Badland Bride (3 page)
Not even after he'd seen her old car, saying it wasn't what he was looking for, did she feel threatened or nervous around him. Yes, he was big and burly, but pleasant enough. When he'd asked her to join him for a hamburger, she'd refused at first, but he'd insisted, said it was his way of paying her for taking the time to show him the Toyota.
It had been the next morning, when she woke, sore and groggy, and not remembering much of anything beyond entering the smoky bar he proclaimed made the best hamburgers in Kansas, that she'd realized her mistake. She couldn't remember eating the cheeseburger she'd ordered, couldn't remember how she got home, and certainly didn't remember having sex with him. Six weeks later, when a home pregnancy test came up positive, she went to the police. Since at that time, she didn't know Pete's real last name, the detective wrote her off as a loose woman, and told her to go have an abortion and get on with her life.
Appalled, and sickened by her own stupidity, she set out to trap Pete Hawkins herself—see he was stopped from violating other women. The plan had backfired, and now not only was Pete trying to silence her—with death—every person she knew thought she'd flipped her lid, and like the police officer, told her to quit being a drama queen, get an abortion, and get focused back on her college studies. She'd graduate this summer with an IT degree, and Professor Rutledge insisted a baby would make getting a decent paying job impossible.
Tears slipped from her eyes as she crawled over the dirt, sharp rocks dug into her tender knees every now and again. She couldn't kill an innocent baby; none of this was his or her fault. As soon as the little blue line had appeared on the strip, she knew what she had to do. It wouldn't be easy, but it was the right choice. Somewhere there was a couple who desperately wanted a child, and she would give them this little life. Until then it was her job to keep it safe.
The faint smell of a camp fire floated down the dark tunnel. Fear sent her heart a flutter. She flexed at the tension tickling her arms, and then twisted to glance back down the tunnel behind her. “Ghost?” she whispered into the darkness. A moment later, sincerely wanting to hear a faint whisper, she asked louder, “Ghost? Are you still with me?"
The silence was so deep it stung her nerves. Neither her ears, nor her mind picked up anything. “Evidently not,” she muttered and a new wave of sadness sliced her chest. Having a guardian angel, or a guardian ghost, had been comforting, and the best thing that had happened to her in a long time. She closed her eyes. “Dear Lord, please, if you give me back the ghost, I promise to be a better person. I'll find this baby the perfect family, always be kind to others, and never, ever ask for anything again."
She waited, let her prayer settle, and listened for the ghost to announce himself. The eerie quiet became thick, gave her no choice but to accept the ghost was no longer—her prayer unanswered. She swallowed a solid lump of isolation, and huffing in a shaky breath, began to crawl forward again.
A tiny beam of light made her pause to squint against the darkness, the smell of smoke grew stronger, filled her nose with the distinct scent of smoldering wood. She pinched her trembling lips together and glanced over her shoulder before turning back toward the light. “You really don't have a choice,” she mumbled. A shiver rippled her spine as she moved forward. “This must be how Marie Antoinette felt as they led her to the guillotine."
Western Kansas
1882
Crawling out of the tunnel and into a large cavern, Lila blinked at the beam of sunlight shining through a narrow opening at the far end and cautiously surveyed the area. A fire had diminished into a pile of glowing, smoking ashes. An assortment of odd debris littered the surrounding area. A saddle, several wooden crates, tin cooking utensils and...
Her heart stopped dead in her chest, and the icy shiver racing up her spine made her want to turn around and crawl back into the long tunnel. She fought the urge and settled her gaze near the fire. The man lying there rolled over, a slight moan escaped his lips. Relief oozed, allowed her heart to begin to beat—it wasn't Pete.
She wiped at the sweat beading her forehead and rose to walk around the fire pit. The long body moved again, stretching. Muscled arms lengthened to flex at his sides and long legs shifted as if he was awakening from a restful sleep. He was tall. Being five-eight, height was the first thing she noticed about someone. Old fashioned, wool pants covered his legs, but nothing except glistening skin and curly dark hair sheltered his chest. She pulled her wondering gaze from the line of dark hair inching its way to the waist band of the pants.
