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Sawing at the reins, Michael pulled his gasping horse up short.
“Hands up. Both of you.” A lawman rode into view, his gun gripped tight in his right hand. “Lawson?” he shouted into the trees. His light gray eyes scanned their faces; his well-trimmed mustache twitched.
A second lawman appeared, a long rifle shoved to the back of three of the other riders. “Got three of ’em,” he said.
The first lawman glanced at the approaching group. “Where’d that slimy one get off to?”
Lawson didn’t flinch in his reply. “Don’t know. He gave me the slip.”
A curse word flew from the lawman’s lips. “What’s your name, son?” he asked Michael. “You’re young to be with this sorry bunch.”
Michael’s stomach contents pushed into his throat. He couldn’t possibly give his real name; he was a wanted man. “Michael ... Odom,” he finished.
Anne stiffened.
“Odom,” the lawman repeated. “You look familiar. Odom, huh? Lawson, this one look familiar to you?”
Lawson altered his gaze from the others. “Can’t say, Sheriff. Maybe. Seems like with those eyes we’d recognize him, but maybe not.”
Anne folded her fingers into his, a measure of comfort, but still, Michael floundered.
“Who’s the girl?” The Sheriff inclined his head to Anne.
“My ... my wife.” His chest tight, Michael fought to breathe. This wasn’t happening. They couldn’t possibly figure out who he was and send him back to New York.
His face impassive, the Sheriff pursed his lips. Riding forward, he pressed his gun to Chief’s skull. “This is the one we’re after. Thought you’d get out of town with the judge’s money, huh?”
A grin edged onto Chief’s mouth, his mustache trembling. “Didn’t steal it. Won it.”
The Sheriff cocked the hammer on his gun. “I know about your kind of winning. Those cards were marked. I told you not to come back here and play your games. This is gonna be a pleasure.”
He refocused on Michael. “Who are they to you?”
Michael clenched his hands on the reins, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
“Why, he’s my nephew.” Ferguson’s gravelly voice emerged from the trees. He leveled his gun at the Sheriff and gave a tremendous laugh.
Lawson whirled, his rifle re-aimed at Ferguson.
“Wouldn’t do that if’n I was you,” Ferguson said. “I got me an itchy finger.”
The Sheriff motioned toward Lawson. “Put it down,” he said.
Clearly reluctant, Lawson lowered the gun to his lap.
“Tell me, son ...” The Sheriff flicked his gaze toward Michael. “This worth it to you?”
“My nephew remains loyal to his good ol’ uncle,” Ferguson replied in his stead. He signaled the other men. “Take their guns. Strip ‘em of their shoes, and march them into the marsh. Send the horses runnin’.”
“Tell me,” the Sheriff said. His shoes sailed into the water with a plunk. “It’s not like you to bring along a female. What’re you up to?”
“Why, my nephew here’s in love,” Ferguson cawed. “He insisted she ride along. Cain’t separate them, and I just couldn’t bear to break the poor boy’s heart.”
His eyes sparkled, lighting a black glow in Michael’s gut.
The Sheriff and his deputy slogged into the mud at gunpoint, quickly sinking chest deep, and one of the others slapped the horses’ rumps, sending them galloping into the distance.
Ferguson holstered his weapon and spun his horse around. “We ride!” he shouted.
Michael readjusted his arms around Anne’s slumped figure as she sank further in the saddle. When Ferguson had said they’d “ride”, he’d meant it, and nonstop, to the point of sheer exhaustion, both men and horses had pushed ahead, putting as much distance as possible between them and the lawmen.
The rumor that Ferguson rode with J.E.B. Stuart in the Confederacy proved itself in his mind. He’d heard the stories of Stuart’s famous rides during the war, already the stuff of legend. Completely circumnavigating the Union army, he’d once taken his cavalry some 150 miles in only three days.
Michael’s horse wheezed and snorted, and he clucked his tongue, encouraging her on. There was no help for it, she had to keep moving.
Anne stirred and tried to straighten in the saddle. “I’m getting good at doing that.” She gave a groan.
He chuckled. “Yes, you are.”
“You think this is some nightmare and we’re both dreaming?” she asked. “We’re on an endless ride to nowhere?”
“You know what I love?” Michael interrupted her thoughts. “Leprechauns.”
Laughter bubbled from her lips. “Leprechauns? Surely you don’t believe in little green men.”
Anne felt the twinkle in his eyes without turning around. “That’d be like if I believed in the skunk ape, which I do not.”
“The skunk ape?” Michael’s breath blew warm in her ear.
