Badland Bride (26 page)
How had it all happened? When had she forgotten everything her parents had taught her about being her own person, following her dreams,
making
the life she wanted? They'd always said she could do anything if she put her mind to it. They were the ones who'd taught her to be independent, showed her how to love, and be loved. Mom and Dad were wonderful parents, so why had her life become so out of sorts, skewed with misconceptions and disbeliefs?
Memories flooded. The one where she'd told her parents about her change in majors stuck out front and center. Her father had said it was her choice, but he'd also said, he'd hoped it was what she wanted in her heart. At the time she'd scuffed it off, but now she understood what he'd meant. Information Technology hadn't been her dream, early childhood really hadn't either. But children had been. More than once her mother had assured her what had happened with baby Charles had simply been an act of God, not the norm. But that incident, the memory of that mattress full of blood strung her along, when it was truly nothing more than a onetime scary incident. In fact, around the world women gave birth every day, had been for generations, and would continue to do so for as long as the world existed.
She closed her eyes. Yes, it had been a scary experience for her and her parents, but people overcame things much worse all the time. When had she let it take control? Truth be told, she hadn't thought about that night in years and hadn't realized the event had such a hold on her until she'd considered changing majors and...
A chill filtered her spine. “Damn you, Professor Rutledge! All your talk of generations did nothing but turn me into a person I never was,” she shouted, twisting about in the empty room. “I don't care what you said. It doesn't matter what year a person was born, that doesn't make them who they are.” Her gaze settled on the miniature painting sitting on the tall chest of drawers. It was identical to the one hanging above the mantle downstairs. And Skeeter was right. Sometimes a person gained more knowledge outside of college than in it.
"You, Professor Rutledge, are a spiteful old man who never married, and found delight in twisting facts to torment every young person you encountered. No wonder Mom and Dad wanted me to switch schools. But I wouldn't listen, already too full of your misguided beliefs.” A wave of deep sorrow filled her. “I thought you were just a lonely old man who needed a friend, like Tabby the cat."
She walked over, picked up the miniature painting and moved back to the window. Skeeter was the best thing that had ever happened to her. He'd saved her life—in so many ways. Would he be able to forgive her? She'd treated him so badly, and he'd never been anything but the most wonderful man. One who loved her—truly loved her for herself. Something not even she had been able to do. The air in her chest stalled, and a quiver raced over her skin.
She glanced back down at the picture. It wasn't Professor Rutledge's fault either. It was her. All her life she'd felt alone, like she didn't fit in. She blamed it on being an only child, homeschooling, and even her generation, when truth was, it was her. Deep inside her there had always been an empty spot that nothing could fill. Nothing, until she crawled through that tunnel. Since then she'd felt whole, like she'd finally come home to the one place in the world she belonged.
Her gaze went from the bunkhouse to the horizon. The night sky obscured her view, but she knew exactly where Castle Rock stood. Behind it were the badlands, the cave, and the tunnel to the future. Willpower, stronger than she'd known before, filtered into her system, and she filled her lungs with air.
Clutching the framed painting to her chest, she closed her eyes. “Dear Lord, it's me again, Lila. I know I promised to never ask for anything again that day in the tunnel, when you gave me my ghost back. But that day, I'd also promised to find this baby the perfect family, and now I realize I need a little help in making it all work out. If you'd be so kind as to help me, I think it's time to completely fulfill that promise."
Skeeter woke stiff and sore. The straw mattress on the short bed in the bunkhouse crinkled loudly as he flopped his feet over the edge. He rubbed his tired eyes and cringed at the pain. They felt like a bucket of sand had been poured in them. Pressing the butts of his hands to sore temples, he hung his head. What the hell had happened last night?
Jumping to his feet he shook his head. No use going down that road again. He'd gone over every word he'd said to her a million times while the light rain fell on the roof all night. It was no use. She hated Pete so much so couldn't forgive the tiny life growing inside her womb.
He walked over, splashed water on his face. There was no solution. He'd have to let her give the baby away. It was what she had to do, so therefore it was what he'd have to do. He'd just have to accept it.
