Time Plains Drifter

by Cheryl Pierson

  At the cave opening, Rafe pushed Jenni in ahead of him. She heard him cry out just as she was plunged into the pitch black darkness, not sure if he was behind her—or not.

  She scrambled to her hands and knees, trying to peer into the black void all around her. She winced as she tried to stand. She’d hit hard on her right knee.

  “Rafe?”

  There was no answer.

  “Rafe—we made it!” Hurriedly, she began to feel along the floor of the cave for him, for some sign that he was there with her. There was nothing. No movement...No breathing, other than her own—Oh Dear God. Oh Dear God. Oh Dear God—her fingers scraped the side of the medical bag she’d pitched in ahead of them. She opened it quickly and felt a candle on top of the contents, and a box of matches.

  With shaking fingers, she struck a match, the pale glow lighting the cave. She lit the candle, trying to steady herself. Holding the dim light high, she gasped sharply. There was no possible way Rafe could still be alive.

  CHAPTER 30

  Riding into the clearing moments later, Murdoch Bolton and the two boys were left alone almost immediately as Beck muttered a hasty, “Stay here.” He faded quickly before them, his horse giving a startled whinny.

  Bolton looked toward two men standing a few yards away. He stood down from his stirrup and walked to where Cris d’Angelico knelt beside Josiah Kemp. Cash and Lance followed behind him, coming to a stop a few feet from where Kemp lay.

  Bolton hunkered down opposite Cris, their eyes meeting. “D’Angelico?” he half-whispered, the resemblance between the brothers unmistakable.

  Cris gave him a grim look. “Yeah. I’m Cris.”

  “Good to meet you. I’m Murdoch Bolton.”

  They exchanged a quick handshake, then Cris returned his attention to Kemp.

  The dying man’s breath was coming slower now, his face contorted in a grimace of pain.

  “Anything I can do?” Bolton asked quietly. He gave Kemp’s wound a cursory glance. Anything he could do, now, would be purely of the spiritual nature. This man was surely going to die, and no changing that.

  Kemp’s eyes slitted, as he took in Bolton’s high clerical collar. “You a—priest?”

  Bolton shook his head. “No. Just a Protestant preacher.”

  “That’ll do. Need to—to make...confession.”

  Bolton reached down to take Kemp’s cold, bloody fingers into his own hand. “I’ll hear what you’ve got to say, if it’ll ease you, friend. Forgiveness isn’t mine to give—”

  “I—understand.” Kemp moistened his lips, as he tried to collect his thoughts. “I was—wrong. I thought gold was—my ticket. Killed four men...for it.”

  Cris’s obsidian eyes became hard, his expression turned cold. Kemp didn’t look at him, and Bolton remained silent, though it was impossible not to notice the change in Cris’s demeanor.

  “I was...partnered up with the demon. He wanted me to kill...Jenni.” His voice softened as he spoke her name. “I w-wouldn’t...do it.”

  Bolton met Cris’s eyes and saw the affirmation there. “What about Rafe?” Bolton asked softly.

  Kemp closed his eyes. “Did what I could...this time around—to make up—for before.”

  Bolton understood. Beck had told him the story of what happened on the train. “Would you like me to pray with you, Marshal Kemp?”

  Kemp opened his eyes and looked up at Cris as he answered Bolton. “Yes, but first—I need to ask Cris—” He broke off and clutched at the raw, bloody hole in his chest, his face twisting in silent agony. Bolton shot Cris a glance, but Cris’s eyes were fixed on Kemp, as if he both knew what Kemp’s request would be, and dreaded it, at the same time. When Kemp continued, Bolton understood why.

  “Cris, will you—can you...forgive me?”

  The silence stretched out between them, the only sound Kemp’s raspy breathing, wet-sounding now. His time was drawing near. Finally, Cris closed his eyes tightly for a moment, warring with himself. The memories flooded over him in a rush—the horror in his own mind as he’d realized what was happening on that train; the look in Rafe’s eyes as he’d watched Kemp gun down Wiley and Kelly—then the smell of fresh blood—his own—as he’d died there in the woods.

