Badland Bride (6 page)

"You doing all right?” he asked with a quizzical stare.

She nodded and glanced over his shoulder. “How much farther is it?"

"A ways yet. You want to sit down for a minute?"

"No, I'm fine.” She tried to sound believable.

His gaze went to her feet. The flip-flops were not ideal walking shoes. Her toes ached from trying keep them on while they scaled the steep landscape.

He didn't comment verbally. Didn't need to, his look said enough.

She took another step forward. “We'll find some shade at the bottom to rest for a minute."

He nodded, turned, and continued to descend.

With a deep breath, she followed, cautiously stepping exactly were he had in order to avoid slipping on the sandstone crumbling beneath their feet. It wasn't long before he jumped off the final stepping stone. Though it was only about a two foot jump, she paused. He grabbed her waist and lifted her down before she had a chance to determine if her shoes would stay on or not.

Once again his hand took hers, and he pulled her along the base of the high cliff to a shaded area. The ground was barren. Nothing could grow in the layers of the white, powdery stone. “Sit down and rest a bit,” he suggested.

"Good idea. You must be hot.” She pointed at his long sleeved shirt.

He knelt down, balanced on his toes. “Naw, I'm used to it. Is Kansas not as hot in the future?"

Knowing when she got up the back side of her white shorts would be covered with baby-fine sand, she thankfully sat down anyway. “Yes, we still have plenty of days well over one hundred degrees. I just usually don't scale mountains in the heat of the day.” She stretched out her legs. “Not in flip-flops anyway."

"Flip-flops?"

She pulled off one sandal, held it up. “This is a flip-flop. The ultimate summer shoe."

"Looks like an old shoe a dog got a hold of,” he touched the thong, “and piece of rope."

Despite how the scorching sun had made her head throb, she giggled. “They kind of do, don't they? Believe it or not, even men wear them in my time."

"Really?” He picked up a small rock, tossed it aside. “I think I'll stick with my boots.” His gaze lingered on where the stone had landed before it touched on her clothing.

She read his mind and pointed at her attire. “These are shorts, and this is a tank top."

With an endearing, crooked grin, he followed suit. “Britches and a shirt."

The shade had relieved the exhausting heat and refueled her energy. A full laugh expelled from her lungs. “We still have britches and shirts in the future."

"That's good.” He tried to look serious, but his chuckle said otherwise. He pulled the hat from his head, flopped it on hers. “Here, that'll keep the sun off your head. You won't feel as hot.” His hand wrapped around her elbow, helping her rise. “It's not much farther."

The hat was big; the inside rim fell over her ears. She was about to say he should keep it as they stepped out of the shade. The wide brim kept the sun off her face, and a selfish bout made her want to keep it on. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

He glanced at her.

"For the hat. Thank you."

"Out here a good hat is worth its weight in gold."

Her selfish bout grew.

He winked at her. “You're welcome."

The action flushed her system with heat more intense than the sun's. She tried to ignore it and focus on the sandy trail. They walked what her feet could have sworn were at least ten miles, but the sensible part of her mind said it was no more than a few hundred yards or so. The leather strap between her toes had gnawed the skin into blisters. She let out a long sigh when they came to a stop.

"This is where the house is, or will be. Over there is where the one outbuilding is, and the other over there. That's the butte you parked behind.” He pointed as he talked.

None of it looked familiar. “Are you sure? That butte didn't seem so large."

"It isn't, or wasn't. I'm sure it eroded some over the years. And with the house near, it would look smaller."

"I suspect you're right.” She moved forward, wincing as she walked along the side of a hill covered with buffalo grass. “So, where would the tunnel be?"

He'd stayed where they had stopped. “Right here."

"Oh.” She moved back, searching the short, grassy stubble. The terrain of the badlands changes every foot, the merger slight and strong at the same time, going from barren, hard sandstone, to prairie grasses and back again. “What are we looking for?"

"A tunnel?” he asked with a teasing tone.

"I know that!"

His lopsided grin grew before he turned to gaze at the hill. “An indention, a large boulder, a shrub, anything that could hide an opening."

Even sweating buckets, she wanted to flirt with him. The sun must really be getting to her. She tugged the hat lower, and followed his gaze. They searched far and near before she admitted, “It's not here."