After drying his face, he slipped on his boots and left the building. The morning air was crisp, sent a shiver up his spine as he sprinted toward the house. Shutting the backdoor, he glanced about and let his gaze linger at the top of the staircase.
Hoping the sounds might stir her, he moved about, building a fire and then noisily started a pot of coffee. When the strong, rich aroma filled the air, he pulled the pot from the burner and filled a cup. The warm brew and the heat from the stove helped, he soon felt more like himself.
His gaze had gone to the stairs several times, and his ears had been tuned in for the slightest sound, but the ongoing silence continued to be deep, deafening. He set the cup on the table and moved across the room to climb the stairs.
Cautiously, he pushed open the door to their room. His fingers slipped off the knob as the emptiness of the room filled his gaze. The bed was neatly made. He backed out of the room, looked up and down the hall. By the time he got to the third bedroom, fear was tickling his spine. Slamming open the fourth door did little more than display one more empty room.
He twisted, ran down the stairs, and searched about before he went to the washroom. It too was empty.
Wrenching open the back door he shouted, “Lila!” Her name echoed over the plains like a mocking bird. He choked on a breath of air. Burning coughs tore at his lungs as he leaped down the steps.
Black Hawk walked out of the barn. Skeeter shouted to him, “Have you seen my wife?"
The brave shook his head.
He ran to the outhouse, ripped the door open, and letting it bounce in the wind, swirled about. She had to be in the house. He must have missed her. Maybe he didn't notice her tucked beneath the covers. His feet barely touched the ground as he sprinted over the grass.
Once inside, he searched again. Pulled the covers off the beds, let them tumble to the floor. As he bolted out of the last room and down the hall, something about their room tugged at him. He stalled in the doorway, searching for the unknown. A rock landed in the pit of his stomach as his gaze settled on the chest of drawers. The miniature painting of them was gone.
He crossed the room, pulled the chest away from wall, hoping it had fallen behind the piece of furniture.
It hadn't.
A deep, pain-filled moan rumbled out of his chest, echoed throughout the empty house.
She'd left him.
Lila crawled out of the tunnel. The dirt on her hands turned to mud as she wiped at the tears falling down her cheeks. Her body shook uncontrollably, and she gulped for air. Exhausted, both mentally and physically, she scooted away from the opening and hugging her knees, bowed her head.
It had been harder than she'd imagined. But she'd done it, and prayed her parents would understand. She missed them terribly, always would, but her life was here now—in the eighteen hundreds badlands with her husband and their soon to be born child.
The first sunrays of morning snuck into the cave. The light made her shiver harder. Shortly after she'd left the house last night the storm that had been brewing all evening had arrived. The walk to the cave had been long and cold. Her heavy, wool skirt was still wet. A frown tugged on her brows. That had been stupid! Why hadn't she started her car? The heater would have dried out her skirt while she planted the note to her parents in her backpack.
She glanced about, a supply of firewood sat along one wall beside several boxes and crates. Rubbing some warmth into her icy hands, she stood and began searching for a flint box. A small fire would warm her enough to make the long trek back to the house. Hopefully, Skeeter was still sleeping, wouldn't notice she'd been gone all night.
The hinged lid of the first crate creaked as she opened it. Crinkled straw filled the box. She grabbed a handful to throw into the rock lined fire pit. Her nails brushed against something below the straw. With both hands she dug into the box and lifted out a long, round cylinder. Her eyes grew wide. She read the writing on the side of the box, one word, painted in bold red letters. Dynamite.
Her mind swirled. She glanced back to the tunnel. If she blew it up there would be no chance of going back. No chance of anyone ever accidentally finding the portal again. That certainly would convince Skeeter she meant business. She loved him beyond all else and was here to stay, she and the baby. People in the eighteen hundreds didn't give children up for adoption. At least she hoped they didn't.
By the time she was ready to light the long fuse, streams of sweat rolled down her back. The box of dynamite had weighed a ton. It had taken every muscle she'd ever imagined she owned to pushed the box deep into the tunnel. After that she'd climbed back down the cavern again to lay out the long rope fuse she'd found in another box.