  But Kemp had been a friend, too. Cris couldn’t forget those times, either. And Kemp was Jenni’s grandfather, down the line. If not for him, Jenni wouldn’t be here. He sighed and tried to reach deep inside himself, knowing he should gift Kemp with the forgiveness he sought...not sure if he’d be able. He could forgive, for his own death. But for Rafe’s—he wasn’t so sure he could do that.

  “I know what I did was...wrong. I’m askin’ ya, Cris—”

  Finally, Cris put a hand on Kemp’s shoulder, nodding. It just wasn’t in him to make Kemp grovel—not while he was dying. “I forgive, Joe.”

  Kemp’s features took on a new serenity, and Bolton met Cris’s eyes in understanding.

  “I’m ready, now.” Kemp’s voice was thin. “Just wish I could help...Jenni.”

  Bolton smiled. “Maybe you can,” he said thoughtfully, “just by being one of us rather than one of them. The demon seems to need you—” He threw a glance over his shoulder at the dark beings who stood at the forest’s edge, as if waiting for a signal to begin their attack. They milled around among the trees impatiently, casting angry looks at Bolton and the others. “Do you believe?”

  At first, Kemp looked at Bolton as if he had not understood, then he nodded. “I believe, Reverend,” he said clearly. “Like—Like I never did before. Just wish I’d been on...the Other Side.”

  “It’s not too late. It’s never too late for redemption.” Bolton’s lips quirked slightly at the irony of the situation. “You’re human again,” he reminded him. “The demon gave you another chance, it seems, to choose your side.” Bolton squeezed his hand. “Accept the Good, Josiah...the Light of the World. Accept redemption.”

  “It’s...not for me.” Kemp’s eyes held a faint glimmer of hope as he spoke.

  “Yes,” Bolton said firmly. “It is. If you meant what you asked for earlier—from Cris. If you’re truly sorry for what you’ve done, redemption is there—for whomever accepts and believes. All you have to do is be open to it.”

  “I am,” Kemp breathed. “If it’s mine, I—I want it.”

  “Then, you have it.” There was silence for a moment, then Bolton bowed his head and began to pray.

  A smile fleetingly crossed Kemp’s pale lips. “I—believe,” he whispered, his breath rushing out for the last time. His eyelids slid shut, and Cris knew he was gone.

  He let go a long sigh, rising slowly, and scanned the fringe of trees. Hell’s minions waited with an almost palpable impatience. Once again, Beck had deserted him, it seemed, only managing to complicate the situation before disappearing by leaving Bolton and the two boys.

  Bolton released Kemp’s hand as the last sign of life slipped from his fingers, laying it gently on the ground. His lips still moved in silent prayer for a moment before he, too, stood. Hesitantly, he reached to touch the sleeve of Cris’s shirt.

  “I know how hard that was for you, Cris. Beck told me...the whole story. About what happened on that train—and everything else. I know you’re—an angel, but still,” he shook his head, “that has to be hard to forgive.”

  After a moment, Cris nodded, and looked away. “Harder to forgive—what he did to Rafe than—for myself, you know?”

  Bolton studied him a minute. “You’re a better man than I would have been, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re the one who made the difference, Reverend,” Cris muttered in a low voice. “You brought him to the Other Side in the end, not me.”

  “Cris.” Bolton’s tone was quiet. Cris looked at him, then away again. “Don’t you see? He’d never have believed—if you hadn’t forgiven him. I didn’t do it alone.”

  Cris gave him a weary half-smile. “Never works like that, does it, Reverend? Seems everything connects to everything, somehow; and it all works toget
her.”

  Bolton glanced down at Kemp’s peaceful face. “He’ll never be alone again.”

  “It’s what he hated—being alone. I reckon that’ll be enough of Heaven for him, Reverend—and there’ll be one less of that vermin we’ll have to kill off,” he nodded toward the woods, “now that you converted him.”

  “What are they waiting for?” Bolton asked.

  Cris grinned. “Getting edgy?”

  “No, just curious.” Bolton glanced at Cash and Lance, and motioned them to come closer.

  “They’re just looking for Milo to give them the word, I expect,” Cris responded in an even tone.

  “Then what?”

  “Well, then, Reverend, we wait and see. Even angels don’t know everything.”

  ~*~

  “Stop!” Beck roared. “You’ve lost, Milo! The girl is safe!” He stood atop the precipice over the mouth of the cave, the rushing water behind him tipping over the edge of the cliff to form the waterfall.

