ChasetheLightning (13 page)

The man on the porch smiled, revealing a mouthful of crooked
yellow teeth. “Name rings a bell, I see. Why don’t you two just step down from
that there horse and we’ll have us a talk about old Langley?”

“We’re fine right here,” Trey said over Amanda’s head. “Say
your piece.”

She saw the man’s expression go flat and hard. “Tough cowboy
huh?”

“Please…” she said. “What do you want?”

“I ain’t the Bolander that Langley went after if that’s what
you’re wonderin’,” the man said grimly. “I’m his brother, Nate. And that
there’s our brother, Arnie, and our cousin, Cletus.” He scowled past her, his
eyes narrowing as he looked at Trey. “Name mean anything to you, cowpoke?”

“Is it supposed to?” Trey drawled.

“It will,” the big man promised. “It will.”

Amanda glanced at the two men standing near the barn, then
looked back at the man on the porch. “What do you want?” she repeated, hating
the frightened quiver in her voice.

“Where’s the bounty man?” Nate demanded. “Tell us now, and
we’ll be on our way. Otherwise…” He crossed the porch and started down the
stairs.

She felt Trey move behind her, heard the oily snick of his
Colt being cocked.

“No,” she murmured.

“He’s not coming over here to shake your hand,” Trey
muttered, “and neither are those two hombres.”

It was then she saw what Trey had obviously noticed earlier.
One of the men was holding a sawed-off shotgun down along his pant leg, the
other was carrying a short rifle the same way, one-handed. Her eyes widened and
her heart seemed to jump into her throat. She swallowed hard.

Trey lifted the reins just a little. She heard him murmur
something to Relámpago in what she assumed was Apache.

At the foot of the stairs, Nate Bolander reached under his
shirt and produced a flat black automatic pistol. Before Amanda could quite
take it all in, the stallion leaped forward. Nate let out a cry and fell back,
his gun going off with a flat crack. But it was too late. The stallion was on
him, slamming into his shoulder, tossing him back on the stairs.

A rifle barked from the direction of the barn, and Trey’s
revolver exploded thunderously from behind her.

Amanda screamed, her hands going over her ears. She fell
back against Trey’s chest as Relámpago broke into a dead run away from the
house. Trey’s rein arm steadied her like a living band of warm steel.

She risked a glance over her shoulder. Nate and Arnie were
running for the truck. The third man, the one who had held the rifle, was on
his hands and knees in the yard, rifle forgotten, his head hanging low.

The men running for the truck didn’t spare a glance for
their fallen comrade. The engine roared to life. The man on the passenger side
leaned out the window, his shotgun tracking them.

It was hopeless, she thought. Relámpago would never be able
to outrun the truck.

Trey’s left arm stretched out to its full length and the
Colt in his hand barked twice in quick succession; she saw the windshield on
the passenger side of the truck web with cracks and sag inward. She couldn’t
seen the man who had been hanging out the window any more. Had he been hit?

The Apache war cry rose up in Trey’s throat as he cranked
off another round that ricocheted off the side of the cab.

Amanda felt suddenly numb. This couldn’t be happening.
Things like this happened to other people. She read about it in the paper every
day, saw it on the news every night.

She screamed again as the truck drew closer. She could see
the contorted face of the driver as he closed in on them, the concentrated fury
in his eyes. He was going to ram the stallion with the truck!

They were going to die. The reality hit her with stunning
force. She clung to Relámpago’s mane, her ears ringing loudly from the gunfire
and the roar of the truck’s engine. Abruptly, uncannily, the noise in her head
faded to a soft buzz, like bees in a field of wildflowers on a sleepy summer
afternoon. Long fingers of swirling gray mist rose up out of the ground. And
then everything went black.

Amanda shook her head. Awareness of her surroundings returned
slowly. The buzzing inside her head faded and she became aware of the sound of
Relámpago’s hoofbeats, walking now, not galloping wildly. The thick gray mist
had disappeared. She was aware of Trey’s arm, still around her, though not as
tight as before.