She readjusted his hat on her head, one hand remaining atop to hold it in place. “It’s some creature, half man-half ape that people say they see in the swamp. I think if there was such a thing, we’d have proof of it by now.”
“But I’ve met a leprechaun,” he replied.
She swiveled to see his face. He was fooling, given his amused expression, but she played along. “You’ve met one?”
“Aye, me lassie. It wus early wan mornin’ as de sun rose.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip to smother a laugh. “And what was he doing?”
“Why 'oldin’ a craic a gauld.”
Her giggles escaped, tears of joy misting her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
Silence returned. The creaks and clanks of the group once again filled her ears, and for all the happiness she’d had moments ago, her worries about him formed a lump in her throat.
What did he hide from her? He’d given the sheriff a false name. Perhaps, that made sense. But then again, it didn’t. Unless he had a reason to hide, he could have gotten them out of this mess by speaking up, yet he hadn’t. Hearing him stumble, feeling his pulse race beneath her fingers, the truth dug at her. Michael had a secret, a painful one.
It wasn’t any business of hers, nor did she know why she cared so much, except for how it affected their days. That was logic speaking, though. There was far more to her feelings on the matter.
A voice in her head begged her to listen. Admit it, Anne, you love him.
She dug her fingers into the horse’s side. Loving Michael O’Fallen was complicated. He hadn’t repeated his declaration or tried to kiss her again. However, he really didn’t have to say anything because she saw it in his eyes. He loved her as sure as the earth sat beneath them.
“Do you love me?” she asked. She would hear him say it.
He didn’t respond, and she pressed forward. “If you love me, then tell me what you’re running from.” But with her question, she knew she might be asking too much of their relationship.
“Do you love me?”
He reformed her question, and her stomach knotted. Now, he asked too much of her.
“I asked you first,” she whispered. She swallowed her regret, a wall erecting between them. He wanted those words from her, but she couldn’t say them. For in saying those three words, she’d commit herself to this, to him, and that was the trouble.
She’d said the vows – to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, ‘til death do them part. She’d said them, though, with a gun at her back and a stranger’s hand in hers. By admitting she loved him, the words took on meaning and held requirements. It meant she’d stay by his side always and maybe never see her family again. She became responsible to him.
A tear rolled down her cheek. She swiped it away.
Michael cleared his throat. “I love you, Anne. My question is, why you don’t love me back?”
Her heart tore from her chest.
The Sheriff fell into his desk chair, his gaze on his muddy clothing. Wasn’t this a fine mess? He peeled his shirt from his chest with a grunt and clods of soil crumbled to the floor.
They’d spent all night and many miles catching their horses. No easy feat over the uneven landscape without boots. They’d been forced to sleep on the open ground without any warmth or victuals.
He winced at the pain in his heels.
When they’d ridden into town, their disheveled appearance drew the curiosity of the locals. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of swamp and sweat and filth.
The Sheriff swept his hand across the desk, filtering through the latest fliers. The young man’s face continued to bother him, even after Ferguson and his crowd made their escape. The boy didn’t fit in with them, and he’d looked real nervous. Plus, there was the girl to consider. He’d called her his wife, and she’d held his hand tight, displaying a gold ring, so maybe that was true. Nevertheless, something wasn’t quite right with the picture.
His deputy met his gaze. “You’re thinking about the kid,” he remarked.
The Sheriff nodded. He and Lawson had been together long enough they often read each other’s minds. “He didn’t want to be there, that’s for sure. Problem I’m having is where I’ve seen his face. It’s not on any of these.” He waved toward the fliers.
“He doesn’t talk like a Southerner,” the deputy responded.
The Sheriff tilted his head. No, he didn’t. “Good observation.”
The deputy tipped his hat. “I think he sounded more like my family in New York. Too bad the girl didn’t speak, but she looked more like she’s from here. She’s been in the sun some.”
He’d noticed that, too. So they were from different places. What did that mean? He sighed and rubbed his hand across the top of his head. “Guess we should both go home and clean up. Nobody’s in the jail today, so I’ll lock the door for a while.”
Lawson nodded and rose from his chair. “I’ll come back this evening so you can print up a flier for that fellow, Chief. Snaky fellow,” he added.
“I’d like to get my hands on the other one, Ferguson” the Sheriff spoke to the back of his head. “He’s caused me enough trouble over the years, yet he always slips away.”
The Sheriff’s bare feet scuffed over the wooden floor. Reaching for his keys, his gaze rested on a newspaper curled in the trash. A headline leapt off the page: Tragedy Hits Our Own.
He paused and lifted the paper, scanning an article from a New York newsprint several months old. Lawson was always receiving the news from up north.
