by Deb Stover
"Home."
A gray mist swirled around her and the room swayed. Sofie grappled for something substantial enough to prevent her fall, but all she found was air.
She hit the floor with a jarring thud. Pain stabbed through her skull.
Then there was nothing.
Luke shivered as he walked down Redemption's only street–a wide, muddy, rutted road, lined with haphazard buildings, and crowded by the majestic Rockies on all sides.
A picturesque setting for death.
God, how many funerals? He'd lost count after six. Innocent men, women and children, killed by smallpox–unnecessarily, even in 1891.
From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the small stone building which served as the jail. Jarred from his return trek to the schoolhouse, he paused to stare at the barred window, wondering about the prisoner inside.
Luke swallowed hard. Bars. A chilly breeze chased itself down the pass and encircled him. Father Salazar's black robe flowed around him as he stood there staring. And waiting.
After a moment, the youth appeared at the window, his shaggy blond hair completely concealing one eye. The barest hint of golden stubble covered his chin.
Luke took a step toward the window. The kid seemed oblivious to being watched. Either that, or he was beyond caring.
Luke understood that.
Too damned well.
Slowly, he approached the jail, drawn to seek out the boy. The condemned prisoner. The murderer. Had he really killed his own father? Or, like Luke, had Shane Latimer been wrongly accused, convicted and sentenced?
Guilty...guilty...guilty...
Luke would never forget the sound of those words. Nor would he forget the judge's condemning words as he'd sentenced Luke to die for a crime he hadn't committed.
And Grandpa...
Pain wrenched through Luke's gut and he froze in mid-step. His breathing labored, he stared at the prisoner, whose gaze was directed toward the schoolhouse at the far edge of town. Studying the boy's expression, Luke saw pain, fear and helplessness etched across the young features.
Father Salazar's words reverberated through Luke's mind yet again: "Go with God, my son."
Why now?
Because Father Salazar would've spoken to the boy, just as he'd spoken to Luke. He would have offered comfort and reassurance in the face of death.
You're taking this priest stuff too seriously, Nolan. So what? His impersonation wasn't hurting anyone and, as impossible as it seemed, Luke had actually brought comfort to the citizens of this cursed town. Besides, this kid deserved the same consideration Father Salazar had shown Luke.
Even if he was guilty?
Luke hesitated for only a moment. Yeah, even then.
Had anyone told Shane Latimer about his mother's death? Or that his sister would recover? Luke clenched his fists at his sides, making his decision even as he continued toward the window.
The boy must've heard Luke's approach, because he retreated into the dingy cell, his gaze wary as he stared at his uninvited guest. "Who are you?" he asked when Luke stopped outside the window.
"Lu–" He froze and drew a ragged breath. "Father Salazar," he said, wishing more than ever that he could shed his facade.
"I didn't send for any priest. What do you want?" Shane's gaze darted back to the schoolhouse twice before settling again on Luke. "You been over there with the sick folks?"
Though the kid was obviously trying to appear tough, Luke heard pain and worry in his voice. "Yes."
Shane reached up and gripped the bars so tightly his knuckles turned white. His transformation from tough and aloof to frantic and impassioned occurred within a heartbeat. He pressed his face against the iron bars, pretense crumbling away to reveal stark fear. "Please, tell me about my ma and sister. Please?"
No trace of the tough veneer remained. Naked emotion filled the imploring eyes. Luke hated being the one to tell the boy about his mother, but it had to be done.
Who better than the local priest? Get a grip.
"Shane–your name is Shane?" He had to make sure, and at the boy's nod, he continued. "Your mother and sister have both been very ill with smallpox. Jenny is much better now. Dr. Wilson doesn't think she'll even have bad scars."
Shane lowered his gaze. Red-gold curls fell across his face, concealing his expression. After a few minutes, he shoved back his hair and cleared his throat to meet Luke's gaze again. "And Ma?"
"I...I'm sorry."
The boy's eyes glittered with unshed tears. "I knew she was gone. I just knew it."
