D.’s job to gather wood and fuel from the surrounding area and light the stove.
Grasping the ax, she planted her feet firmly apart and swung into action.
Although her movements weren’t as powerful as Elam’s, she made good progress, focusing on making the wound larger with each strike of the blade. Soon, her muscles burned with the effort, reminding her that it had been a long time since she’d engaged in this activity. But after only a few minutes, she planted the killing blow and the log plunged to the ground.
She turned to find Elam grinning at her, his hands on his hips—and she was momentarily struck to the core with the
way his joy lit his features in a way that she’d never seen before.
“Brains and brawn,” he said with obvious approval. “Remind me not to tick you off.”
She laughed, propping the ax back where they’d found it.
Next, they rushed to the stream, where another official waited with two shallow metal pans.
“There are small rocks painted gold and hidden somewhere in the sandy bank. You need to find two of them,” the man stated.
Elam grabbed one of the pans. After removing his holster, boots, and socks, he plunged into the water, beginning the search. But P.D.’s shoes proved more cumbersome. Since she was wearing period-inspired boots that laced up past her ankles, it took forever to get them loose enough to remove. Then there were her stockings, which came past her knees. As she bent to roll them down, she noted that Elam was momentarily distracted by her inadvertent striptease.
Finally, after she’d bared her legs, she set her holster next to Elam’s, tucked her skirts into her waistband, and waded into the water.
She hissed when the cool stream hit the heat of her soles, but quickly bending to her task, she scooped up a panful of silt and gravel, swirled it around to investigate what she’d uncovered, then discarded the contents and began again. Behind her, she could hear the thwunk, thwunk of the other team beginning to chop their first log.
She was just bending to scoop up a mound of silt when she saw a dull gleam in the blackness of the mud. Reaching down, she grabbed a handful of slime and rocks, then allowed the moving current to sweep the mud away.
“Aha!” she crowed in delight, holding her palm out to the judge. There, amid the useless rubble, were two golden rocks.
“Done,” the man proclaimed. “Move to the shooting range.”
Elam grabbed her hand, tugging her back up to the bank. Scooping up their belongings, he pulled her toward the last obstacle that remained.
While P.D. rearranged her skirts and donned her holster again, Elam stood barefoot in front of a loading table that marked where they should stand. Metal targets shaped like various woodland animals were arranged in front of a natural berm caused by a rocky jut of land leading down to the stream. An official wearing a huge cowboy hat and furry chaps read from a script.