Spreading the page open between his hands, his blood rushed at the sight of a small drawing placed in the upper corner of the page. The drawing depicted a young man wearing a thick coat and a knitted cap. Beneath it the caption read: Irish mob kills one of its own.
He thunked the page with his knuckles. “I’ll be,” he whistled. “I knew I’d seen him.”
But Irish mob? He slouched against the wall. What would the Irish mob be doing here in the middle of nowhere? And what were their ties to Ferguson? He tucked the paper beneath his elbow and wandered out the door.
Michael cradled Anne's head in the crook of his arm as she dismounted. His hat fell off her head, landing upside-down in the dust. Seven days in the saddle, infrequent meals, and lack of rest was taking a toll on her and that pained him.
This was no way for them to live.
A light breeze purred through the trees, rustling the scaly branches of a willow tree. Laying her down at its base, he returned to retrieve his hat. He stooped for it, his fingers brushing the brim, but a foot landed atop with a crunch. His face enflamed, and he shoved the offender backward.
Shouts and cheers arose from the crowd of men. "Get 'em, Chief!" “You can do it!” “Pound him!” “Don’t take that!”
Chief leaped to his feet, his bald head flushed.
Michael’s tongue got the better of him. "What's the matter? You afraid of little old me?”
With a roar, Chief swung one arm, his fist landing square on Michael’s nose.
Michael reeled from the solid thud, a shower of blood spurting onto his shirt. He shook his head to clear it and raised his fists. He’d misjudged.
"Pretty boy hurt his nose?" Chief taunted. He aimed again for Michael. But too much drink and his rapid forward motion sent him crashing face-first into the dirt.
Michael’s frustration boiled over, and he emitted a growl. How much was he supposed to take? Until he was no longer human? He hauled back his boot and slammed the toe into Chief’s ribs. "Take that, you sorry piece of trash," he snarled. All of them not worth living. Enraged, he kicked again, his satisfaction rising at the solid impact.
"And this is for ruining my hat,” he said. He kicked once more, the blow pushing a whuft of air from Chief’s lips. "And this is for messing up my shirt." He pounded him again.
He didn’t have to take this anymore.
And again.
Ferguson would know how he felt.
And again. And again.
"Michael! Don't do this." Grabbing his arms, Anne hauled him back, and the weight of her awakened him from his red haze. Michael looked down at Chief’s battered body.
Laughter bubbled from Ferguson’s breath. "Well now, all that for a hat. Temper like that, it's no wonder you ended up here.”
Anne’s brows knitted together. "Michael?"
"Shhh," he hissed. "Come." Weariness settling onto his limbs, he dragged her away.
"It's not important. Forget it. I'm sorry I upset you."
Anne stared at Michael in disbelief. How could he dismiss it? He’d beaten a man to a pulp, and she’d seen his expression at the time, the anger and hatred. What else did he hold inside?
Michael tucked her against him, shutting his eyes and, it seemed, his heart as well. She listened to his breathing, swishing in and out, her mind more and more uneasy. Ferguson would destroy him, and nothing was worth that. Michael was a good man, who deserved better. He deserved happiness.
He deserved ... her.
Her insides twisted. She wanted him, as her husband, as the father of her children. Children? She glanced up at Michael. Had she really thought that?
She could talk to Ferguson, beg him to leave them be. But Ferguson never listened to Michael, so why would he listen to her? Just the same, maybe if she gave him whatever it was he wanted, he’d let them go. They could go home, make a life together.
Michael stilled, and gingerly, she slipped away. She steadied her hands at her sides and ignored the pounding in her chest.
She looked across the diminishing fire at Ferguson's back. He’d curled in upon himself next to the others, swigging at his ever-present bottle of whiskey. The firelight cast strange shapes around him.
She forced her steps forward. She could do this. Her approach garnered the attention of the group. Their heads turning, they licked their chops, dogs slavering at the sight of a bone.
"I’d speak with you," she said.
Ferguson glanced upward, his eyes alight. He took a long drag at the bottle, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "Well, ain't you brave?" he jeered, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He glanced behind her through the firelight. "Your man won’t like you talkin’ to me.” He grunted, his breath rattling in his throat.
"It’s him I wish to speak of." Anne’s stomach contents shoved upwards.
Ferguson dug his hands into his shirt, expelling a vile, unwashed scent. "He needs you defendin' him?"
She swallowed and forged ahead. "Please leave him alone.”
"Well, now." He tilted his head. "That’s sweet of you."
Anne scowled, her tongue loosened. "You foul, evil, horrible man! You’re trying to ruin him. You can’t force us to do what we would not.”