There was no sign of the truck that had been pursuing them.

Amanda glanced around. The landscape looked the same, yet
not the same. The most startling change was the grass, stirrup high, spreading
off around them, dotted with clumps of creosote and sage, and the ever-present,
towering saguaro. She remembered a local environmentalist telling her that the
patchy grass and bare eroded earth of the desert near her home were the result
of a century of overgrazing. She had never seen the grass this lush, this high.

She shook her head again. It had been late afternoon before;
now, the sun was just climbing in the sky. How was that possible? Had she been
unconscious for more than a day?

Feeling more than a little disoriented, she looked over her
shoulder at Trey. “What happened? I felt so strange for a minute there. Kind of
dizzy.”

He shook his head, looking as confused as she felt. “I’m not
sure, but…”

His arm fell away from her waist and he leaned back a
little, bringing his left arm behind her. In between the muffled thud of the
stallion’s hooves she heard a snick-snick as he rotated the cylinder of his
gun, one chamber at a time. Empty cartridges rained down the saddle leather and
disappeared in the grass below. The cylinder snicked through its cycle again
and she knew he was reloading. A moment later, his arm slid around her waist
again.

“But what? Tell me.”

“I had that same feeling once before.”

A shiver went down her spine. “When was that?” She felt
compelled to ask, though she was sure she didn’t want to hear the answer.

“Just before I showed up in your yard.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”

“Those old boys vanished in a heartbeat when that mist came
up,” he said. “Just like that posse that was chasing me did the last time. I
think we’re back, Amanda, back where I belong.”

“Oh, no. No.” She shook her head in denial. Glancing around
again, she tried to find something, some point of reference, that would prove
him wrong. She couldn’t, but she couldn’t accept it. “What makes you think
we’re in your time?”

He laughed softly. “I don’t know. It just feels… right.”

“Right? How can it be right? If you’re right, I don’t want
to be here! Turn around. Let’s go back.”

“I’m not sure it works like that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know if I can go back and forth at will. It wasn’t
something I was trying to do before, and it wasn’t something I tried to do this
time. It just happened.”

“How did it happen before? You never told me?”

“I was running from a posse.”

“So that’s how you got shot.”

“Yeah. Almost as soon as I did…it happened. It was like
’Pago knew how to get me out of danger. I know that sounds crazy, but my
grandfather told me ‘Pago would always carry me to safety. I guess ‘Pago knew
you’d look after me.”

“Well, turn Relámpago around. Let’s go back to where it
happened this time and at least try.”

He did as she asked. Wheeling the stud around, they followed
their back trail.

The wind stirred the tall grass, a cactus wren flitted
across the sky.

Nothing else happened.

“Try again!” she said.

He reined the stallion around, and did so. Again, nothing
happened.

He tried it again, unbidden. And yet again.

“It’s no use,” he said. “Maybe it's still dangerous back
there. That fella driving that truck was…crazy. And I'm only sure I got one of
them. The other one, the one with shotgun, he might still be alive and
kickin’.”

“But I don’t want to stay here,” she wailed. “You don’t even
have indoor plumbing.” Or toilet paper, she thought.

“Sure we do,” he said, grinning. “We call them chamber
pots.”

“Very funny.”

He reined the stallion around once more, and struck off in a
new direction. She thought it might be south, but she’d never had a very good
sense of direction.

“Where are you going?”

“Canyon Creek.” He glanced up at the sky. “If we ride hard,
we can be there by nightfall.”

“But…” Canyon Creek! For a moment, she thought it might be
fun to see the town the way it had been over a hundred and thirty years ago.
But only for a moment.

He looked at her and grinned. “Don’t know what we’ll use for
money, since you took all of mine.”

“It wasn’t yours,” she retorted.

“Sure as hell was. I stole it, didn’t I? And we could use
some of it now.”

Before she could argue further, he clucked to the stud and
Relámpago broke into an easy, mile-eating lope.