He shook his head. “I'm sorry."

She walked to a lone tree nearby, sat down in the shade. “You knew it wouldn't be here, didn't you?” Pulling the hat from her head, she played with the brim for a moment, before pushing her hair from her face. The shade did little to prevent the hot wind from feeling as if she sat in front of a furnace vent.

His long legs folded beneath him gracefully as he sat next to her. “I suspected."

"Why did you come to look then?"

"Because you had to see for yourself,” he answered as if it were a simple matter of fact.

Her gaze went to the horizon. She'd long ago learned it was impossible to describe the plains of Kansas to someone who'd never seen them. No where else in the universe is there a sea of land for as far as your eyes can focus. She knew the sight well, had taken it for granted for years. Soft, low-rolling hills and wide, flat spans created a magnificent merger of land with a sky so blue it appeared imaginary, yet at this moment it seemed different—indescribable. Not the outlay, the grass, or the badland carvings, nor even the sky above, but for some reason the soul of the land felt different.

She squeezed her eyes closed, rubbed at the lids with both hands before opening them again. Untouched. There was this overwhelming sense of purity around her. A thick, heavy glob formed in her throat. Pictures of her parents flashed before her eyes. Friends, acquaintances, fellow students. When the vision of Tabby, her cat, emerged, she bowed her head. “Oh, God, what am I going to do?"

Skeeter felt as if he'd just been stabbed in the heart. Her wail, though barely uttered, shot through him like a hot knife. Unsure what else to do, he accepted an internal instinct and took her shaking body into a cradling embrace. He didn't talk, didn't tell her not to cry, just held her as the sobs continued to come. Rocking her back and forth, he let her cry until her weeping eased into small sniffles.

After a heavy sigh left her chest, her breathing grew deep and even. Realizing she'd cried herself to sleep, he leaned back against the tree trunk. It seemed so right, cradling her as she slept. Poor little thing, she had to be exhausted. Of their own accord, his arms tightened, and he nestled his chin upon the top of her head.

What was he going to do with her? He wasn't averse to helping a stranger in need, but a young, pregnant girl from the future—what could he do to help her? His mind searched, but came up empty at every corner, other than the unexpected awareness he enjoyed her company. His gaze went to the sky above. Normally not a selfish person, he contemplated the situation. It was as if he'd been given an astonishing gift, one he didn't ever want to have to give back.

She struggled, just a mite, but enough for him to ease his hold as her slumbering form found a more comfortable position. Lush, soft, yet firm curves molded against his frame, fitting in like the comfort of a feather tick. His arms resettled, held her close. It was almost as unbelievable as the rest of the day—him, Skeeter Quinter sitting under a tree holding a gorgeous girl in his arms. Yet, it felt natural, almost like it should happen every day. And was a whole lot more fun than being a ghost.

He leaned the back of his head against the tree. Natural or not, he had to figure out a way to help her. The summer breeze blew around the tree, rustling the oval leaves and keeping her sleeping form comfortable as he thought...and thought.

He could try and dig out the tunnel, but that would take a month of Sundays and there was no guarantee the tunnel would still be magical. And even if he did start digging, she couldn't stay here. He'd been living in the cave on each trip to his land—didn't have a need for a house, but a woman, especially one as fine as Lila Scott couldn't live in a cave. A woman this fine needed a house. A big fine one like his older brother Kid owned.

It was as if a light went on in his head. Of course! He'd take her home to Ma. She could stay there, and he'd have his brothers come back and help him dig. Kid wouldn't be able to come, he'd be too busy with his ranch, but the younger boys, Snake, Hog, and Bug would come. With four of them working, it wouldn't take long to dig out the tunnel, and he could test it, see if it still held the magic. Then go back and get her.

He knew the moment she woke. An eyelash didn't flutter, nor did she squirm, but her breathing changed. His arms relaxed, gave her room to sit up. A few moments later, she did so. As soon as her head lifted from his chest, an empty, vacant sensation took its place. He wanted to rub at the spot.

Skeeter watched, not saying anything as she sat up and looked around. After a couple minutes, her green eyes turned toward him, the gaze questioning. “It wasn't a dream was it?” she whispered.