His hand snaked forward, and Ferguson gripped her ankle, tugging her into the dirt. "Only thing gonna be forced on you is me, if'n you and he don't get on with it." He snarled, spittle flying from his lips.
She struggled in his grasp. "Why? Why does it matter what we do? We’re of no importance to you."
His face grew cold, icy. "The boy brings me money.”
"He brings you money?"
"He brings me money, and I imagine I can get a pretty price for you as well." His scaly fingers slid up her sleeve.
She shrunk back. But the other men leaned in, feverish, their hands groping, snatching at her shirt, her legs. She squealed and reversed from the group on her bottom until the heat from the fire scalded her skin.
Ferguson followed. He grasped her breast, the claw of his fingers surging vomit into her throat. Her vision clouded, she smashed at him with one hand. He howled with laughter, the harsh sound drowning out the rush of blood in her ears.
Seething, she spat in his eye, and the spittle, slimy, bubbling, slid down his cheek.
He exploded and dragged her forward, bashing her head on the ground. "I believe I'll have me some," he said. Yanking her hair in his fist, he tilted her head backwards and pressed his mouth to hers.
She beat and slapped at his face, digging her nails into his cheek. Rancid, sour, he tasted like death.
In his next breath, he flung her away. "Get back to your man,” he snarled, “and leave me be.”
Anne raced across the ground, the aroma of Ferguson pervading her senses. She tasted his mouth again, felt the press of his fingers. At the same time, she remembered Michael’s kiss, how wonderful it was, and the hard feel of his muscular limbs, the sweet taste of his tongue.
How had she not seen what she had, the wonderful man she’d been given? She could be wed to anyone, someone cruel and hateful, someone who mistreated her, but instead, she had Michael.
Falling at his side, longing arose within her to destroy every last trace of Ferguson. She roused Michal, placing a hand on his cheeks, and eager, dragged his face to hers. She begged for release with her lips, and he responded, eager, the flick of his tongue scoring her senses. Crushing herself against him, she slipped a hand between the buttons of his shirt, fingering the hardness of his chest.
A low groan came from her throat, and her need for him took over.
But his eyes rolled wild, an animal released from a cage not knowing where to go, and he snatched himself away, scooting backward across the ground. "We can’t. I must ... stop." He bounded to his feet and disappeared.
Her every nerve strained. The ache of passion simmering in her gut, she willed him to return. She would have him for she loved him.
The embers of the fire glimmered, sparks drifting and snapping into the air, and she followed their wavering motions until her eyes met Ferguson’s face. He focused on her with a grin, and a frigid wave of fear washed in.
Because of her actions, he knew. He knew they withheld from each other. Paralyzed, she sat motionless and alone.
His hands shaking, senses convulsing, Michael collapsed against a tree, and the moment repeated itself, the honey of her mouth, the supple feel of her skin. He squeezed his eyes shut and floated helplessly skyward and back to earth.
He would have her; he would touch her again.
His eyes flew open at the vivid image of thirst and yearning quivering before him. She returned his feelings at last, and except for his escape, they wouldn’t have stopped.
He drilled his fingers into the soil, seeking leverage.
How could he be near her now when every slight glance, every brush together would return him to this place? He must endure this torment otherwise he risked losing everything – his freedom and their marriage most of all.
Quietude descended around him, the distant voices of the men forming a murmur in the silence.
"Michael?"
Anne’s voice pierced his weak defenses, and the sensations returned.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn’t have ..."
But she should. But he’d wanted her to. He clenched his fingers into a fist.
"Michael, please speak to me. I’m frightened."
"Frightened?" His voice came from outside himself, surreal.
"I didn’t expect ... I never ...” She stumbled over her words. “Michael? Ferguson, he ... knows. What are we going to do?"
She stepped closer, and he backed away.
"Michael?"
She brushed her fingers on his sleeve.
"Are you all right?"
No, he was in love with his wife, who he couldn’t have.
She persisted, weaving her fingers into his. "Would you hold me?"
Hold her? Michael hesitated, on a precipice. He couldn’t refuse. Yet, his teeth gritted, he swallowed the truth. He would do more that hold her, but he couldn’t, and she didn’t know why.
He pulled her in, and her breath escaped in a rush.
"Michael? I love you."
His heart stilled. He tilted her face upward in the darkness, his hands clutching her cheeks.
"Why now?" he asked.
Why now when she’d stretched him to the very limit of his endurance? Why now when he’d had such self-control, knowing she wasn’t ready? Why now when he didn’t know how to go on beside her?
"Because ... because ... I don't know. Just because."
Just because, and that was enough.
Anne folded herself against Michael and drifted toward sleep, yet her mind replayed everything.
