by Linda Jones
Was it possible to change that one fact? Would her presence and disappearance change circumstances just enough to save him? She was afraid to think too hard on that question. There was still a strong possibility that Jackson would die on this street.
Catalina ran down the alleyway, away from Alberta’s. There was no time to wonder if she was doing the right thing or not. It was all she could do.
She cut through the overgrown weeds that grew at the back of the general store, and passed two other buildings before she cut through another alley to the main street again. This particular building appeared to be abandoned, but there was a decent-looking horse, saddled and ready to steal, hitched to a post out front.
The tether wrapped around the post gave her a bit of trouble, and she had to take an extra minute to untangle the knot she made. She tried not to think of the trip ahead, if she could control the horse, if she could find her way back to the doorway that had brought her here, if Jackson would follow her. She concentrated on one thing at a time. Unknotting the leather strap. Easing the horse with a few softly spoken words. Stepping gingerly into the stirrup. She was almost home free when a hand flew forward and grasped the saddlehorn.
Harold Goodman stared up at her, not even a hint of anger in his boyish face. “Thievery, Catalina?”
She looked down into his face and tried to smile. “Of course not. I was just … trying it out.”
He wasn’t convinced, and Catalina wasn’t surprised. Her voice was weak and hesitant, and she squealed as Goodman pulled her from the horse. He caught her before she hit the ground and held her tight, wrapping his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides.
“I can’t let you go, Catalina. You might just try … whatever it was you did the other night at Alberta’s.”
“What if I promise not to?” she offered weakly. Goodman was holding his face close to hers … too close … and he continued to smile like an idiot.
He shook his head. “I don’t trust you.” He was squeezing her so tight, Catalina started to see stars. She couldn’t take a decent breath, and she was forced to stare into Harold Goodman’s face. He had pale skin, for a man who supposedly spent his days in the sun, and flat brown eyes, and a poor excuse for a mustache growing above his thin upper lip. She found herself staring at that growth.
“Lookin’ for a kiss?” he asked softly.
“No,” Catalina said breathlessly. “Wondering if that’s supposed to be a mustache, or if you just forgot to wash your face this morning.”
Not smart. She knew that as soon as the words left her mouth, but she couldn’t stop them.
Goodman’s smile faded. The man had such a sensitive ego! “We’ll just see what the sheriff says about you trying to steal my horse.”
“I wasn’t going to steal … ”
“Of course, I might be willing to forget the incident, if you’ll take me back to Alberta’s and give me a free sample of what I’ll be purchasing next week.”
Catalina brought the heel of her boot down on top of his foot, but all he did was laugh and return the attack, stomping on her foot with his own heavy boot.
“Let me go,” she warned chillingly. “You’ll be sorry. Kid Creede will make you sorry, if you don’t let me go right this minute.”
Harold was unimpressed. “I won’t have to worry about Kid Creede much longer, and neither will you, sweetie. As a matter of fact, you’ve made things right easy for me. I was afraid the bastard was going to hole up in that whorehouse all week, but I think I know how to draw him out.”
Catalina quit struggling. “What do you mean?”
Harold’s weak smile was back. “Were you running away from him? Did he hurt you? You don’t have to run.”
He cut his eyes to the deserted building. A window was raised, and Catalina saw movement there. A cowboy peeked out and then settled himself at the open window. Across the street, on the roof of the sheriff’s office, the sun flashed on metal … a rifle or a six-shooter?
The ambush. She was too late.
“If you’re thinking that he’ll come after me, you’re sadly mistaken,” Catalina said calmly. “He really likes Juanita better than me. Probably most of the other girls, too. I guess I’m just not his type.”
He laughed at her, lightly, unconcerned. “Make up your mind, Catalina. Should I be shaking in my boots? Or am I wasting my time? I don’t think I’m wasting my time, and I’m not afraid.”
Goodman clasped her even tighter, locking his arms around her and squeezing with all his might. If he kept this up, she was going to pass out.
