An Evening at Joe's (19 page)

Methos stepped to the railing, put one long leg over, then the other, until he was standing outside it, on the edge of the mesa. The rock was solid, but the feeling of vertigo was real. He barely heard Alexa's gasp of objection; he put out a hand to Garrett, as once one of Garrett's ancestors had put out a hand to him: "Come."

Garrett came over the fence, stood beside him at the edge. Every- thing was different here—the wind, as still as indoors just a few feet away where Alexa stood on the other side of the rail, streamed up out of the canyon, tossing Garrett's long hair, ruffling even Adam's short brush cut, carrying the scents of four states, of a whole, young country. In his stretch of lifetimes Methos had felt a thousand winds in his face—ancient desert winds, sweet heathered winds, the killing winds of Atlantic gales. The wind on the Painted Desert was like so much of Garrett's lost culture—you had to know where to stand, where to look, to catch it.

"Thats what it felt like," he told Garrett quietly, and Garrett stood a moment, drinking it in; then they both climbed back over the rail.

Garrett was silent, almost somber, as he moved to his truck; Adam put an arm around Alexa as they watched him pull out. One by one the other pickups with local plates pulled away, bearing the families who ran the tourist stalls, and they were left alone, watching the shadows of the setting sun against the immense canvas of colored rock.

He took one of the brown and white woven blankets from the pile in her arms, spread it on the edge of the mesa, as near to the railing as he dared. They sat together in the fading light, the remaining blankets draped over their knees, her head against his shoulder. Every moment of the sunset brought a new color to land or sky, brought a new detail of stone into sharp relief, or cast one into shadow.

"Look at it," Alexa breathed quietly. "You could come here every day for a thousand years and I bet you'd never see the same thing twice."

She was right, again. "Let this be our canyon, then. Forever." He reached out a hand to trace the line of her jaw, down her cheek, curving up to stroke along her mouth. It seemed she could feel every whorl of his thumb against her lip, and her lips parted as he leaned toward her, the sun behind him throwing the planes of his face into relief as dramatic as the rockfaces around them. "Let's make it ours."

His lips met hers and his hand slid down to cradle her neck, and she tasted desert dust and wind in his kiss, passion and relief and a deep sweetness that could only be joy, the same joy she was feeling as she realized she had finally reached him, finally had the chance to be the strong one, the generous one. She would not, could not, be the rescued damsel—and wouldn't let him be the teacher, the father, in all things. She would give as well as take, or there was nothing, nothing between them worth having.
They sipped good Italian wine from the picnic basket Garrett had left them, watching the unbroken sky turn from orange to deep blue to darkest black. When the last of the twilight was gone, they were in a darkness greater than any she'd ever seen. There were no lights on the road above, no lights from homes anywhere—and on her right, some- how blacker than the rest of the darkness, the great chasm of the canyon. Adam was only a shadow beside her, more felt than seen, when finally Alexa whispered, "Are there really more stars here than at home, or do I just feel closer to heaven?"

He answered her softly. "Some people believe that every star you can see in the sky is the soul of a loved one who's left us."

There was quiet again as they both stared at the heavens. He could get lost in watching the stars. Civilizations would rise and fall, loved ones come and go in the blink of an eye, but the stars were always there, had always been there, would always be there. Like the Canyon they were formed long before him and would still be burning bright long after he had finally turned to dust.

"Where do you think I'll be?"

Alexa's quiet voice brought him back. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"With the other souls," she explained. "Where do you think my star will be?"

Adam wanted nothing more than to derail this conversation before it went any further. He didn't need another reminder of how soon he was going to lose her. But he knew it was important to Alexa to talk about it, to share the experience with him—just as he'd begged her to do. "See that bright one there," he said, pointing, "that's Venus, the goddess of love and beauty"

Alexa stared up at the Morning Star. "I see it. "

"I think you're going to be right next to her. And the beauty of Alexa will burn so brightly no one will ever be able to see Venus again."

"You're sweet to say that," she said in a tiny voice.

"I only say it because I mean it."

She shivered, from silent pleasure more than from the cold. He felt the tremble run through her, and his arm tightened around her. He cupped her body against his, protecting it, warming it.

"Ummm, this is nice, isn't it?" she murmured, almost to herself.

"Well, except for one thing...." Adam extracted one hand from around her waist and reached under the blanket. He removed a stone that had been digging into his leg and held it in the beam of the flashlight to show it to her. "That's better."

Alexa reached out and took the stone. "That's one of Mary Crow's fetish stones," she said as she rubbed the dirt off the smoky-red rock. "She gave me a doll carved from this. She says it brings luck to young couples."

"Well, we'll definitely hang on to it, then. You and I need all the luck we can get, don't we?"

After a long pause, she asked him a question that took him totally off guard. "Adam... are we married?"

"What?"

"Mary Crow seems to think we're married. Do you think we're married?"

He thought back on their marriage bed. Yes, even though he'd made a botch of it in the end, he believed they were married. But he was sure it was not the kind of marriage Alexa had in mind. "Why? Do you want to be? We're not that far from Vegas. We could be there tomorrow afternoon. If that's what would make you happy, I'm sure there's an Elvis impersonator who'd love to perform any ceremony you want."

Alexa shook her head, ignoring the feeble joke, seeing through to the genuine offer underneath. "No, that's not what I meant."

It wasn't? He nearly held his breath, waiting for her to continue.

"I mean, you know, this sounds silly but, our souls... our spirits— are they married?"

