by Tamara Gill
“Wes.” She pushed the hair out of her eyes as she shook his shoulder. “Wake up. You’re dreaming.”
He bolted up, panting. Letting out with a groan, he ran his palm down his face, taking deep breaths while she rubbed his back.
“I’m sorry.” He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, then tossed the sheet off and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “I’ll leave so you can go back to sleep.” He reached for his pants and moved to slide his legs into them.
“No. Stop.” She grabbed his arm. “I’m not going right back to sleep, and now is the perfect time to talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I’ve told you what happened. Just let it be.”
Anna shifted until her back rested against the headboard. She patted the spot alongside her. “Sit.” When he continued to pull on his pants, she added, “Please?”
Wes took a deep breath and stilled for a moment, his head down, forearms resting on his thighs. “Can’t you just forget it?”
“Come on, marshal, you know me better than that.” She threw him a saucy smile.
He glanced at her over his shoulder, a slight smile curving his lips. “You are one stubborn woman.”
“Best you understand that from the beginning.”
After he settled next to her, she took his hand, lacing their fingers together. “There’s a name for what you’re going through.”
“So in your time, dreams have names?”
She grinned. “No. Don’t be a smart aleck.”
When he raised his eyebrows, she added, “That’s just a saying. But, what you have is called post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes. Or, as we call it PTSD.”
“Fine.” He stared at her unblinkingly. “Now can I go make some coffee?”
“I’m serious here, Wes. What you’re going through is a well-known reaction people have to a very traumatic experience.”
“‘Traumatic?’ You know, I think you invent these words.”
“Hmm. Serious, dangerous, frightening.” She rolled her eyes. “I feel like a Thesaurus.”
“Honey, if you’re going to continue talking in your strange language, I am going to get up and make coffee.”
“Well, since I’m not going back to sleep anyway, I’ll go with you.” She scooted off the bed, padded to the dresser, and retrieved the nightgown she never got to put on. As she slid the fabric down her body, she turned to see Wes staring at her, his eyes darkened.
“Instead of coffee, why don’t we go back to bed and see if I can figure out a way to handle this RTSP.”
Anna laughed. “It’s PTSD, and you’re not getting out of this now.” She pointed toward the door. “To the kitchen.”
His shoulders slumped as turned and left the room. “Damn bossy woman.”
***
After giving Anna a lesson on how to make coffee in his ‘old-fashioned kitchen,’ as she called it, Wes sat across from her at the table, their hands cupped around enamel mugs of the warm liquid.
“I’m not an expert on PTSD, but I did study it in the academy.” She laughed when he made a face. “Don’t smirk. It’s a police academy where men and women train to be law enforcement officers.”
“Men and women?”
“Yes. In my time women do all sorts of jobs that only men do now. They even join the Army and Navy and go to war.”
The more he heard about the future, the more interested he became in how things had changed. Or more accurately, how they would change. But, women going off to war? It worried him to think there were more wars to come after the one he’d just fought. Why would women want to leave the protection of their home to crawl around in the mud and be shot at?
“Why would their fathers and husbands allow that?”
Anna grinned. “There is no allowing it. Women are free to do what they want. Why, my mother fought the battle for women’s rights.”
Wes’s head snapped up. “You mean there was a war for women’s rights? Did they fight the men?”
“No. When I say ‘battle,’ I mean they protested. You know, they paraded down the street, took over public buildings and refused to leave, burned their . . . underwear in front of the courthouse−”
“Stop.” Wes held up a hand. “Don’t tell me any more.”
“All right, maybe that’s a bit for you to take in. But, I want you to know that we’ve discovered in my time how to help someone who has suffered a shock. In fact, you can help yourself.”
He groaned. “Do I have to form a sewing circle of men in town so we can talk about our problems?”
“No. But one thing that will help is learning what you’re going through is perfectly normal.”