Amanda watched the countryside slip by. It couldn’t be real.
She couldn’t have been transported to the past. It was unthinkable, impossible.
And maybe it wasn’t true anyway. Just because Trey said “it felt right” didn’t
make it so. Maybe she was just imagining that the landscape looked different.
Maybe the recent rains had caused the grass to come back so strongly. Though
she hadn’t noticed it on their earlier ride. And maybe it was true. Trey had
been transported into her time.

They rode for several hours, not saying much. Her legs and
seat began to ache from the unaccustomed saddle. But that was minor compared to
her whirling thoughts. What if it was true, and she was in the past? How would
she ever get home again? What about her house? The door was wide open. And her
car? And what about those awful men who had come looking for Rob?

She shuddered at the thought of one or more of them lying
dead on her property. The survivor or survivors would probably take the body.
Would they trash her house for revenge? Take the Jag? And Rob, he was in danger.
She had to get back, had to warn him! But how?

Her thoughts chased each other endlessly. When the buildings
of a town finally showed in the distance, she realized that she was very tired.
She stared at the town blankly. “That can't be Canyon Creek!”

Trey chuckled softly, his breath warm on her neck. “Yep,
that’s it. Just the way I remember it.”

It was near dusk when they reached the outskirts of town. It
didn’t look like much from a distance, and looked even worse the closer they
got. A sign read, “Canyon Creek. Population 853.” The dirt road they had been
following for the last hour or so widened out, rutted like an old washboard.
Fresh wheel tracks scored its surface. Wagon wheels, not tire tracks. Buildings
lined both side of the street. Most of the buildings were made of raw,
unpainted wood with false fronts and fancy names. The Monarch Hotel. The
Emperor’s Saloon. The Bon Ton Millinery Shoppe. She shook her head. They were
in an untamed Western town, for crying out loud, not New York City. At any other
time, she would have laughed, but not now, not with the reality of her
situation bearing down on her.

A few side streets branched off the main road. She could see
houses scattered beyond the town: a few large ones on the east side of Main
Street, smaller dwellings on the west side.

If it had been shocking for Trey to see the town the way it
was in her time, it was no less of a shock for her to see it as it was now.
Every other building seemed to be a saloon: One Eyed Jack’s, the Painted Lady,
the Ace High, the Red Queen. Women in scanty attire lounged in front of the
saloons, or hung over the second-floor balconies, flirting outrageously with
the men who passed by on the boardwalk below.

Horses were tied to hitch racks in front of the various
businesses. Sandwiched in among the saloons were a number of other stores and
shops: a shoemaker, a dentist, a dressmaker, two barber shops, three laundries,
a lawyer’s office, a bank, a tailor, a bath house, a doctor’s office, a drug
store, several restaurants, a post office. There was a livery stable at one end
of the street, and a jail at the other. She recognized a few of the buildings,
of course, like the firehouse and the courthouse.

Beyond the town, there was nothing but wide open spaces as
far as the eye could see. Near the outskirts of town were a number of corrals
filled with cattle, and across from that a railroad station. There was a church
in the center of town, and beside it, a red school house. And, further down the
street, a theater, of all things. The sign out front read, “Canyon Creek Opera
House. Now Starring Lily Victoria, the Louisiana Songbird.”

Trey reined the stallion to a halt in front of a saloon that
looked vaguely familiar. Amanda gasped as she read the familiar red and white
sign. The Four Deuces. It seemed like only yesterday she and Trey had danced
there. And in some reality, it was only yesterday, she realized. But terms like
yesterday and tomorrow were hopelessly blurred now.

Sliding over the stud’s rump, Trey looped the reins over the
hitching post, then lifted her from the saddle.

“What are we doing here?” she asked.

“I’m broke.”

She looked at him blankly.

“We need money,” he said. “I aim to get some the best way I
know how.”

She looked at the saloon. “You’re not going to rob the
place, are you?”

“No, sweetheart. Just play a little poker.”