She hadn't slept long, no more than half an hour. “No,” he said, softly, not wanting to frighten her.

She crossed her legs, placed her elbows on her knees, and resting her chin in the palms of her hands, asked, “What am I going to do?"

Her face was stricken with sadness. At that moment, he would have paid all the money in the world to find her a ride home. But there was no ride to the future, no horse, no train, or carriage could carry her a hundred and twenty-six years away. Skeeter filled his lungs with a long, deep breath and held it for a moment. He forced a smile to emit, and touched the end of her button nose with the tip of one finger. “Well, I've been thinking about that."

Hope flashed in her eyes for a brief moment. It made his heart tumble.

"I can try and dig the tunnel out."

"You can?” Her face brightened a touch more. “I'll help."

"No, it's going to be a lot of work. Work that's not fit for a woman.” He picked up a twig to give his fingers something to do. “And it's going to take some time. So, I'll take you to my mother's house. You can stay there with her, and I'll bring my three younger brothers back here to help me. When the tunnel is done...” The twig snapped between his fingers. He tossed it aside. “I'll come and get you."

"But I could stay here, with you, and help. I'm stronger than I look."

Her assurance tickled him, made a wide smile tug on his lips. “I'm sure you are plenty strong enough, but digging a hole isn't woman's work.” He stood, held out one hand.

She took it and threaded her fingers between his after she rose beside him. “What is woman's work?"

Her fingertips floated over the back of his hand. The way her closeness awoke every sensation in his body was amazing, something he'd never experienced. It was all quite overwhelming, and enticing. He knew sexual urges. From about the time a boy turned ten, he recognized arousal, and learned how to contend with it on a regular basis. This was different. It was more of an awakening, a gentle and caring awareness that filled his entire body. It wasn't uncomfortable, actually it was quite pleasant.

"Skeeter?"

He shook the assessing thoughts from his mind. “Sorry, I-I was contemplating on women's work,” he lied, feeling his cheeks burn a touch.

"What?"

He reached down, plucked his hat off the ground and placed it on her head. Tugging their entwined hands, encouraging her to follow him out of the shade, he said, “Well, in our time woman's work may be different than in your time, I didn't want to offend you."

She pressed her head against his shoulder in a playful manner. “You are quite the gentleman, aren't you Skeeter Quinter?"

Either it was the light, happy feeling her closeness caused, or the image of him being called a gentleman, he laughed aloud. “I don't think anyone's ever called me a gentleman before."

"Well, then I guess they don't know you like I do."

The wide hat prevented him from seeing her face, but he could have sworn her words came from a smiling mouth. She took a step and stiffened. He paused, glanced to see if she'd stepped on something. Her toes wiggled. “Sore feet?” he asked, looking at the leather thong running between her red-tipped toes.

She nodded.

"Sit down,” he instructed and pulled off her silly shoes when she did. Large, white blisters covered the insides of her toes where the leather ran between them. He pulled a bandana from his back pocket and tore it in two. After wrapping the strips around the leather, he handed the shoes back to her. “It might be a bit uncomfortable, but will ease the pain of the blisters.

She slipped the shoes on, stood, and took a couple testing steps. “Much better, thanks.” Her hand wrapped around his again.

Content, he laced his fingers between hers, and they walked in comfortable silence. When the cliff appeared before them, he trudged up without letting go of her hand. The climb became steeper; reluctantly he released his hold and stepped behind so he could catch her in case she fell. By the time they scaled the top, his eyes had gone dry from staring at her backside for so long, and his britches had become awfully tight.

Not paying attention, he had to dodge her still form seconds later. She stood as stiff as a new board. Sidestepping beside her, he turned to follow her shocked stare.

Buffalo Killer waved from his stance near the cave. Skeeter took her hand, glanced her way. “Don't worry. I was just kidding about killing him."

Lila tried to keep her mouth from gapping, but it was an impossible task. The Native American standing several yards ahead of them was dressed in nothing more than tight hide pants. The span of bare chest wasn't shocking. It was the savage look on his face. A black-eyed gaze covered her from head to toe and was filled with something she couldn't read.