He stood, placed the empty mug in the sink and turned to regard her, leaning against the sink. “I don’t feel normal. I jump if someone walks up behind me. I torture myself with the memory of that young girl’s eyes pleading with me. I check my gun a hundred times a day.” He inhaled deeply. “And most of all I can’t abide the thought of you being in danger.”
Anna joined him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “All normal reactions to what you witnessed. Having these feelings doesn’t make you weak. Or a coward, or a sissy—for lack of a better word. You’re a strong, brave man.” She laid her head on his chest. “It will take more time. But now that you know a little bit about it, maybe you can let go of some of your guilt.”
His fingers played with her hair, massaging her scalp. The scent of flowers drifted up from the silky waves. “Suppose we were in your time. Besides talking about my troubles, what else would I do?”
She glanced at him, her eyes smoky. “I understand strenuous exercise is good.”
His gut clenched, all his senses coming alive at the low pitch of her voice. “Exercise?”
“Yes. Exercise.” She breathed out her answer, the warmth from her mouth sliding over his chin. Her heart rate increased against his chest and she moaned as he bent and nuzzled behind her ear.
Wes slid his palms up underneath her nightgown, squeezing her buttocks, then slowly wandering up her body to cup her breasts. “I have a great idea for exercising.”
“Do you now?” Her voice rasped.
In answer, he scooped her up and headed to the bedroom. “The best exercise ever.”
***
“Ouch!” Anna sucked her burnt finger and glared at the mess on the stove that was supposed to be their dinner. The green beans from the jar she’d fetched from the pantry had burned and were stuck to the bottom of the pot. Who knew how hot an iron cookstove could get? She’d peeled and boiled potatoes, but without a strainer had no idea how to drain them, or what to mash them with.
The only decent item was fried chicken because the church ladies had dropped by for the sewing circle, and brought it with them. They’d also presented her with a copy of The Domestic Receipt Book that she’d glanced through, then slammed shut, terrified at the contents.
The pages were riddled with comments about how the dutiful housewife did her laundry on Monday, ironing and mending on Tuesday, baking on Wednesday and Saturday, tidied her kitchen and parlor daily, and cleaned thoroughly on Thursday and Saturday.
She pulled her apron off and tossed it over a chair. Nowhere in The Book, as she’d begun to call it, was there time for the housewife to have a manicure, haircut, or a glass of wine with her friends. Or more importantly, reserve enough energy to make love with her husband. How the heck did these couples manage to have so many children? If she hadn’t been afraid the ladies would ask for it back, she would’ve tossed the tome into the cookstove.
As long as she was stuck in this time period, she had to let go of her modern way of thinking. Of course, Susan B. Anthony had already started her fight for women’s rights by this time. Maybe starting a branch here in Denton would be a worthwhile pursuit. Certainly better than the list of duties outlined in that cursed book. A housewife drudge. No washer and dryer, no dishwasher
, no microwave, and worst of all no Keurig.
“Oh!” She swatted at the flames at the edge of her apron that she’d left too close to the cookstove, then dropped the fiery material into the sink and pumped water on it.
***
“Marshal, here’s the latest batch of ‘wanted’ posters.” The young, freckle-faced boy who worked after school for Arnold dropped the package on the desk. His shining eyes studied the brown wrapped bundle. “I’ll be you can’t wait to get out there and drag ‘em into jail.”
Unable to hold back a smile at the boy’s enthusiasm, Wes untied the package. “No doubt the public would be better served if these outlaws were behind bars.”
“When I grow up I’m gonna be a sheriff. Or a marshal, like you, or Mr. Hickok over in Abilene.” He stuck out his puny chest.
“A noble idea, for sure.”
When the boy continued to badger Wes for stories, asking for more and more bloody descriptions, Wes pointed toward the door. “Won’t Mr. Prentiss be looking for you?”
“Yessir.” The kid hurried away, but turned back. “This was fun, marshal. I might come back another time so we can talk.”