This was Luke's cue to lapse into priest mode, but the words wouldn't come. He couldn't mutter a single "it was God's will" or anything else the least bit comforting. This epidemic wasn't God's will, dammit. It was hell on earth. Period.
"Yes," he finally said. "She died–"
"Night before last," Shane finished, a grimace twisting his young face. "A few hours before sunrise." The kid's voice cracked with emotion and he blinked several times.
"Someone told you then." Luke breathed a sigh of relief.
"Yeah, I guess you could say that." Bitterness honed Shane's voice to a bitter edge. "She told me. Nancy Latimer always does–did–everything herself. Absolutely everything. She never asked anybody for a blessed thing."
One lone tear trickled down Shane's face, but he swiped it away, then turned his back on Luke and stalked across the dirt floor. "Thanks for telling me," he muttered.
Luke stared helplessly at the young man's back. The shoulders were slumped, but they didn't shake with weeping, nor did Shane make a single sound to reveal his anguish. The kid suffered in silence, and with dignity.
After a moment, Luke drew a deep breath and dropped his hands to his sides. "Your mother must've been one helluva woman to raise fine kids like you and Jenny."
Shane turned slowly to face the window again. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut and nodded. "She...she was," he finally whispered.
"If you want to talk, send someone to the schoolhouse for me."
"Wait. Tell my sister..." Shane approached the window again.
"Yes?" Luke waited. The tension in the air was so thick he could almost hear it, and he couldn't help remembering almost exactly the same words coming from his lips moments before his trip to the chair. "Tell my grandma..."
"I can't raise Jenny like I promised Ma I would if anything ever...happened to her." Another tear slid down Shane's cheek. "I won't be here to do it."
That did it. Even when Luke had faced execution over a century in the future, there hadn't been a child depending on him. He'd left no one except a bitter old grandmother who'd written him off years ago. Hardened criminal or not, Luke's heart broke.
"Mrs. Fleming plans to raise Jenny," Luke said, wanting to ease the boy's mind.
"I'll raise Jenny," a man called from the middle of the street.
Luke whirled around to find the owner of the voice. A man sat on horseback, his face partially covered by a bandanna.
A roar erupted from the jail cell. Shane's fist shot between the bars, reaching toward the rider. "You stay away from Jenny," the boy shouted. "Stay away!"
"That bald-headed priest ain't gonna help you, boy. You're as good as dead already." The rider tilted his head back and laughed, a wicked, penetrating sound that made Luke shudder.
"Stay away from her!"
Luke knew with absolute certainty that if Shane could have reached the man, he would kill him with his bare hands. From the information Luke had overheard this morning, he realized the man on horseback was none other than the notorious Frank Latimer.
"Sure hope you've had smallpox," Luke said casually, facing the newcomer. "If not, you're pretty stupid to ride into town this way."
The man looked down the street, then narrowed his gaze on Luke. "Got the inoculation this morning." He pulled the bandanna up higher over the bridge of his nose.
So Frank Latimer thought that piece of cloth would protect him from smallpox. Luke shook his head.
"I hope you do get smallpox," Shane said, letting his hand fall limply outside the cell window. "I want you to suffer before you burn in hell."
The man laughed again, but he sounded nervous even to Luke. "I'll be back for the hangin'. Wouldn't miss that for nothin'." A moment later, Frank Latimer turned his horse and dug his heels into the animal's sides, leaving Redemption and its epidemic behind.
"Don't let him get Jenny." The urgency in Shane's voice made Luke wary. Very wary.
"Mrs. Fleming will raise Jenny," Luke vowed.
And prayed this was one promise he could keep.
Chills gripped Sofie. She was burning hot one minute, then freezing the next, floating between a strange dream world and reality. The dream world was much more pleasant, and she welcomed its return.
A blurry shape formed beside her, and she blinked to focus on Dr. Wilson's white head. With his stethoscope, he listened to her chest, then he lifted the lids of her eyes and leaned very close.
"Can't rule out an infection with the fever, but I think she's just worn herself out," he said, then stood and moved away. "Keep her in bed the rest of the day. I'll check on her again later."