“You’re a gambler, too?”

“Well, it’s a sight easier than robbing banks. Safer, too.”

“Very funny,” she muttered. She frowned as a man on the
boardwalk stopped and stared at her. “What are you looking at?”

The man tipped his hat. “Sorry, ma’am, I was just…” He
glanced at Trey and cleared his throat uneasily. “I didn’t mean no disrespect,
ma’am,” he said quickly, and hurried down the street.

“What was that all about?” Amanda asked.

“Your get-up, I reckon.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, those pants for one thing. And that there, ah, shirt,
or whatever you call it.”

Amanda glanced down at her clothes. She was wearing a pair
of red stretch jeans, a white tank top, and white sneakers. “What’s wrong with
what I’m wearing?”

“Well, those duds might be all right for your time, but
they’re pretty scandalous for mine. That top is a mite revealing, and those
jeans aren’t like any that people hereabouts have seen before. Besides being
red, they fit right snug. Not that I’m complainin’, mind you, but…”

“They aren’t that tight,” she retorted.

He shrugged. “Wait here. I won’t be long.”

“I’m not sitting out here in the sun. I’m going with you.”

“Decent women don’t go into saloons.”

“What are you going to use for money? I thought you were
broke?”

“Don’t fret your pretty head about it.” Turning, he climbed
the stairs and disappeared through the saloon’s swinging doors.

Amanda stood there a few minutes, idly patting Relámpago’s
neck while she watched the people on the street. And they were watching her.
She noticed all the covert glances, as if she were a freak in a side show, and
felt her cheeks begin to burn. Their disapproval was almost tangible, though they
pretended to ignore her as they went about their business.

She stared at the women strolling past. They wore
high-necked, long-sleeved dresses made of calico and gingham and serge. Bonnets
shaded their faces. They wore gloves and carried parasols. Dainty handbags that
weren’t big enough to hold her wallet, much less a cell phone, comb, brush,
lipstick, checkbook and day planner, dangled from their wrists. How did they
endure being smothered in yards and yards of cloth when it was eighty degrees
outside?

Men nodded and tipped their hats to these modestly-clad
women as they passed by, held doors open for them. If she hadn't believed she
was in the past before, she believed it now.

The men all wore hats and boots and spurs. Most wore vests
of some kind over long-sleeved cotton shirts, and trousers made of canvas or
whipcord or wool. And they all carried guns.

She glanced at the saloon, gave the stud a final pat on the
shoulder, and made her way up the stairs and into the saloon.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior.
The air smelled of tobacco smoke, alcohol, cheap perfume, and stale sweat. She
grinned as she glanced around. It was like being in the middle of a western
movie set. There was the typical long bar on one side of the room, complete
with brass rail and spittoons. A number of gaming tables covered with what
looked like green felt were situated in the center of the floor; there was a
faro table in the back of the house. The floor was covered with sawdust. A trio
of girls in short dresses and high-heeled boots wandered from table to table,
laughing and smiling at the customers.

Trey was seated at a table near the back of the room. A
guttering oil lamp hung from a chain above the table.

Skirting the room, she moved up to stand behind him, acutely
aware of the men who turned to stare at her as she threaded her way through the
crowded floor. There were three other men sitting at Trey’s table, all
concentrating on the cards in their hands.

Leaning forward a little, she saw that Trey held a pair of
kings and a pair of tens. There were no numbers on the cards, just pictures and
spots.

“I’ll raise,” said a man wearing a black bowler hat and
string tie. He tossed a silver dollar into the pot.

“I’ll see your raise,” said the man beside him, “and kick it
up another dollar.”

“Two dollars to me,” mused a man with a red handlebar
mustache. He tossed his cards into the center of the table, face down. “Too
rich for my blood.”

Looking up, he saw Amanda standing behind Trey. And winked
at her.

Unable to help herself, she grinned at him.

Trey threw two silver dollars into the pot, and added a
third. She wondered where he’d got the money to bet with.