Wes groaned and pulled the posters from the package. He lined them up on his desk, eventually setting four of them aside. Buck Mather, age forty-two, sons Billy, Joe and Noah. Two in their twenties, and the youngest, Noah, fifteen. The kid looked fifteen, all right, but his eyes were the eyes of an old man. Hard, dangerous.
His attention was drawn to the door as it crashed open.
“Marshal, they’re holed up in Devil’s Dungeon.” Slug hobbled through, wincing as he eased himself into a chair. “One of my passengers went through there a few days ago. Said he stopped for a beer and the four of them were sitting ‘round a table, throwin’ down shots, and laughin’ about the robberies they’d done. The younger one even bragged about shootin’ a passenger and his son between the eyes.”
Wes leaned back and studied the driver. “I guess they have no reason to hide what they’ve been doing, since the sheriff doesn’t seem too concerned.”
Slug shifted a wad of tobacco from one cheek to the other. “They’re a bad bunch. One of ‘em dragged a saloon girl upstairs by her hair. Said you could hear her screams for right on fifteen minutes.”
Wes closed his eyes and swallowed the bile that rose to the back of his throat. “I don’t suppose the bartender did anything about it?”
Slug shook his head. “He ain’t goin’ against them boys. Nobody will. At least not in Devil’s Dungeon.”
“Not even the sheriff,” Wes said.
“Well, I gotta git on my way.” Slug grimaced as he shifted, then rose and headed toward the door.
“How’s the leg?”
“Gettin’ better.” The door slammed as the driver left.
Wes studied the four ‘wanted’ posters again. He’d have to put together a posse strong enough to hunt these men down and bring them in. There wasn’t time to send for out of town help, so he’d have to rely on his usual men. Not a good idea with this band being so deadly, but he had to get them behind bars before anyone else was killed.
A quick look at his timepiece assured him he had plenty of time to get a group together so they could start off before dawn, maybe catch the outlaws unaware and sleeping off a drunk. He grinned to think he might surprise the good-for-nothing sheriff in his sleep, too.
After speaking to the men, he would head home and see what trouble Anna had gotten herself into. Hopefully nothing more serious than a misplaced stitch in her sewing. Knowing his wife as he did, however, he’d be lucky if she hadn’t gotten herself shot. He headed toward the mercantile, dodging horses and wagons, anxious to return home.
***
Buck Mather tipped the glass up to his lips and swallowed the contents in one gulp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stared at his oldest son, Billy. “You best git your mind off your cock and back to business. I ain’t gonna be listening to that bitch squalling no more. If you can’t shut her up, I will.”
Billy eyed the old man with his usual hatred. One day he’d shut him up. Permanently. Then he’d take over the Mather gang, spread out, start hittin’ the trains his old man refused to do. Damn old geezer. His brothers would go along with him. And if they didn’t−
Well, two more dead bodies don’t matter.
He rose, tossing his drink back. Time to knock that girl around some more. Her wailing was gettin’ on his nerves, too. If she couldn’t shut her mouth and just lay there when he wanted to fuck her, then he’d kill her. There were a lot more women.
Billy made a quick run up the stairs and down the hall to room eleven. “What the hell you caterwauling about, girl?” He stood in the doorway, taking in her blackened chin, and the cut on her cheek where his ring had caught her.
The young girl wiped her red puffy eyes. “I want to go home.”
“You’ll go home when I say so. And if you don’t shut yore mouth, it’ll be soon, and in a pine box. Now git yore clothes off.”
“No,” she wailed.
He strode to the bed and backhanded her. “Don’t make me say it a’gin.”
With shaky hands she worked the buttons on her dress. Billy unbuckled his gun belt and laid it on the dresser across the room. He reached out and slammed the door shut, then unfastened his pants.
***
“Ya better watch him, Pa.” Noah spat a stream of tobacco juice on the floor. “I don’t trust him one bit.”
Buck seized his youngest son by the throat, pushing him up against the wall. “Yeah, well maybe I don’t trust you, neither.”