She'd watched Michael for days, memorized his every movement, his mannerisms, until they were as familiar as her own. How he tilted his head when he teased her, how the muscles in his neck flexed when he was upset. She’d heard him say he loved her and felt the truth of it in his gestures. She knew it even when he didn't speak.
Yet to have him flee from her was confusing. Isn't this what he wanted? He wanted her to love him. Now that she did, he backed away?
She stirred in her sleep, dreaming of his hunger. It licked at her mind and smoldered in her gut. It shook her awake, at last, her gaze meeting his. "You don’t sleep?" she asked.
He lowered his mouth to hers, and she sighed in the fragrance of it. Yet it was far removed, a mere fleeting contact.
"What goes through your head, Michael O'Fallen?" she whispered. She’d learn more. She’d know all there was of him.
He sighed, and his body trembled with one word. "You."
Rain fell like a mist on man and beast, its coolness a measure of relief from the sun’s constant torment. Michael watched the path of a drop trickling down Anne’s neck. The coals left smoking in his gut enflamed, and he willed them away. But the rain increased, seeping into her clothing, pasting it to her skin until every curve, every mound of tender flesh stood prominent on her body.
He shifted in the saddle, seeking distance between them. But his arms brushed her sides, and her back adhered, unwittingly, to his chest. Such sweet torture. Only when the rain poured in earnest did he, at last, find a measure of relief. Unable to see through the curtain of water, he concentrated instead on each step forward.
Ferguson scattered the men into the surroundings, to seek what shelter they could find, and returned to Michael’s side, Chief at his heels. His eyes glittered.
Michael choked back his anger.
“I’m sending you with Chief down the Swamp Road,” Ferguson muttered. A stream of brown water dribbled from his beard and down the neck of his horse. He shifted in the saddle. “There’s an old barn at the edge of the swamp where you can shelter ’til this passes over. Don’t try any funny business while you’re there either because Chief, here, has my permission to shoot you both.”
“That’d mess up your plan,” Michael snapped.
Ferguson laughed and flicked his gaze to Anne. Her teeth chattered.
“The last thing I need on my hands is a sick female,” he said. He turned his horse. “Keep one of them in your sight at all times. If’n you run into trouble, you know what to do.”
Chief nodded, the bruises from the fight making his expression especially grotesque. He inclined his head toward Michael. “Start movin’.”
The Swamp Road aptly deserved its name. Two parallel tracks carved into the midst of a stand of bald cypress, it wound haphazardly amidst the black waters, disappearing between crowded trees and underbrush. Insects buzzed around his face, and a strange rumbling growl emerged from the depths of the swamp. Michael threw back his head, his gaze searching for the source in the darkness.
“Alligators mating,” Anne said.
He glanced down at her and regretted it. Her face upturned, rivulets of water streaking down her cheeks, even then, she was breathtaking.
“They won’t bother us?” he asked, looking away.
He’d seen alligators since coming to Florida. In fact, there’d been one incident on the trip south from Jacksonville where’d he’d come face-to-face with the prehistoric creatures. He found them fascinating, but not something he wanted to tangle with.
She shook her head, a coil of hair clinging to her cheek. “Not as long as we stay out of the water. But you don’t want to get into the water anyhow because it’s deeper than it looks. They say you can bury a horse in there and never find it.”
Her words soon seemed prophetic for the road narrowed, the surrounding trees choking it, and the persistent rain churned it into a watery morass. In spite of that, Chief insisted they increase their pace, riding even harder toward the tree line.
The trees parted into a sort of cove. Here, cypress trunks curved around the back side of a small wooden house. Chief pulled up short. “What’s this?” he grumbled. “Old barn’s gone.”
The house, a rectangular wood-framed structure, was surrounded by a weathered split-rail fence and a flowerbed bursting with color. Yellow and orange sunflowers, growing chest high, wound themselves around the posts.
Chief tapped his horse’s sides and rode up to the fence. He reached for the butt of his gun. “Knock, so they know we’re here,” he said. “I’m not bein’ shot by some crazed homeowner. Then act normal and tell whoever’s there we’re seekin’ shelter.”
Obedient, Michael slid from the saddle, tugging Anne to his side. Taking her hand in his, he moved toward the door. His knock echoed surprisingly loud over the rushing of the rain. Behind it, slow, ponderous footsteps moved across the floor inside, and the door opened, giving a creak.
An elderly gentleman, short and wide in stature, rolled the threadbare cloth of his shirt up to his elbows. His bushy eyebrows wiggled like caterpillars, and a smile built on his face.
“Well,” he said. “We’ve been expectin’ you.”