  The demon turned to face Beck, then joined him, floating above the cascading water for a moment before he glided across it to stand beside the angel. He wore a self-satisfied smirk that Beck recognized meant trouble.

  “Well, you’re right, Becket. The girl is safe. For the time being, anyway. It’s d’Angelico I’d be worried about. Weren’t you supposed to be watching out for him—again?”

  The chameleon-like eyes were placid. Too much so, in the face of what had just happened.

  “I wonder how much the human body can stand—before it collapses. And dies.”

  In two steps, Beck’s hands were around the demon’s throat, squeezing.

  “Beck—” Milo’s eyes bulged in fear.

  “You shouldn’t have let me get my hands on you, Milo,” Beck said through bared teeth. “There’ll be no disappearing for you now—not until I’m ready to let go.”

  “Beck, you’re hurting me—” he gasped.

  “What did you do to Rafe?”

  “I—I gave him a—a tiny wee bullet wound—”

  Beck’s fingers tightened. “Somehow, I think there’s more to it than that.”

  Milo gasped. “—and thirty lashes.”

  “You what?” Beck’s jaw tightened and flexed.

  “Please! I can’t breathe—”

  “Is he alive?”

  Milo nodded and tried to swallow. “Barely.”

  “You bastard!” Beck flung at him, his blue eyes hard. “What have you done?” His fingers bit into Milo’s neck and the demon thrashed, trying to escape. “All of it, Milo, or I’ll—”

  “All right! At the end, I—I gave him a last minute bit of a—a beating. Just before he went into the cave. When I—When I saw I couldn’t stop him.” Milo swallowed hard. “I’d ’ve killed him for sure, if that little bitch hadn’t helped him.” His eyes held a sudden glint of laughter, in spite of his short supply of oxygen. “He’s done for anyway, as—as badly injured as he was—”

  “You know you don’t have that power, demon! Not now that Rafe’s human again. But you’re not human, Milo. And I have the power to do this—” The angel’s voice was filled with deadly promise.

  “But you can’t! Remember? You’re an angel! Forgiveness, and all that—tommyrot—” The rest of what he’d been about to say was cut off, as Beck’s hold tightened.

  “I’m losing ground, Milo,” Beck gritted, “and angels are allowed to do away with evil. We don’t forgive everything.”

  “I’ve got...plans—” the demon wheezed.

  “Damn you, you’ve done enough!”

  A faint, smug grin tugged at the corner of the demon’s mouth. “Not by...half, Becket. You—need me.”

  By the sly look in his fine-boned features, Beck knew the demon held a trump. “I don’t think so, Milo. I don’t think I need you for anything.”

  Beck watched the calculating light in the changeable eyes turn to an expression of terror. “Yes, you...do!” the demon managed to croak in desperation.

  “Convince me.”

  “The girl—Jenni—she has...a sister—”

  Cold fear washed over Beck, as slowly he began to release the vise-like grip he’d had on the demon.

  “What about her?” Beck demanded harshly.

  “All we know is...the one we have to stop comes from Kemp.” Again, the sly grin. “We don’t know which of them will bear the child—”

  “So, you figure to kill them both, huh? Jenni and her sister.”

  The demon tried to shrug.

  Beck held him too tightly for him to manage more than a grimace. “It seems...the logical thing to do.”

  Beck snorted. “When were you ever logical? When you killed that boy out at the Bar J?”

  The demon gave Beck a disdainful glare. “I was pissed off, if you must know. And I didn’t actually kill him. I just arranged it. As you said, I—don’t have that power.”

  Beck’s fingers tightened once more, and the demon coughed. “If you...destroy me, you’ll never know what I’ve set in motion for Tori—uh, Miss Dalton’s sister.” His eyes narrowed coldly. “Charming young woman. Every bit as beautiful—and alive—as her sister...so far.”

  Beck hesitated. He hated to relinquish the hold he had on the demon. He could destroy him, now that he had him...but, as Milo claimed, he would never be able to find out what had been set in motion for Tori. He might not be able, even if he let the demon live, but if he destroyed him, there’d be no chance.

  He was wasting precious time. He couldn’t afford to do away with the demon, no matter how badly he wanted to. Beck’s grip loosened.