At the click of a gun hammer, both men turned to Joe, the barrel of his weapon pointed at Buck’s chest. “Shut up. We’re all gettin’ jumpy. Time to hit another stage afore the money runs out.”
With lightening speed, Buck dropped Noah and slapped the gun out of Joe’s hand, the weapon firing when it landed on the floor, the bullet lodging high up on the wall behind them. “Don’t you ever point that thing at me again, boy. I’ll kill the lot of ya, and be better off for it.”
He gestured with his chin to Noah, who rubbed his throat. “Go git yore brother. Time we do somethin’ else ‘cept sit on our asses.”
“The marshal over in Denton was here asking about y’all the other day.” The bartender leaned on the bar, wiping the worn wood with a dirty rag.
“What’d that prick want?” Buck stood and approached the bartender, the man taking a few steps back.
“Asked if I knew y’all, and where yore stayin’.”
“That right? And what did you tell him, barkeep?”
“Ain’t told him nothin’.” He swallowed a few times. “Said I didn’t know y’all, or where you was stayin’.”
Buck’s attention was drawn to the stairs where Noah hurried down, Billy right behind him, tucking his shirt in his pants.
“If yore done messin’ with that girl, it’s time we moved out.” He turned and strode to the door, not looking back, but expecting his pups to follow.
***
Wes left the mercantile, satisfied he would have enough men to go after Buck and his sons the next morning. His gaze was drawn to the other side of the street where Anna hurried from the café, a basket over her arm. He dodged two wagons and scooted around a parked carriage to reach the boardwalk. “Anna.”
She turned, her smile fading as she tried to hide the basket behind her. “Oh. Hi.”
Looking down over her shoulder, he asked, “What’d you have there?”
“Nothing.”
He wrapped his arm around her waist and reached for the basket with his free hand. “Let’s see what you’re hiding.”
Anna huffed but released the basket, a slight flush creeping up her face. She fidgeted as Wes moved the napkin aside and peeked into the basket. “Supper?”
She sighed, then chewed on her lip. “Well, if you want to eat tonight—”
“I thought you were cooking?”
“About that . . .”
Anna’s lips tightened when Wes threw his head back and laughed, catching the attention of a man and woman coming out of the hotel.
“It’s not funny.” She raised her chin. “If I could get a job, then we could eat at the café most nights, and I wouldn’t have to—”
“No.” He cupped her elbow and walked her down the boardwalk, the basket by his side. “My wife is not working.”
She came to an abrupt halt and stamped her foot. “You are a male chauvinist.”
“If that means I earn the living, then yes, I’m whatever it was you just said.”
She pulled her arm from his and walked ahead, hurrying up the stairs of their house, slamming the door behind her.
Wes followed her in, then rested the basket on the table. He took note of her, his body coming to attention at her heaving breasts and flushed face. She might not be much of a housekeeper, but he’d never been with a woman more responsive than Anna in bed. Or one who made him forget everything except his raging need for her; to remove her clothes and kiss every inch of skin that he uncovered.
Even now the softening of her features and the small pink tongue running around her lips promised something a lot more fulfilling than food. “Anna.”
“What?”
“I have to leave early in the morning. So I would prefer not to fight tonight.”
She lowered her crossed arms, her pouty lips slightly open. “Are you going after those outlaws again?”
“Yes.” He pulled out a chair and sat, patting his thigh in invitation for her to join him.
She settled on his lap. “We do have enough chairs in this house, you know.”
“I like this better.”
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she leaned in. “Can I−”
“No.” He cupped her cheeks, and his mouth moved closer to hers. “I have more important things for you to do than chase outlaws with me.”
“What about dinner?” she whispered.
“Not hungry.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Wes sat on his horse, Nektosha, an hour before dawn, waiting for the last of the men to gather in front of the jailhouse. The plan was to get close enough to Devil’s Dungeon, camp in the woods, then scout the area under cover of darkness that night.
