The sound of Rowena’s footsteps across the kitchen floor warned Dale of her approach before he heard her voice and saw her standing in the doorway. “Success,” she told him with a note of triumph. “Towels. Underclothes. A clean gown.” She dumped the stack of items on the single rickety chair in the bathing room. “There are plenty of blankets, too, not too musty, and the sheets look clean. I’ve opened the windows upstairs to air the bedrooms.”
Dale lifted up the empty cauldron. “I’ll leave you to it.”
After Rowena had closed the door behind him, he stood still in the kitchen, listening. The rustle of clothing. The slosh of water. He knew she was naked in the tub, illuminated only by the warm glow of candlelight, droplets glistening on her skin, her unbound hair tumbling down her shoulders.
He could go inside. I’ll help you wash. We’ll share the bathwater while it’s hot. He could think of a dozen excuses, lighthearted phrases. But there was nothing lighthearted about the ache he felt inside, about the way his body trembled and his blood throbbed.
Unable to give in to the need, equally unable to resist it, Dale stormed out of the kitchen and went outside. The stables and the barn on the other side of the courtyard loomed like giant shadows in the falling darkness. He returned to the vestibule where he’d noticed a storm lantern hanging from a hook on the wall and beneath it matches in a leather pouch. He checked the lamp for oil, found the container full. He took out a match, scraped it against the strip of sandpaper attached to the leather pouch for the purpose and held the flame to the wick.
Using the lamp to illuminate his path, Dale went into the stables. The place smelled of fresh hay and horse liniment. He held the lantern high. A row of stalls on the left. Two loose boxes on the right. Behind him came an angry hissing sound. Alert, Dale whirled around on his feet. His right hand settled on the pistol at his hip. In the lantern light, the eyes of a cat glowed at him, like a pair of burning coals. Dale let out a long, slow sigh. His nerves had to be on edge if a barnyard cat had him reaching for his gun.
Feeling his way forward with cautious steps, Dale inspected the horses in the stalls. In the first, a big bay wagon horse greeted him with an eager whinny. By the looks of him, the horse was so old Rowena might be familiar with the creature. Next, two dun geldings, so alike Dale judged them to share a bloodline.
In the first loose box, a big black stallion bared his teeth and neighed in fury. “It’s all right, boy,” Dale told the animal. “I mean you no harm.”
When he eased closer, the horse kicked the stable wall, then craned over and tried to take a bite out of Dale’s shoulder. “Whoa,” Dale said with a leap back. He held his hand out to the horse and spoke softly. “Easy...easy now.”
Edging past the angry stallion, Dale peeked into the final box, which appeared to be empty. But it was not. A gray mare lay on her side, pregnant belly ballooning before her. Dale glanced back at the stallion and smiled. “So, you were only protecting your lady. But you’d best understand there’s only one master around here, and that’s me.” He released the bolt on top of the gate and slipped into the mare’s enclosure.
The stallion increased his protestations, but Dale ignored him. He hung the lantern on a nail hammered into a rafter and gave his attention to the mare. A week longer, or perhaps two, Dale reckoned, and they’d have a foal. He couldn’t wait to tell Rowena.
“It’s all right, pretty lady...” He ran his hand over the mare’s belly, feeling the new life inside. “I won’t hurt you. When the time comes, I’ll do my best to help.”
He’d only intended to make a brief inspection, but he remained at the stables, letting the mare get accustomed to him—his voice, his scent, the play of shadows on the rough timber walls and the rustle of straw beneath his feet as he moved about—so his presence would not add to the stress of birthing when the time came.
By the time Dale returned to the house, it was pitch-black outside. The wind had stilled and the night chill had fallen. Shivering in his shirtsleeves, Dale made his way across the yard, using the lantern to illuminate the ground before his feet.
The kitchen was quiet, the lamps burning low.
“Rowena?” he called out. When there was no reply, he inched open the door to the bathing room. Steamy heat enveloped him. The candles had been extinguished, but the tub was full, soapsuds floating on the surface. He lowered the lantern to the floor and dipped his fingers into the water. Still lukewarm.