"Not smallpox?" Mrs. Fleming asked.
"Definitely not. Besides, she's been inoculated. This is my fault. I shouldn't have put her to work right away after that nasty head wound."
"It isn't your fault, Roman."
"If you say so," he said uncertainly. "You're too good to me. I don't know what we'd do without you."
"This epidemic isn't your fault, and neither is Sofie's condition," Mrs. Fleming repeated, her tone adamant.
"I know better than to argue with you," he said. "Give her a dose of laudanum to help her sleep. I'm sure she'll be all right after a rest, Anna."
Sofie tried to concentrate on their conversation, but only parts of it penetrated the smothering gray veil. It was like being under water, struggling to reach the surface. Weird, staccato music played through her head and she saw an openmouthed shark coming toward her. A huge one.
The door opened and closed, then she heard Mrs. Fleming's soothing voice, blotting out the strange shark music. "There, there. We didn't let you mend long enough, child. I'm so sorry."
A cool rag soothed Sofie's burning forehead and something cold and metallic pressed against her lips. Too tired to fight, she took the bittersweet medicine and sighed.
And dreamed.
Bright lights and people rushing around her. Someone stopped and powdered her nose, then took her center stage, where a huge sign spelled out "This is Your Life" in glaring, neon lights.
A game show? Of course, a television game show. Scenes and images flew past. She saw birthday parties, family weddings, herself at various ages, and the dark-haired woman she knew was her mother. Daddy was there, too, and a little boy whose name she couldn't remember. He was bigger than Sofie–her older brother?
All the faces were nameless, though. Sofie wanted desperately to know their names. Were they really her family? Were they searching for her? Did they miss her? She saw a casket draped with flowers, and her mother standing there holding Sofie's hand and the little boy's. They all looked so sad and lost, but they were together. A family?
She had to remember. "Try, Sofie." It was her mother's voice, soothing and pleading. "Come home soon."
Home. Ruby slippers, heels clicking together, and a soft voice saying, "There's no place like home...."
Coolness touched her cheek again and Sofie leaned into it. Gentle fingers brushed her hair away from her face, then something else touched her. Something soft and warm and wondrous. Lips? Yes, someone had kissed her forehead.
Fingertips brushed her cheek again and Sofie knew it was a man who touched her now. These rough but gentle fingers couldn't belong to Mrs. Fleming or even Dr. Wilson. Father Salazar?
"Just rest, Sofie," he said. "You scared the hell out of me–I mean us–today."
Yes, of course. Definitely Father Salazar. She'd know his voice anywhere, even under the influence of the potent drug Mrs. Fleming had given her. It didn't matter, because her weird hero was here to rescue her again.
She struggled to awaken completely, but her eyelids were too heavy. Everything felt heavy, and she was weak. So weak...
He touched her again and she managed to find his hand with her lips, and planted a kiss in his palm. He tasted of salt and man. She inhaled his scent and snuggled against his thigh, where he sat on the edge of her bed. His solid warmth reached something deep inside her, stirring sensations and thoughts probably better left buried.
Another dream? Yes, it had to be. Surrendering to the power of her dream, warmth oozed through her and she kissed his palm again fiercely.
"Sofie," he said, his voice quiet but intense. "Sofie, don't."
Empowered, she nipped his hand playfully with her teeth. Dreams were safe. She wanted this dream to keep touching her forever, but in other, more intimate ways.
Everywhere.
She wanted him to kiss her again. Really kiss her. "Kiss me," she whispered, trying to reach out to him. "Please, dream man?"
A deep, nervous chuckle rumbled from him, and a smile tugged at her lips. Only a dream...
"Kiss me," she repeated.
"Then will you go back to sleep?" His whisper was hoarse, strained.
"Yes," she promised, even though she was already very much asleep.
She felt the warmth of his body as he bent toward her. His broad chest brushed against her nipples and she moaned. Her breasts grew heavy and hard, aching for his touch.
