Chapter Twelve

The dreams came hard that night. John Henry Cole tumbled down into them and everyone was waiting for him. Zee held the shattered head of the dead Confederate boy, his Rebel flag wrapped about him like a bloody shroud. She kissed him delicately on the cheek, just below where the Minié ball had entered. His eyes fluttered and his breath came in gasps. Nearby a cradle carved of cherry wood rocked in the wind. In it he saw his infant son Tad. He could hear gunfire in the forests that surrounded the glade where Zee knelt holding the dead boy. The woods were full of Confederate soldiers. He could hear the Rebels howling, their shrieks causing the tops of the trees to explode with blackbirds. Some strange, powerful jealousy rose in his chest at the sight of Zee holding the boy, at the way she kissed him as though she were his lover. The boy turned his head and looked at him, his gaze a mixture of sadness and pain.

Liddy Winslow was there, too—reclined on a quilt of soft yellow flowers. She called to him, held out her arms. Zee smiled, content to hold the broken child that changed from the dying boy to their son Tad. Without willing it, a force drew him toward Liddy and away from Zee and his son. He knew that he was betraying them, but he could not stop himself from going to Liddy. She was warm and sensuous and he lay down atop her, her arms reaching around, holding him tightly to her. She kissed his mouth over and over again and his passion was on fire for her. But then he turned just enough to see Zee. She was crying, the hurt pouring down her cheeks. She was asking him why he was doing this to her. Why was he being unfaithful to her? And shame overcame him, but he could not bring himself to leave Liddy.

Doc Holliday stepped from the trees dressed in Rebel gray, the sunlight shattering off the brass buttons of his tunic. His right hand was perched inside the gray coat. Cole could see the outline of a pistol against the fabric. His smile was craven as his hand slid from inside the jacket, bringing a pistol with it. Liddy, now naked in Cole’s arms, whispered things to him he could not understand. She clawed at him and thrust her hips against his, oblivious to Doc and the pistol he had pointed at them. Cole could not move, could not escape her or him or the Rebels who suddenly came pouring out of the woods from every direction, their heads bandaged and bleeding, their faces contorted in hatred and pain.

Zee’s long, slow wail of anguish rose from an open grave. He struggled to go to her, to set himself free from Liddy. As he struggled, Liddy became Rose, the girl on the stage, and she was frail against him and she was crying and asking him why he was doing this to her. Why was he hurting her in this way? Then Doc pulled the trigger and the sound shattered the dream.

Cole surfaced from the dream like a drowning man, struggling against the smothering grip of some dark, bottomless river. His lungs ached for wanting air and his heart pounded. He lay there for a long time, waiting for the effects of the dream to subside.

When the world righted itself in his mind again, he made it to the wash basin and pulled water over his face with both hands. His head ached from the wound. He was soaked in sweat; his skin felt hot, feverish. He wanted to crawl out of it. The room was dark, full of stillness, except for his breathing. He didn’t know what time it was. It felt like he was in a tomb. Someone knocked at the door. He didn’t move.

There was another knock.

He withdrew the self-cocker from the holster, then opened the door. He eased the hammer down on the pistol when he saw who it was.

“Miss Winslow.” At least, he thought he said her name. She looked at him.

“Can I come in?” she asked.

He stepped back. She saw the Remington in his hand. He replaced it in the gun belt and lighted the lamp. She stood there, looking about the room.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Well past midnight,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

The flame guttered in the lamp, its yellow tongue of light dancing back and forth as if it were alive, trying to escape its glass cage. The lamp was nearly empty of oil. She was dressed in the same clothes she had been wearing earlier, the cotton blouse and black skirt, only she was wearing a dark blue velvet jacket that was stitched with black beads across the front. Her hair was loose, cascading past her shoulders. Just to look at her took his breath away.

“I don’t have anything to offer you,” he said, looking around the room. “I don’t even have a bottle of whiskey or a glass to pour it in. You’ll have to excuse my accommodations.”

“I didn’t come for a drink,” she said, slipping into the room. She was close enough to him that he could smell her perfume. Then her hands were touching his bare forearms.

He hesitated, then kissed her. Her mouth was as warm and sweet as he had imagined it to be. His fingers weaved themselves into the smooth silkiness of her thick hair. His left arm encircled her waist and she slid her hands to his sides. Her kisses were passionate, full, and he felt his own passion rising out of places he had long forgotten existed.