At first, Dale assumed Rowena had lacked the strength to tip out the water, but then he noticed the pile of clean towels and clothing arranged on the rickety wooden chair. She’d left the water for him, Dale realized. It caused an odd stirring within him. In all his adult life, no one, apart from a paid servant, had ever looked after his comfort and welfare.
Wasting no time, he stripped naked, sank into the water and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. His earlier hesitation about forging a future with Rowena seemed foolish now. Tonight, and all the nights to follow, filled his imagination with visions that made his body respond. Impatient to join his wife, impatient to turn those mental images into reality, Dale scrubbed himself clean with soap and a piece of coarse linen cloth.
Water cascading down his body, he pushed up to his feet and hastily dried himself. Puzzled, he examined the clothing she’d left for him. A tent? A curtain? No, an old-fashioned man’s nightgown in thick, unbleached cotton. With a grin, Dale tossed the garment back onto the chair. He’d rather sleep naked.
With only a towel wrapped around his waist, he picked up the storm lantern from the cement floor and set off, barely pausing to extinguish the lamps in the kitchen before continuing upstairs. He’d not seen the bedrooms yet, and he surveyed his surroundings, mentally reviewing the layout of the house.
Three doors, leading to three bedrooms. And all of them closed. None of them open in invitation. But in a cold climate one was wise to avoid drafts.
He opened the first door, held the lantern high. A small bedroom, filled with a jumble of furniture and trunks. He closed the door quietly, tried the room across the hallway. A large bedroom, uncluttered, furnished with a mirror-fronted armoire and two matching chests and an enormous bed—a bed with no one in it.
His heart was pounding now with impatience, with anticipation. He closed the door too quickly, and the sharp click disturbed the quiet of the night. Dale came to a halt. He chuckled, a wry note of amusement at his schoolboy eagerness, but the nervous quality of the sound betrayed his unease.
Edgy, he went to the final door at the end of the hallway. It opened to a serene, feminine room with gauzy drapes in the window and a matching set of simple, white-painted furniture. And, in the small bed, his wife slept, curled up beneath a patchwork quilt.
It was a girl’s room. The room she must have occupied before leaving home. And like a homing pigeon, she’d returned to her own room, to her own bed. A bed that did not have enough space for two.
Standing in the doorway, Dale held the lantern high. He saw the rosy glow on her cheeks, the slight rise and fall of the patchwork quilt with her calm, even breathing. She must be exhausted after the journey, after all the topsy-turvy changes in her life. He ought to let her sleep. A gentleman did not rouse a lady from her rest to satisfy his physical needs.
As Dale let his eyes linger on Rowena’s sleeping form, a wave of warmth swept over him. He felt breathless, his chest constricted. He ached to hold her, nothing more than to hold her, have her slender body curl up against him. He could pick her up and carry her to the big bed without waking her. Surely, he could do just that?
But the unease that had been growing inside him sharpened. He could feel the shadows of violence flickering in his mind. The presence of soldiers, the reunion with Major Parks, the expectation of a battle with squatters, they had all served to stir up the memories, and his finely tuned nerves warned him that a nightmare hovered on the edge of his consciousness.
He turned around on bare feet and returned to the big bed that had no one in it.
But all too soon, it became crowded. When the nightmare came, it spun Dale back in time, into a dusty red desert canyon where he stood hidden behind a boulder, waiting for his executioners to arrive. Roy Hagan and Celia had already made their escape, with Roy draped across the saddle, so badly wounded it would be a miracle if he survived. But Dale had insisted on staying behind, willing to sacrifice his life to give his friend a chance to get away to safety.
Riders thundered up. Guns roared. Dale could feel the bullets slam into his flesh. He could feel the heat, the dust, the brightness of the sun, a jumble of sensations, a cacophony of sounds, men shouting, horses neighing, bullets ricocheting from the rocks.
The battle noises faded away, and he lay sprawled in the dust. He could feel a bullet in each leg. In his left arm. In his side. And he’d broken his right arm when he tumbled down from the rocks. The pain enveloped him, like a dark curtain that dulled the rays of the midday sun that reached the canyon floor.