  “I guess you’ll have to go join the fray, Beck,” the demon said succinctly, “and leave our—personal differences—for another time.”

  Beck released him with an angry shove, acutely aware of his own impotence in this turn of events.

  Milo straightened his clothing and grinned. “As for Victoria Dalton...who knows?”

  CHAPTER 31

  Rafe lay sprawled just inside the cave entrance, unmoving. Jenni couldn’t stifle her gasp of dismay. Even in this darkness, she could see the terrible damage the demon had done to him.

  She knelt beside him and put her ear close to his mouth. She could hear the faint rasp of his breathing, but needed more light than the soft glow of the candle.

  She touched his forehead and felt only cool clamminess and a stickiness she knew was blood. She glanced at the stone fire ring in the center of the cave. There was still wood gathered and stored beside it.

  She laid the kindling and wood quickly, then put a match to it. The old wood took and flared almost instantly, to her relief. She hurried across the cave again to kneel beside Rafe. Her heart pounded. “Rafe? Can you hear me?” She tried to peer into his face to see if his eyes were open. The shadows were too deep.

  She stood and grasped his arms trying to lift and pull; but he barely budged. “Oh please! Rafe, please—” A dark stain spread from under his side, onto the cave floor. Jenni bent and dipped a finger in it, in horrified fascination. Blood. He’s bleeding to death in front of me, and I can’t get him close enough to the fire to even see what to do—

  “Rafe, you’ve got to wake up—just for a minute—”

  “Jen?”

  Jenni struggled to keep her voice calm as she spoke. “Let me help you—we have to get you closer to the fire.”

  Rafe passed a shaky hand over his face and grimaced, trying to lift his head. She reached to steady him as he moved to sit up. He could only make it to one elbow, and turn to his side. The effort was almost too much for him, his head spinning with pain and dizziness.

  Every nerve ending in his body was in agony. It felt as though he’d been beaten by a gang of five men. His memory was rippling, like the surface of a lake once a pebble was tossed in. He could feel the burning path of the bullet through his side, the welting, bleeding lashes at his back, and every bruise and cut Milo’s beating had left him with.

  He tried to focus on what Jenni was saying, but she
sounded far away, and he couldn’t understand...he shook his head to clear it, but it didn’t help. Damn, he was cold. His stomach growled and heaved all at once. He wanted to laugh. Guess that about takes care of everything.

  Somehow, he began to understand Jenni wanted him to come closer to the fire, and he was all for that, as cold as he was. If only he could make his body cooperate. Doggedly, he turned over onto his stomach and began to crawl, inching his way across the stone floor of the cave. He figured, walking was something he wouldn’t be doing for a long, long time.

  Jenni scooped up the medicine bag and hurried to the fire, dropping down on her knees to look through the contents of the bag as she took each item out to examine it briefly in the firelight.

  The bag held a large canteen of fresh water, bandages, salve, extra candles, and a thin blanket. At the bottom was a small basin. Inside it, rested a needle in a paper pack, a packet of thread, tweezers, a pair of scissors, and a vial of carbolic acid. A pouch of jerked beef and sourdough biscuits was wrapped in paper inside the rolled blanket.

  She laid the items out on a stone ledge beside the fire ring, then hurried back to Rafe’s side. He was breathing heavily from the exertion, beads of sweat across his brow, his eyes glazed.

  “Let me help you—” she said once more, but he shook his head.

  “Can’t walk...this is the only—way.” He looked up at her. “Where?”

  “Over here,” she said doubtfully, indicating a flat place near the fire that offered the best light.

  Rafe put one elbow in front of the other, pulling himself to the spot Jenni had readied. He rolled onto his back, squelching a groan of pain. He drew in his breath, ragged and harsh, his side burning like someone had shoveled live coals into his raw skin. The blows to his head fogged his thinking, and just for a moment, he couldn’t remember who had hit him—or why. Milo. The name was like grit in his mouth.

  Jenni took up a clean rag and poured a small amount of water on it. She began to wash his face, careful of the bruising at his eyes and cheekbones. Blood ran from his nose, and both his lips were split and swollen. A knot had formed on his head just above his right temple, a trickle of blood running along his hairline, to mingle with the sweat and dirt.