Worn cowboy boots sat near his head which was covered with disheveled, brown-blond curls. His face had that chiseled look, like someone had painstakingly carved each feature. Her heart skipped a beat. His big, masculine build and old-fashioned clothing reminded her of the old western T.V. series
Gunsmoke
. She shrugged her shoulders. “If you live in Kansas long enough, someone is bound to remind you of Marshall Dillon."
His eyes snapped open, and Lila slapped a hand over her mouth. He blinked several times as if trying to focus. She kept her hand over her lips, hiding the way her teeth chattered. Why had she spoken aloud?
The man shook his head, rubbed his eyes. He pulled his hands away, looked at them strangely, and then began patting his body. The wide hands slapped at his chest, scratched at the curls on his head, and squeezed opposite arms. “Well, I'll be damned,” he uttered with a hint of dismay.
A cold shower of shivers rippled her body at the familiar sound. Except this time, instead of being a faint whisper, the voice was deep and husky.
The man rose to his feet and stomped around, like he was testing his legs for use. His hands continued to rub and pat his body. “Well, God damn!” he exclaimed excitedly.
Her pounding heart leaped to her throat. Lila tried to swallow, but the lump was too large and caused her to cough. Instantly, the man turned toward her. A wide, friendly smile made his gray-green eyes twinkle with delight. “Glad to see you made it,” he said, tipping his head in a friendly nod.
Her eyes bugged, she shut the lids against the strain, and rubbed her forehead. When she opened them, he still stood in front of her. His ear to ear smile was bright enough to light a Christmas tree. “Excuse me?” Lila croaked.
"Glad you made it through tunnel,” he said.
She glanced to the hole in the wall behind her. The narrow opening made her question if it was the same one she'd crawled through. “Yes, I made it,” she admitted, not quite sure if she said it for him or for herself.
"I seem to have made it too,” he said, clearly happy about it.
"Yes, you seem to have made it too.” She couldn't help but smile. There was something about the man that filled the air. It was like he was happy to be alive, and it made her want to feel the same way.
"I don't think we introduced ourselves.” He stretched one hand forward.
"No, no we didn't.” She shook her head, feeling extremely light-headed.
"I'm Skeeter Quinter.” He nudged his hand forward. “Well, actually my name is Steven Quinter, but everyone calls me Skeeter."
She extended an arm, and he instantly took her hand in a solid grasp, pumping it in greeting. Warmth from his palm flowed up her arm. “I-I'm Lila Scott."
"Lila. That's a pretty name."
His smiling eyes were mesmerizing. She squinted against the gleam, trying to think of a response. “Um...Thank you. Skeeter's a nice name too."
He pulled his hand away, and a lilting laugh bubbled out of his chest. “No, it's not. But my Pa gave it to me, so I don't mind it none. He said I was as pesky as a mosquito when I was growing up.” He stretched his arms over his head. “Damn, it's good to be alive, ain't it?"
At that Lila had to chuckle, something she hadn't done in some time. “Yes, Mr. Quinter, being alive is a good thing."
"Ah, come on now, none of that mister stuff.” He reached down to pluck a shirt from the floor of the cave. “My older brother, Kid, now there's a mister, and everyone knows it. But me, I'm just Skeeter."
Lila turned to keep from staring at the muscles bulging as he slid his arms in the sleeves of a plaid shirt. The debris lying around appeared to be rustic camping gear, a beat-up coffee pot, some very old cans, a canteen, a wooden bowl filled with some odd, brown chunks. She frowned and bent down to examine the container closer.
"Don't touch those!"
Startled by his screech, she held her hands up and froze, precariously balancing her crouched position.
He hopped, tugging on his boots, then reached over and grabbed the bowl. “Those things are dangerous. Buffalo Killer should be shot for giving them to me.” His fingers wrapped around her arm. “Come on, let's get some fresh air, while I contemplate shooting him. I don't care if he is the chief's son."
"Shooting him?” She wobbled, rising beside him.
"Naw, I won't really shoot him, but I might let him believe it for a while."
Lila shot a couple curious glances at the bowl he carried as they walked through the cave. His fingers, still holding her arm, were gentle, not forceful, and his voice was light and carefree, making her wonder more about his statement.