Dimly, Dale became aware of sounds. The scrape of footsteps on gravel, easing toward him. Voices, muffled and cautious. He kept his eyes closed and remained still.
“You reckon he’s dead?”
“I’ll check.”
Dale cracked his eyes open. The canyon walls rose around him, the sky a blue ribbon above. He tried to lift his gun, but a boot stamped over his forearm.
“Lookit—he’s still trying to fight.”
Dale felt a kick in his side and the silver-decorated pistol was wrenched from his hand. One of the outlaws found the other matching pistol Dale had dropped when the bullet struck his arm. The outlaw toyed with the revolvers, spinning them back and forth. When he got tired of showing off, he pointed the barrels at Dale’s head and cocked the hammers.
Unwilling to let his killers have the satisfaction of watching the final spark of life fade away, Dale closed his eyes. But no sound of gunshot came, no slam of a bullet against his skull. Instead, pain exploded in his right leg. Then left leg. Biting back a scream of agony, Dale opened his eyes. The outlaws were circling him, delivering kicks.
“His legs are busted. Both of them.”
“I’ll shoot him. It will be an act of mercy. Like shooting a crippled horse.”
“Patience, my friend.” One of the outlaws poked at the gunshot wound in Dale’s left arm with the tip of his knife. Dale stifled a moan. The man tugged at Dale’s right arm so hard the broken bones crunched. “Both his arms are busted, too.”
Even in the dream, the pain overwhelmed Dale. He longed for a drink of water, but he knew they wouldn’t give him any, so he chose not to let them have the victory of hearing him beg.
“Step out of the way,” one of the outlaws ordered his companions. “I’m gonna shoot him. I’m gonna shoot the sumbitch with his own fancy shootin’ irons.”
Another man slanted him a sly glance. “Why bother? An act of mercy, you said. Why not leave him to die a slow death? He can’t move. We’ve taken his guns. He can’t defend himself and he won’t have the means to end his life. If we haul the other bodies away, he’s the only thing left for the buzzards. Look—” the man gestured toward the sky “—they are waiting to start their feast.”
Dale could see the battle of conflicting desires in their expressions. The prospect of greater cruelty, compared against the instant satisfaction of watching him die. Undecided, one of the outlaws turned around and spoke to another man partly hidden by the rocks.
“Halloran, what do you reckon?”
At this point in the dream, Dale always felt a flicker of hope. Halloran, a stocky, brown-haired man with a wife hidden away in some quiet town, was one of the few decent ones in the Red Bluff Gang. But the hope always died before it could take hold. What could Halloran do, except prolong his suffering?
“I reckon it’s a fine idea.” Halloran spoke with a carefully controlled air of indifference. “Let Hunter die slow, Indian style. The buzzards will go for his eyes first. The coyotes, too, will find him. It might be fun to come back tomorrow and see how much of him there’s left.”
Dale saw a glint of gold as Halloran pulled a coin from his pocket, tossed it in the air and caught it in his fist. “I bet ten dollars he lives until noontime tomorrow.”
The other outlaws grinned. “You’re on.”
Dale gritted his teeth. They would leave him for the scavengers. He listened to the outlaws arguing who should fetch the horses picketed down the canyon. Halloran gave a piercing whistle, and a moment later Dale heard the clip of hooves.
Halloran spoke in that same casual tone. “I reckon I have the right to improve the odds a mite, since I’ve saved us a walk to get the horses.”
He went to his sorrel, took down a canteen, walked over to Dale and uncapped the canteen. Sympathy flickered across the older man’s features as he slipped one arm behind Dale’s head to lift him up and tipped the canteen to his mouth. Dale drank. Even in the dream, he could feel the cool water sliding down his throat, reviving him. After lowering him down again, Halloran gave him a small, comforting squeeze on the shoulder and propped the canteen on the ground beside him.
Dale moved his lips. Halloran leaned closer.
“Hide,” Dale whispered. “Soldiers will come.”
Halloran gave the briefest of nods to indicate that he had understood, and then he straightened on his feet and returned to his horse.
“What about the girl and Roy Hagan?” one of the outlaws asked, grouchy and irritable. “Shouldn’t we go after them?”