She didn't know much about explosives, but had seen enough old westerns to know the fuse burned quickly. Wanting to be as far away as possible when the flame hit the box, she used two rolls of the rope, strung it all the way up the tunnel and across the floor of the cave to the wide, natural doorway.
Bent down, she struck a match to the flint box and carefully held it to the end of the fuse. The rope sparked then hissed as the fire raced over the thick braided threads like a Fourth of July sparkler. Turning about, she hitched her skirt to run, but her feet dug into the hard sand as her eyes locked onto a broad, bare chest.
Lifting her face higher, her gaze settled on Buffalo Killer's dark features. A look of surprise covered his face as she screamed, “Ruunnnn!"
She bolted down the sloped hillside, stumbling as her feet slipped now and again on the still damp grass. A large hand grabbed her upper arm and her feet left the ground. Her butt landed on the bare back of the painted pony and Buffalo Killer's thick arms held her in place as they raced down the hill.
When they started to slow, she lifted her feet dangling over one side, held them out of the way of the horse's stout legs, and shouted, “Don't stop! It's gonna blow!"
Buffalo Killer frowned, glanced back to the hill. “Blow?"
"Ka-boom!” she screamed.
"Ka-boom?"
The wind whipped her hair into her eyes. She shook her head, trying to see through the strands. “Like dig site. Ka-boom!"
Buffalo Killer's arms tightened around her like steal bands, and he kicked at the pony beneath them.
They were just rounding Castle Rock when the explosion happened. A deafening racket filled the air, cracking and echoing louder than a bolt of thunder could ever hope to sound. The horse, Lila, and Buffalo Killer all squealed at the same time.
She had no idea how it happened, but the next thing she knew, she and Buffalo Killer were on the ground. Still wrapped in his stronghold, what should have been a hard fall had been little more than a soft thump. They both stared as the painted pony flew across the prairie faster than a Kentucky racehorse.
The earth beneath them rumbled with after shocks and a dust-filled cloud floated above them. Little pebbles of sand and rock tumbled from the sky, pelting like fine drops of rain.
Buffalo Killer slightly eased his hold. His lips moved.
She shook her head, trying to regain her hearing. “What?"
"Are you all right?” he shouted.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine. How about you?” She answered equally as loud.
"I'm fine. What the hell did you do?"
"I—” She frowned, twisted her head slightly to see his face more clearly. “When did you learn to speak English so well?"
"I—” He clamped his lips shut.
She shook her head, waved her finger before his nose. “Your secret's out buddy."
He bowed his head, curled one lip up.
"You've been acting this whole time?"
A silly smile touched his face as he shrugged.
"Who taught you?"
He shrugged again and said, “Your husband."
"Really? When?"
"Well, he didn't teach me as much as I just picked it up from him. We've spent the better part of the last two years together.” He scrunched his face. “He doesn't know. It's kind of funny how frustrated he gets at me."
She giggled. “I'll tell you what, you don't tell Skeeter I blew up his cave, and I won't tell him you speak very good English."
He glanced back to the cave. Rocks still fell from the sky, bounced like hail across the ground. “That cannot be kept a secret. They probably heard it in Denver."
She wrinkled her nose. “You might be right."
Their ringing ears didn't hear a horse approaching until heavy snorts blew across their necks. She and Buffalo Killer turned at the same time, glanced past the horse's nose to see Skeeter's look of shock.
His gaze went from the dust still rising in the air to the two of them. His face hardened. Her cheeks burned as she realized she still sat on Buffalo Killer's lap.
She lifted one hand, fluttered her fingers. “Hi."
His face must have turned to stone, not the slightest crack of his adorable grin emerged as he dismounted. He grabbed her arm. The tug wasn't hard, but it wasn't gentle either, as he pulled her off Buffalo Killer's lap. She started to make a comment, but the coldness of his eyes made her bite her tongue instead.
Star Gazer and Black Hawk rode in, Buffalo Killer's paint trailing closely behind them. She didn't have a chance to even smile a greeting, Skeeter's hands wrapped around her waist and unceremoniously, he planted her into his saddle. Not daring to move more than necessary, she eased one knee around the saddle horn.