"I don't know," he said cautiously. "Do you love me?" She looked away at the mention of the word. He tenderly turned her face toward his and looked intently into her eyes. "I love you desperately, Alexa. Do you love me?"

The silence nearly killed him. Then her lower lip started to quiver. "Yes," she whispered, barely daring to speak it, "Desperately." He took the quartz from her and stood. He held out a hand and pulled her to her feet beside him.

"Alexa Bond," he began, "in this sacred place and in front of the witness of those who have gone on before us, with this rock, I thee wed. I vow to honor and cherish and above all love you with all my heart, in health and in sickness, until death takes you from me, and beyond."

Alexa's heart was breaking with joy. She took the rock from him and began, "Adam Pierson...." Her words cut through him like an angry knife—a reminder that he could never be truly married to Alexa, that their souls could never really join. There was so much he was forced to withhold from her. She could never know Methos, only Adam Pierson. Only a shell of all he truly was. "... until death takes me from you." He reached down and found his wine glass in the dark, offered it to her. She drank and then gave it to him to drink. Then, placing the empty glass on the ground, he broke it with his foot.

"I always wanted to do that," Adam said with a little laugh. Alexa cleared her throat. "What, did I forget something?"

"‘You may kiss the bride'?"

"Oh, right."
She leaned against him, prolonging their kiss, pressing him down onto the blanket. "I hope this is what Garrett meant by sacred stuff," she whispered. She used both hands to comb his hair away from his face, studying the planes of his face, every curve and point, the way the muscles of his neck angled down to join his collarbone. Making them part of her, part of this canyon, part of this night, forever.

He reached up to stroke her face, and her eyes slid closed as his fingertips played over her jawline, her lips, her eyelids. Even without Frankincense, warmth permeated her skin everywhere he touched. Sensation dancing in places he had not touched, her whole body responding to his concentrated touch on her face.

"Look," he whispered. His left hand slipped down her back, and in one smooth move flipped them over so that she was lying on the rough blanket, gazing up at the starlit sky, pinpricks of light filling her sight, her senses, so much so that she would almost have sworn she could feel die stars on her skin, tiny goosebumps running over her body.

He kneeled over her, a dark silhouette against the star-filled sky, as awesome and implacable as a constellation. And it was as though the sky, the stone, the whole earth had entered her, sending river and wind and stars shooting through her body. In that moment she would gladly have rolled with him over the edge, falling into forever, ending both their lives in this moment of perfect ecstasy, perfect unity.

And then they were back on earth, arms around each other, hearts beating hard and fast, a sheen of shared sweat drying quickly in the canyon wind. Alexa was panting and crying with exertion and joy. "Adam... I'll remember this... forever."

He pulled another blanket over them, clutched her closer. "So will I, Alexa. I swear. As long as I live."

The sound of hoofbeats was all around him. He bent low over the pommel of his saddle, heels and spurs viciously grazing the sides of the chestnut mare who'd given him her all, demanding she give still more. She whinnied in pain and continued her headlong charge across the dusty flats toward the forest in the distance.

Crack! He heard the sharp report of a Winchester behind him. He turned in his saddle to see that Sheriff Bruton and his men, thundering behind him, were still out of range but gaining steadily as his brave little mare began to flag. He counted eight, plus the Sheriff.

Damn them.

He and the McQuarrie brothers had split up when they heard the posse coming, hoping to raise the odds. There couldn't have been more than 15 of them to start, why did he still have nine? God dammit, someone must have talked. Someone must have told them he'd be the one with the gold. He looked ahead. The forest was getting nearer, but still not close enough. He bent down lower, stroking the foam-flecked head of the exhausted mare, then raked his spurs across her tender ribs. The horse screamed but was able to respond with a short burst of speed. But it didn't last.

The posse rode into range as he reached the treeline. A bullet whizzed past his head and he pulled on the reins, steering the mare in and among the trees. He wove headlong through the forest as bullets zinged around him, trying to keep the trees between himself and the main body of the posse. But Bruton and his men, though hampered in speed by the trees, made up for it in sheer numbers as they began to fan out through the woods. He couldn't hide from all of them.

When the bullet tore through his right arm, shattering the humerus, he was nearly thrown from the saddle. He howled in pain as he struggled to stay mounted, grabbing the reins one-handed, urging the mare on. He heard one of Bruton's deputies whoop in triumph.

The next shot slammed into the mare's flank, driving her to her knees.

He scrambled to get out of the stirrups before she pitched to her side, dead, and he narrowly avoided being pinned beneath her. He tugged desperately on her saddlebags but, one arm still useless, he knew he'd never free the loot.

Grasping his arm to him, wishing he could will it to heal even faster, he took off running. He dodged through the trees, scrambling through the underbrush, all the time hearing the galloping horses and the shouts of Bruton and his men coming closer as bullets found their marks in the trees all around him. All the time waiting for a bullet with his name on it to come crashing through the back of his skull.

He ran with all his strength. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd been hunted like an animal, by an angry mob or a troop of soldiers, many with much more unpleasant designs on his person than a public lynching in Fraziers Well. But he couldn't let them take him back for a trial. Not even the sham mockery of justice he could expect in a backwater mining town dominated by Sheriff Willy Bruton. A trial might expose Veronica's complicity in the scam, and he couldn't allow Veronica to swing with him—she wouldn't come back.

Unless it was Veronica who tipped off Bruton. The revelation hit him harder than a bullet and he nearly tripped over his own running feet. Of course. Veronica. It had to be. What could he expect from a whore? Even one who'd sworn she loved him. She'd be one dead whore if he ever saw her again.