Dale spoke up, startling the men. “Hagan’s dead. The girl took the body. Wanted to bury him proper, have a grave to cry over. Women are like that.”
The outlaw gave a cackling laugh. “There won’t be nothing left of you to bury after the buzzards and coyotes have finished with you, and there sure won’t be no woman to cry over your grave.”
After collecting the dead bodies, the outlaws got on their horses and set off down the trail toward their canyon hideout. When the sounds of their departure had faded away, Dale gave up fighting the pain. Twilight fell, and the buzzards circled lower in the sky, and loneliness closed around him, deeper than he had ever known.
Let me wake up. Let me be free of past suffering. I’m not alone anymore.
The hazy fragments of consciousness pierced Dale’s sleep, but the nightmare did not release its grip. In the dream, darkness surrounded him. Pain seared his left cheek. He could smell a hot, rancid breath on his face, could feel something lurking in the shadows beside him. His body throbbed with agony, but he put all his energy into moving his left arm, the one not broken.
His muscles obeyed his will, and despite the pain of the gunshot wound high up near his shoulder, his arm rose from the ground. He fisted his hand and took a swipe into the darkness that surrounded him. “Git!”
The animal growled, scurried away. Dale lifted his hand to inspect his face. His left cheek hurt, as if someone had taken a knife to it. Gently, he touched his fingertips to the skin, found a ragged gash, like a flap torn open. Nausea welled up in his throat. He’d expected to die tonight, but not like this, not like a carcass, with scavengers fighting over him.
The beast crept closer again. Stars glittered in the sky, and somewhere out of sight the moon must be shining, for a faint light reached down into the canyon. Dale could see the outline of the coyote and a pair of yellow eyes glowing in the darkness. Snarling, the predator flattened its lean body against the ground, preparing to lunge.
If only he had a gun. Coyotes were solitary animals, not like wolves, inclined to hunting in packs, and he could only see one of them, easily dispatched with a bullet. Moving his left arm again, Dale searched the ground for a stone. His fingers met the strap of the canteen.
He curled his hand over the leather strap and tensed his muscles. When the coyote pounced, Dale flung the canteen at the beast. Water arched in the air, like a silver rainbow. Too late did he remember that to make drinking easier for an injured man Halloran had left the canteen uncapped.
The blow connected, and the coyote leaped back with a yelp. Gritting his teeth against the agony of motion, Dale slumped back to the ground. He drew short, swift breaths, staring into the darkness, searching for that pair of yellow, glowing eyes.
A few minutes later, the coyote launched another attack, and Dale deflected it with a blow from the canteen. The fight acquired a pattern of retreat and advance, like a military campaign. As the night hours wore away, Dale pitted his stamina and patience against that of the coyote, the precious water spilling out of the canteen with each swing, going to waste.
Half-delirious, Dale let his mind wander. Had he been wrong to accept the deal his mother had brokered with President Arthur, to cooperate with the law in exchange for a pardon? No, he told himself. He had become an outlaw against his will, forced into hiding after he’d avenged the murder of his sister. He had never killed a man who didn’t deserve killing. Other men in the Red Bluff Gang in similar circumstances, such as Roy Hagan and Burt Halloran, would also be recommended for a pardon.
By the time the first hint of gray eased the darkness in the sky, Dale could feel a fever setting in. He shivered, alternately hot and cold. His body felt too exhausted to register pain. All his concentration went to watching the coyote and swinging the canteen.
I’m already a dead man, he had told Roy Hagan’s woman, Celia, when he’d sent her along the trail to safety, with Roy barely clinging to life. Only he hadn’t expected that dying would involve so much pain.
His arm grew heavier and heavier. The coyote, emboldened by the weakness of its opponent, snapped and snarled, biting at Dale’s feet and legs where the canteen didn’t reach. Soon the leather of his boots gave way and the sharp teeth of the animal tore at his flesh.
It was only a matter of time now.
Come midday, Halloran would lose his bet.
Sometimes, the nightmare went on and on, the coyote biting chunks out of him, until he turned into a skeleton. Sometimes, Dale woke up in the middle of the battle, shaking, covered in icy sweat, his breath rasping in his lungs. At other times, he held the coyote at bay until dawn crept over the canyon and the steady drumming of hoofbeats in the distance announced the arrival of the soldiers who would rescue him.