The pressure lessened, just a little, and Catalina took a deep breath.
“That’s right,” Goodman said softly. “Scream at the top of your lungs, sweetie.”
Catalina refused to scream. She refused to be the bait that lured Jackson to his death.
“Come on.” Goodman grew impatient, jerking her around so that she could see the balcony where, hopefully, Jackson still slept. “A nice, earsplitting scream.”
Catalina looked into Goodman’s face. God, how she hated him! Because Jackson refused to murder an innocent old man, because he had refused Goodman’s job offer, he was to be killed. Maybe she couldn’t change history. Maybe she would — after all — have to watch Jackson die. It would break her heart, in a way so painful it hurt just to think of it. Maybe she would have to watch, but she was damned if she’d play any part in it.
She tried to break free, but it was no use. Goodman wasn’t going to budge. Her arms were useless, pinned at her sides, and the lack of air was making her weak. Finally she stopped struggling and looked Harold Goodman in the eye, mustering all the strength she had left.
“Kiss my ass.”
Twelve
*
Jackson opened his eyes when the sliver of sun hit his face. How long had he slept? Certainly no more than two or three hours.
But he never slept that deep, that good. And it was all because of Catalina. He wanted her again, half asleep, warm and soft and breathless. He wanted to watch her lose control again. Most of all, in spite of all his reservations, he wanted to claim her as his own again.
As his vision cleared, he reached out for her. For a moment he thought the rumpled coverlet at the edge of the bed hid a sleeping Catalina, but the moment his hand touched the cold sheet he knew the bed was empty. And he knew, as he came fully awake and sat up, that she wasn’t in the room.
Catalina could find all sorts of trouble left on her own.
She did love the balcony, so he checked there first, dressing as he crossed the room. He knew it was deserted even before he parted the drapes. He would have heard her, would have known she was there. Jackson blinked hard against the bright morning sun, and then turned his eyes to the street below.
It didn’t take long to find her. She always drew a crowd, Catalina Lane did.
Jackson placed both hands on the railing and leaned forward, watching. It appeared that Harold Goodman was holding Catalina, and a good dozen townspeople had gathered around them to watch whatever was going on. She didn’t seem to be struggling, and for a split second Jackson wondered if he should interfere at all. She could handle herself.
But then Catalina’s leg swung out, and she tried to kick Harold. He could hear Harold’s echoing laughter, and then the coward kicked Catalina with a booted foot. He could see her leg give way and then quickly straighten again.
He stepped into his boots as he walked to the door and was buckling his gunbelt as he flew down the stairs, giving no thought at all to his actions.
“Kid,” Alberta called as he stalked across the cleared floor of the saloon and toward the batwing doors, “I’ve got a message here from Harold Goodman. He wants to meet with you as soon as … ”
Jackson turned his head slightly but didn’t slow his stride. Alberta was waving a small folded sheet of paper in front of her bosom, offering it to him.
“I’m going to see Harold right now,” he said, and Alberta must have heard something she didn’t like in his
voice, because her smile faded and the hand that offered Harold’s note dropped slowly.
He walked down the middle of the street, his eyes on Harold’s back. All he could see of Catalina was her skirt, billowing out behind the man who held her. She barely moved at all.
In the past fifteen years his actions had rarely been colored by anger, but he couldn’t deny the fury that rose within him now. Harold was going to pay.
Someone must have warned Harold, because the man spun quickly, still holding Catalina prisoner in his arms. Harold smiled … an odd reaction for a man who must certainly know that he’d made a grave mistake.
Harold spun Catalina around, twisting her arms behind her back until she winced. She struggled briefly, and then she lifted her face to Jackson and was suddenly still. Those golden eyes grew wide, and her face was blanched of all color. She parted her lips but said nothing. Harold clamped a hand over her mouth.
The scuffle resumed, as Catalina attempted to break the hold Harold had on her wrists. She twisted and pulled, and once tossed her head back into Harold’s nose. The man yelped but didn’t release her.