It felt awkward, eager, but somehow they managed, without letting go of one another, to make it to the bed. His mind raced with questions as to what had changed her resolve from a few hours earlier until now. But they were questions he didn’t want to take time to ask. They didn’t seem important. He unbuttoned the jacket and removed it from her. Then he lifted the cotton blouse over her head and the warmth of her breasts pressed down against his chest. Her hair fell down into his face, a silken shroud, as she leaned over him.

“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” she said, her voice as thick as smoke.

“Let’s not talk.”

Her face closed on his again, her lips brushed the side of his cheek. She kissed the bruise there, and ran the tips of her fingers over his lips, then down across his chest, and down farther still. He shuddered from a deep, deep place. His hands caressed the smooth curve of her back, touched the swell of her hips. Then she stood, removed the skirt and the underskirt, and stood naked before him in the dying, dancing light. She seemed more than his eyes could take.

She knelt before him, took one of his hands into her own, brought it to the side of her face, held it there. Then she looked into his eyes and said: “Is this what you want?”

“Yes.”

He pretended not to see the small flicker of pain behind her eyes when he said yes. She held his gaze for a moment longer, then rose to the bed alongside him and kissed him again, a long, slow kiss that seemed to last forever.

On the bed she moved over on top of him with animal grace and at the same time reached down for him, touching him in a way that caused him to swallow the rush of pleasure it gave him. His hands floated upward, encircling her breasts. The pain from his injuries was numbed by her presence, by the sweet anguish of his passion for her. Her sweetness flowed over him and through him and he finally knew what it was like to stand at the edge of a cliff and jump off and fall freely through the waiting space.

* * * * *

Later, she lay silently in his arms, her breathing even, warm against his chest. Somewhere in the time since she had arrived, the lamp had burned itself out. The only light came from ghostliness of a full moon that crept through the window.

“Tell me about your friend,” Cole said.

She took a long time before she spoke. “Why does it matter to you?”

“I don’t know why it matters. I’d just like to know what sort of man you find interesting enough to share your time with.”

She looked at him, withdrew her face several inches, and stared.

“What sort of man are you?” she asked.

“I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“You asked me what sort of man interests me. What sort of man are you?”

“I meant other than me.”

“If it is a problem for you . . .” she began, but he stopped her by kissing her gently.

“It’s not a problem for me,” he said then. “I’m just curious.”

She waited for a long moment. “His name?” she asked. “Is it his name you want to know, or do you just want to know what he is like?”

“Both.”

She sighed, and her hand rested on his chest. “His name is Winston Stevens.” She added: “He’s English.”

“And probably very handsome.”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

“Rich, no doubt?”

“His family is well off, but if you think that is why . . .”

“No, I was thinking it is just my luck.”

“What is?”

“That’d you be interested in a rich English gentleman.”

“You’re talking foolishness.” She said it half seriously.

“Deadwood is a long way from England.”

“Winston has come here to invest in mining. He seeks to be his own person.”

“Easy enough to do when you have money behind you.”

“You’re being unfair to the man. You don’t even know him.”

Cole started to defend himself. He didn’t think he was being unfair to Winston. He thought he was just calling a spade a spade. But she stopped him by placing her fingertips against his lips. “Do we really have to discuss this?” she asked.

“Of course not. But I wanted to.”

She leaned her face closer to his. “Remember, you wanted to know,” she said.

“Yeah. I had to ask, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did.”

“He’s probably gracious and has good manners, too.”

Her lips brushed the side of his jaw. “All that, yes.”

“Damn, last time it was a Mexican bandit, this time a charming Englishman.”

Her fingers crept across his chest. “What are you talking about, John Henry?”

“Nothing.”

Her body pressed against his, warm and soft, the way a woman’s body ought to be, and the passion reawakened in him.

“Let’s talk about something else,” she suggested.

“No,” he said. “I’m tired of talking.” He pulled her closer.

She floated above him, her hair dangling against his face. He could smell the scent of her, the womanly scent that could drive a man to madness. Her lips brushed his cheek, floated to his chin, then sought his mouth. “Yes, no more talk,” she said.