In tonight’s nightmare, dawn came, and he could feel the ground vibrating beneath him with the approach of cavalry troops marching in an orderly procession. But no column of riders in blue uniform emerged from the opposite end of the canyon. It was a girl in a green gown, sitting on a big chestnut quarter horse, her hair flowing like a mahogany-colored cloak down her shoulders.
Rowena came awake in stages. Lifting her head from the pillow, she studied her surroundings. In the faint glow of moonlight through the window she could see a white-painted chest...a striped rug...an oval mirror on a stand.
Familiarity enveloped her, comforting and safe.
But then a muffled cry cut through the quiet of the night, and the sense of safety shattered, with the present sweeping aside the childhood memories. Quickly, she got out of bed and tiptoed into the corridor wearing only a thin cotton nightgown.
Why hadn’t Dale awoken her when he came upstairs? She’d only planned to lie down in her old bedroom for a moment, for it hadn’t seemed right to settle in her father’s big bed alone. She’d wanted to let Dale claim the role of the master of the house, make that large bedroom his and then invite her to share it with him.
For a long moment, Rowena stood outside the closed door, irresolute. Did her husband wish to keep his restless dreams private? Was she intruding?
“Next time you hear me moan in my sleep just turn away, or throw something at me to make me wake up.”
Surely, those words gave her permission to enter.
Gingerly, she turned the brass knob and eased the door open. On this side of the house, the moonlight did not reach into the room, and the dark rosewood furniture deepened the shadows.
She crept closer to the bed. Dale lay on his back, the bedclothes in disarray. His face seemed deathly pale, his expression grim. The coal-black hair formed a stark contrast against the white linen sheets, making the whole scene appear monochrome, drained of color.
Rowena leaned over him, uncertain how to best awaken him. Without warning, Dale swung his arm in a wide circle, nearly hitting her. The bedclothes slipped aside, exposing him to the waist. Even in the dim light, Rowena could make out the scars that crisscrossed his chest—scars she had already seen on their wedding night, but now a baffled thought flashed through her mind.
He said the coyote went for his legs...
She brushed aside the inconsistency of it, for Dale gave another one of those tortured cries. His arm rose again. This time Rowena was prepared and kept out of the range of that swinging fist.
When Dale had slumped back to the mattress again, she sank to her knees beside the bed. She could hear his labored breathing, could see his body trembling with the tension and fatigue of the nightmare. She curled her fingers around his shoulder. Beneath her touch his skin felt feverish and damp with perspiration.
“Dale... Dale...” She shook his shoulder and spoke in an urgent whisper, a compromise between attempting to pull him out of the nightmare and trying not to startle him. “Wake up...wake up... Dale, wake up.”
He shuddered. His eyelids lifted. For a few endless seconds, he stared at her, unblinking. A look of confusion flickered across his face, as if he couldn’t tell if she was real, couldn’t tell where the nightmare finished and the reality began.
“You had a bad dream,” she told him softly. “I think it was the one with a coyote. You were swinging your arm.”
“Sorry...to trouble you.”
“It’s all right,” Rowena replied. Without thinking, she lifted her hand and smoothed the tangle of straight, jet-black hair away from his brow. “It’s all right,” she told him, and the words gained a wider meaning. She spoke with a confidence she had never felt before, her wish to heal and comfort ignoring the bonds of reason, rising above the realm of possibilities.
“I’m here now.” She bent closer to him, her fingers sliding through his hair. “The coyote has gone away, and I won’t let him come back. I won’t let him get at you again.”
Dale made a harsh sound, something between an exhale and a groan. He reached out for her and pulled her toward him, his hands curled around her upper arms, tugging so hard she heard a seam rip in her nightgown.