Summoning every ounce of strength she could manage, she lifted her arms and slipped her hands behind his neck, locking her fingers together. Anything to prolong this delicious dream...
His mouth was soft and warm on her cheek, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough. She turned her face to capture his lips with hers. He tensed, but didn't pull away. Empowered, she drew him closer, her lips parting in invitation.
"Sofie," he whispered against her lips.
She traced the shape of his mouth with the tip of her tongue. He moaned, and the sound rumbled through her, enticing and inciting.
Closer now, his lips finally formed a seal with hers. Liquid warmth surged through her. She was floating, swelling upward, eagerly seeking his hard maleness to complement her own softness.
He tried again to pull away, but she held fast. And when he tried to speak, she took advantage of his parted lips to explore the warmth of his mouth.
Moaning again, he returned her kiss. His hands cupped her face as he tasted her thoroughly. Deeply. Hungrily.
Hot. Sofie was so hot. She wanted to shed her clothing, to press her naked flesh against his, to feel his desire in turn.
But suddenly, he broke their kiss and wrenched himself from her embrace. "No, I can't," he whispered fiercely. "This is wrong. Wrong."
"No, don't leave me." If only she could open her eyes and see him, then, maybe, she could make him stay. I'll just dream him back. "Love me."
"God help me."
She heard the door open and close, but before she could protest her dream lover's sudden departure, she slipped into a deeper, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 7
Behind the schoolhouse, Luke gulped frosty night air into his lungs, struggling to regain control. Mrs. Fleming had warned him earlier that she'd dosed Sofie with laudanum–probably not the best treatment for someone with a head injury, now that he thought about it. Modern medicine, such as it was...
Sofie's behavior had been a result of her injury and a dose of opium. Not any latent, ardent desire for a sunburned, bald-headed priest.
Yeah, get real.
Luke, on the other hand, had no potent narcotic flowing through his veins as a handy excuse for his behavior. His instantaneous red-hot response to her guileless–and highly effective–attempt at seduction had been totally natural. Unenhanced.
Volatile.
Hell, even a real priest would have had trouble walking away from her soft lips, firm br
easts, and blatant eagerness. Yeah, eagerness.
"Man, I'm in sad shape." He unbuttoned the top few buttons of his robe and yanked the stiff collar from around his neck. As a kid, he'd heard some refer to it as a dog collar. He hadn't understood it then, but it made a lot of sense now. Dogs were neutered, and he just as well be at this point.
Merciful and humane? And permanent. No, not for Luke Nolan. Playing priest could be the death of him yet, but at least it was temporary.
Being so close to a woman like Sofie without being able to...to...
"No." He wouldn't–couldn't. Mopping perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand, he looked up at the sky. Last night's stars were totally absent this evening. Only a sliver of moonlight penetrated the total blackness shrouding the mountain town.
Screw the stars.
He was harder than the iron bars on any jail cell. Pacing in the darkness, he punched the palm of his left hand with his right fist. Repeatedly. Rhythmically.
Reminding him of something else. An activity he hadn't experienced nearly enough in his twenty-nine years. Bumping and grinding. Yes, that's what his teenaged mentality would've called what he wanted to do right now.
"Shit." Finding no relief from beating his palm black and blue like his balls, he stopped and stared at the collar still clutched in his fist. Damn that collar. One way or another, he'd have some different clothes by morning. Besides, these were filthy. Good excuse to shed his sheep's clothing, especially since he felt a lot more like a wolf....
He drew more cold air into his lungs and closed his eyes. Perspiration trickled down his face and neck, despite the chilly night air. He was on fire, and this time he couldn't blame the electric chair. All the heat came from the inside.
Straight from his groin.
"Damn, damn, damn." He needed a woman. Eleven years of celibacy had caught up with him in a big way. How did priests do it? Sure, he'd heard stories about those who'd strayed, but in his heart, he believed most people who took vows of celibacy kept them. Didn't they?
The throbbing between his legs increased.
Didn't they?
"Of course they do. Don't be an ass. Crap." Grandma would've washed his mouth out with soap about now.