And then she bit his hand. Harold’s hand flew away from her mouth, and Catalina pulled away from him and screamed.
Jackson felt the first bullet as he heard the explosion of the rifle. His right shoulder, he thought almost calmly. Not fatal, not even serious. Before he could draw his weapons a second shot exploded into his side. More serious, maybe even deadly.
A third shot found its target, and Jackson fell to the ground. Catalina had been right all along. Ambushed on the street in Baxter.
Catalina rushed forward, ignoring the bullets that continued to fly. Jackson hadn’t even drawn his six-shooters, and still they continued to fire. Four, five bullets in that still body. Near-misses exploded in the dirt near his head and legs. The firing stopped when Catalina was standing over Jackson.
It was all her fault. She was the reason Kid Creede had died. Catalina dropped to her knees and rolled Jackson carefully from his side to his back. She laid two fingers at his throat, fully expecting to find no heartbeat. But it was there, faint and irregular, and Jackson opened his eyes.
“Lie still,” Catalina whispered. “Help will be here soon.” Surely one of the people who had watched would fetch a doctor for Jackson.
He looked calm, resigned, with no hint of panic in his eyes. “You were right all along,” he whispered weakly. “Ambushed in Baxter. How did you … ” His voice trailed away.
“Don’t talk. You need to save your strength.”
Jackson shook his head slightly. “Too late.” His bright eyes caught and held hers. “I want you to take my horse and get out of Baxter. Now.” Jackson’s voice faded, and he closed his eyes.
“Jackson,” Catalina whispered desperately. “Wake up. You can still recover. We can change history. The book said a dozen times, and you were only shot five.” Shot only five times; one bullet was enough to kill any man, even Kid Creede. “Please, Jackson. I didn’t come all this way just to lose you.”
But Jackson didn’t answer. He lay there perfectly still as Catalina brushed her hands over his face and neck.
Her hands trailed down his neck to his chest, and over the warm blood that seeped from his wounds. It was the feel of his blood on her hands that made her think clearly.
Catalina lifted her head and looked around her. No one had moved. They all stood well away from the injured man, their faces solemn but unmoved.
“Someone get the doctor,” Catalina snapped, and still no one moved. “Hurry!”
A tall man at the edge of the crowd fidgeted. “We ain’t got no doctor no more.”
No doctor. She would have to tend him herself, and she knew nothing but the basics. If only she’d spent more time in the medical section of the library and less in the history section, she’d know what to do.
“Don’t worry, Jackson,” she whispered. “This time things will be different.”
But he didn’t hear her, and Catalina couldn’t dismiss her nagging doubt. It didn’t matter that she loved Jackson. What if history couldn’t be changed, no matter how hard she wished it?
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Push back the panic, she told herself silently. Jackson will certainly die if you panic.
Still kneeling beside Jackson, Catalina lifted her eyes to the crowd that stayed well back. “I’ll need some help getting him inside.” There was a small tremor in her voice, but other than that she sounded calm and in control. “Preferably some place other than Alberta’s. Some place closer. The less we move him, the better off he’ll be.”
No one moved. Their stony faces showed no horror at what had happened, no compassion at all.
“Come on.” She raised her voice. “You can’t just leave him here.”
It came to her then, the way it had been … was supposed to be. The people of Baxter would allow Jackson to bleed to death in the street, alone to the end.
“I just need someone to help me carry him inside. Back to Alberta’s, if there’s no other choice.”
“Nope.” Alberta’s coarse voice rose from the silent crowd. “I don’t want any war in my establishment.”
One by one the crowd turned and walked away. Alberta nodded curtly to Catalina. “Come on, Cat.”
Catalina shook her head. “I’ll never step foot in your place again.”
Alberta smiled. “You’ve got no other place to go, Cat. There’s not a respectable family in town who would house one of my girls.”
Juanita posed next to Alberta, a practiced pout on her full lips. And then both women turned and walked away. They had claimed to care for Jackson, for Kid Creede, but they’d leave him to die in the street without even a backward glance.