Ignoring the mishap, Rowena climbed in beside him. When she lay facing him, Dale wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. He crushed her to his chest with such fierceness that for an instant she felt trapped, but she overcame the flare of panic. She’d offered to shield him against the nightmare, to be the force that anchored him to reality, and she must keep her promise. Instead of struggling to be free, she slipped her slender arms around him and clung to him, their bodies so closely fused that despite the barrier of her nightgown she could feel the pounding of his heart, the urgent rise and fall of his chest, the uneven texture of his scarred skin.
His arms around her eased their hold a fraction. His hands fisted behind her back and shifted in a quick series of motions, separating and joining. She heard tearing sounds, and then there was no more nightgown, only ragged strips of fabric that fell away to tangle with the bedclothes.
Dale spoke in a hoarse growl. “I need... I have to...”
With no further warning, he edged backward along the mattress, so he could pull her into the center of the bed. It felt a bit like dancing, the flat of his palm pressed across the small of her back, urging her toward him. When he had her where he wanted, he slid one knee between hers to nudge her legs apart and rolled on top of her.
He paused to look into her eyes. “Do you mind?”
“No,” she replied. In truth, she didn’t know if she should acquiesce or not. Her single experience of a physical union on their wedding night might not have prepared her for what would take place next. But it was too late for misgivings, for he entered her in one swift, powerful thrust. There was no pain, only that startling sensation of having something inside her that she remembered from before.
Braced up on his arms, Dale began moving over her in deep, rhythmic strokes that had her sliding against the mattress. His expression was fierce, his brows furrowed in concentration, his mouth flattened into a determined line.
She should have been frightened of his grim mood and the ferocity of his need—a need that he did not even try to rein in and control—but it was not fear that made her heart pound and her body quicken. Acting by instinct, she wrapped her legs around his waist, tilting her hips toward him, inviting him deeper inside her.
At first, when Dale felt her anchoring him into place like that, he ceased his motion. For an instant, he remained absolutely still. Then he lowered his head and pressed a rough, hungry kiss on her lips. It was over in seconds. Then he straightened his arms again and resumed his motion, even more forceful than before.
As they rocked together in their coupling, his eyes held hers, intense in the darkness of the room. Rowena had a sudden sense of falling, of weightlessness. Emotions that seemed too frightening to accept, yet too powerful to fight, soared inside her. In an effort to block out those emotions, she closed her eyes.
“Open your eyes, Rowena.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t.”
“Yes,” he told her. “You can. And you will.”
He thought she was talking about a physical release. She gave her head a tiny shake, her hair tumbling against the pillow. “I won’t...”
“Look at me, Rowena.”
She couldn’t resist the demand in his voice. She opened her eyes. Poised above her, Dale nodded his approval, and then he bent his arms and gave her another one of those quick, fierce kisses.
“Don’t close your eyes,” he said, and drove himself to completion.
It was thunder and lightning, and it was glorious, even if she didn’t achieve any of those rolling waves of pleasure he’d given her on their wedding night. When Dale finally arched above her, his body taut, his face stark, Rowena clung to him and shared the sensations of his release.
When it was over, Dale slumped against her, his weight pinning her to the mattress, his face pressed to the crook of her neck. Rowena could feel the warmth of his breath, could feel the faint tremors that continued to ripple through his body, and she took pride in having brought him comfort, in having chased away the nightmare.
“Sorry,” he muttered, his lips grazing her ear.
“There is no reason to apologize.”
He ignored her reassurances. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
Slowly, his breathing calmed and the last of his tremors faded away. With a sigh, he shifted his weight off her and let his body relax against hers. When he didn’t speak again, Rowena thought he had fallen asleep, but Dale proved her wrong by lifting his head and brushing a gentle kiss on the crest of her cheek.
For what seemed like hours, they lay like that, side by side, his palm resting on her chest and his leg thrown across hers, his face buried in her hair. Every now and then he stirred, for another soft kiss, always in a different location...her shoulder...the shell of her ear...the edge of her collarbone...the corner of her mouth...the wispy curls at her temple.
Afraid of her own emotions, Rowena accepted those small caresses but offered none in return. If she didn’t watch out, she would fall in love with him. Every day, every night, he would gain a little more of her, leaving her a little less, making her happiness a little more dependent on him. And whatever other challenges her marriage might bring, she could not bear the thought of loving and not being loved in return.