The opening at the end grew larger the closer they got to it. Hot, dry air greeted them before they stepped out of the cave. He led her through the opening, and she quelled an intriguing sense of wonder—as if she was entering a different dimension. The summer sun heated the sandstone outside the cave to the point she could feel it through the bottom of her flip-flops—evidence she was still in Kansas.
Skeeter let go of her arm, walked to the side of the cliff, and dumped the contents of the bowl over the edge. Lila let her gaze float beyond him, to the rough terrain and jagged edges of the badlands. She'd never stood atop the ruins before, and the view was awesome, breathtaking. Castle Rock, the tall cluster of sandstone pyramids, stood a short distance away. She paused, wondering. It looked taller than she remembered.
The area, though not widely visited, was fairly well-known since it proved thousands of years ago the United States was the bottom of an ocean. For centuries the chalk has given paleontologist some of the finest fossils ever found. She'd visited the place more than once on school field trips, and many claim you can still find Mosasaurs teeth lying about.
It had been the memory of one of those field trips that made her exit I-70. Pete's huge truck, close on the tail of her little Mustang, hadn't been able to slow in time for the corner and had continued to fly down the interstate. Evidentially, not far enough, for she had no sooner found the old abandoned farm house when his truck barreled down the rough and rutted driveway.
Lila walked to the edge of the cliff, she should be able to see the house from here, but unless Pete had binoculars, he wouldn't be able to pick her out amongst the ragged cliffs.
Her forehead tightened with a frown. The badlands gave way to nothing more than rolling prairies. Where were the fields of wheat dancing like a sea of gold, the old telephone poles, the house and other ruins? “I must be turned around,” she murmured.
"What?” Skeeter looked at her expectantly.
"Oh, I said I must be turned around, the house should be right over there."
His gaze followed the direction she pointed. A deep scowl covered his face. Silently, slowly, he stepped closer to gaze over the land before them. He lifted one hand, scratched at the scalp below his windswept hair, and then spun around to take a long, thorough look at the landscape. “Uh...Lila..."
"Yes?"
Softly, as if nervous—or thinking hard, he punched one fist into the palm of his other hand, wrapped his fingers around his fist before drawing it out and then plunged it forward again. He continued punching his palm and a cloudy mask covered his face, making her believe a deep, uncertain thought flitted around in his head.
She never took her eyes off him. What was it? Did he know Pete? No, he'd helped her escape Pete. But that didn't mean he didn't know Pete. Did it? She squelched her mind from tumbling about haphazardly and scrutinized his actions, his gaze. He knew something—that was as clear as the sky above. But what was it? What was he contemplating so hard?
Squinting at the sun, he turned to her and repeated, “Lila..."
"Yes?” she said when his pause became extremely long.
He turned to point at two boulders of sandstone sticking out of the buffalo grass growing across the top of the cliff. “Let's go sit on those rocks for a minute.” His face softened, gave an impression he was apologizing for something.
After the experience she'd had with Pete, she knew she should be cautious of strange men, but not a single red flag flashed. Matter of fact, there was something about Skeeter Quinter that made her feel tranquil and comfortable, as if she trusted him. She'd swear on her grandmother's grave it had been his voice that guided her through the old house and into the tunnel.
Testing her instincts, she let her gaze wander his tall frame, from head to toe, one more time, and waited for a tremor of apprehension, or a hard knot of intuition to twist in her stomach. Nothing, not a quiver nor ounce of uneasiness or fear formed. She bit her lips together, holding in a thought that said he definitely stimulated her. Moisture formed in her mouth.
Sheesh! It wasn't her fault!
A body that sculptured would have stirred Mother Teresa. She tossed the speck of self-justification aside, glancing upwards. Had her prayer been answered? Was he her guardian ghost?
His hand settled on her elbow. “Come on,” he coaxed.
Her feet, as if they knew better than her mind, stepped forward.
They arrived beside the boulders, and he ran a hand over the top of the rock.
"Maybe we should sit on the ground, I bet you could fry an egg on that,” Lila said.
He let out a clean, unrestrained laugh. “Yes, you probably could. Let's go around to the back side, there'll be some shade there."