Even the sheriff turned away.
“You!” Catalina yelled at his stiff back, and the reluctant lawman slowly spun around.
“You have to arrest Harold Goodman and those men who shot the Kid,” Catalina insisted.
“Looked like a fair fight to me,” the sheriff said lazily.
“A fair fight?” Catalina almost jumped to her feet but stopped herself short. “He didn’t even draw his guns. You call that a fair fight?”
The sheriff sighed and turned away, unwilling to spend his energy to argue with her.
“At least help me get him inside!” Catalina shouted as the sheriff entered his office and slammed the door shut.
Behind her, Catalina heard Goodman’s low chuckle. “No one’s going to cry over the death of a killer like Kid Creede. One less varmint to worry about, as far as most folks are concerned.”
Catalina looked over her shoulder as Goodman mounted the horse she had been set to steal. He looked down at her and tipped his hat.
“I’ll see you,” he said smoothly, “later this week.”
He rode away, taking with him the cowardly men who had shot Jackson from their high and hidden posts.
Left alone on the street, Catalina turned back to Jackson. He was unconscious … dying … and no one would help her.
She slid the knife Jackson kept inside his boot from its sheath and cut a strip of material from the hem of her skirt.
“First things first,” she said calmly to the unconscious man beside her. “We’ll have to get the bleeding stopped.”
Catalina wrapped the strip tightly around the wound in Jackson’s arm. One step at a time, she reminded herself coolly. Once his wounds were bound she could drag him into that abandoned building. It would hurt him, she was certain, but she had to get him off the street. Later she would worry about water and food, and fresh bandages.
She cut another long strip from the skirt and bandaged an ugly-looking wound on his thigh. No exit wound on this one, she noted with a pounding heart as she tied the makeshift bandage tight enough to slow the bleeding.
The rattle of an approaching vehicle didn’t register until it was almost upon them, and Catalina looked up to find the team of horses all but in her face. The driver would run them both
over without a second thought, but Catalina refused to move. The horses veered, and the buckboard passed Catalina and an unconscious Jackson before coming to a stop in the middle of the street.
Doc Booker hopped down and strode to her with a sour look on his face.
“Come to get a good look?” Catalina snapped. “Want to watch Kid Creede bleed to death? Well, come on down. Run your fingers through the blood on his skin, wipe it off on a hanky and save it for your grandchildren.”
The old man stopped, his dusty boots almost touching Jackson’s leg. “Got no grandchildren,” he said in a low, no-nonsense voice.
Catalina turned her attention back to Jackson and tried to ignore the old man, but Doc Booker dropped down, Jackson’s motionless body between them, and began to study the wounds.
“Doc … ” Catalina said in a low voice. “You’re a doctor.” It was too much to hope for.
The old man shook his head slowly. “Nope. Not anymore, anyways.”
But he continued to examine Jackson as if he knew exactly what he was doing.
“He’s not going to make it,” Booker said gravely.
“Not if he’s left in the street like this.” Catalina tried to catch and hold the old man’s eyes. “If you used to be a doctor, you can help.”
Booker was shaking his head slowly. “It’s been thirty years since I’ve seen anything like this.”
“I can’t just let him die,” she said softly.
She could see the warring emotions in the old man’s eyes and remembered the fear that had been there when he’d first seen Jackson.
“He’s a killer,” the old man said, somber and unflinching.
She couldn’t argue with that. Jackson wouldn’t have argued with it, either. “I love him,” she whispered, and she saw the old man’s defenses fall. “I have to try.”
“He did warn me about Harold,” Booker conceded, and Catalina knew she’d have his help. “It won’t do any good, I warn you. He’s still going to die. But if it will make you feel better to watch over him until that happens, I reckon I can help.”
Doc Booker grabbed a rough-looking blanket and spread it across the bed of his wagon. Purchases from the general store were shoved aside, stacked along the edge of the buckboard.
