by Nico Rosso
“I’m not seeing a lot of opportunity out there. Not even a railroad lantern to navigate to. Try to fly in this,” he waved his hand through the misty air, “I’ll run myself into the side of a mountain.”
“Or run out of tetrol somewhere over the Pacific.” She brushed her hands across her thighs with frustration. “Grounded until daylight.”
“I’m good company.”
It was too dark to see her expression. But there was a hint of caution in her voice. “I’ll get a fire started.”
“Not too big, don’t want that Man O’ Weasel knowing where to find us.”
She scoffed. “Think this is my first night in the wild? I hit more of those sailors than you did.”
He wasn’t used to spending time with someone as experienced as he. “Damn fine shooting. Best I’ve seen with a long gun.”
“Quoting you on that.” She laughed a little, collecting some gear from her trike.
“Keep shooting like an ace, you can quote me all you want.” The trail was shrouded in heavy darkness, but Jack started to feel his way to where he’d landed his cycle. “I’ve got some food and a bottle. Don’t leave without me.”
Darkness closed around him. His boots barely made sounds on the damp earth. Behind him, Anna continued to collect things from her trike. Leather straps with metal buckles were undone and cinched up again. Shadowy trees lined his path. He tested himself. On his belt was a small quartz lantern he could use to light the way. But he kept it off, using sound and the vague shadows to pick his way forward.
He found his cycle, a little victory in the dark no one would know about. He undid a saddlebag, untied his coat wrapped in a slicker, and turned back. Returning would be easier. Even though she hadn’t yet lit the fire, he could use Anna as a beacon.
When he hunted a bounty, a trusted instinct always seemed to point the way to his prey. It didn’t feel as if he was hunting Anna, though. He was drawn to her. The thrill of the chase, he reminded himself. But he’d lived through plenty of that excitement to know this was something else. He flexed the muscles in his arms, reminding himself that he was strong, not as lean and hungry as he felt, as if Anna was the only hope in the bleak world and his dark path stretched for miles.
A light glowed ahead. She crouched next to a small fire, surrounded by a ring of trees. His pace quickened. She turned to watch him arrive. He didn’t know if it was Anna or the fire that chased the chill from his bones.
Her eyes glittered in the firelight. Her fair skin was luminous, blonde hair like gold. She was a wood spirit, or a Scandinavian goddess, if he knew anything about those myths. She was also a woman. Just looking at her fed some of the hunger he felt. But he wanted more. There was a need in her eyes as well, just a blink of it before she turned back to the fire.
She fanned it gently with her hat, sending a couple of embers dancing into the dark. Over her shoulders was a buffalo-skin cape. A canteen sat at her feet.
He put his gear down and opened the saddlebag to pull out a bottle. “A fine whiskey some friends make up in Eureka. No fancy glasses, though.”
Satisfied with the size of the fire, she sat back on a small log. “People like you and me don’t have friends.”
Usually he didn’t mind, but right now that realization stung like a hornet. He pulled his wool coat on and found a rock to sit on near the fire. “Two classes of people, those who are shooting at us and those who ain’t.”
He handed her the bottle. She pulled the cork, gave it a sniff, and tipped it toward him.
“Here’s to not getting shot at.” She drank a healthy swallow and gave the bottle back.
Watching her lick her lips burned him more than the harsh whiskey. The liquor wasn’t going to satisfy any thirst he felt.
Anna pulled a small cheroot from her shirt pocket and lit it with the glowing end of a stick she pulled from the fire. “Good whiskey.”
He passed the bottle back and she took another drink.
“Glad to share it.”
She held out the bottle without looking at him. Her eyes took her somewhere else, a hint of sadness in the glowing blue.
He took the bottle and tasted again where her lips had been. Her tobacco smoke mixed with the whiskey. Earth and fire.
With her gaze still on the fire, she spoke slowly. “Ain’t splitting the money.”
Jack put the bottle down, halfway between the two of them. “We’ll see what shakes down when we get to it.”
AND NOW? WHERE could this night possibly go? He looked at their small bubble of light. Outside of the fire’s glow was only black fog. Every other time they’d met, it had seemed as if they were the only two people in the world. Now they were. His hunger hollowed him out. She’d felt it too. He’d seen the sparks of her need, fleeting like the fire’s embers. But that didn’t mean she’d act on it. Or if she did, where would that lead them? The thrill of the chase? Bullshit. The chase was over. There was nowhere to run now, for either of them.
The whiskey remained on the ground. It stood between them like a border guard. Time passed in silence. They drank water, shared some pemmican and dried dates Hawkins had in his saddlebag. Neither had planned on jumping on the next bounty trail, so there were just enough provisions to get by. But they didn’t complain. That’s how it was on the road. Sometimes you ate, finding a saloon that served grub or a stage stop with a kitchen, sometimes your stomach grumbled like distant thunder. The dark night held her and him close to the fire. Even staring into the flames, she was aware of his every movement. Adjusting his coat, drinking water from his canteen, watching her as she added another small log to the fire.
The metal plate remained still and heavy in her pocket. If the Man O’ War returned, she’d know—thanks to whoever left the device for them to find.
“You think it was Song?” she asked Hawkins, keeping her gaze off into the darkness surrounding them.
“Who left the detection device? Maybe. It’s just some special metal with some screws and a coil of wire. Inventor like him could whip up a little thing like that before his morning coffee.” He tossed a pinecone in the fire. It chattered and popped. “But I don’t know the why of it. Was it for us, or the state police?” His voice drifted off as he thought. He tapped his metal finger against one of the buckles of his boot. It rang like a mechanical cricket.
Her cheroot was old. The smoke just tasted burnt, rather than sweet and oily. The ember had died a while ago, and she hadn’t bothered to relight it. She flicked the remains into the fire. “All I know is that the money is real, and I still have the telegram promising more.” Other than that, the answers were darker than the starless sky.
“Drink to that.” He held up his canteen in a salute and took a swig.
Like the sun and stars for a sailor, bounty money had always helped her navigate. This time, though, things were more complicated. Twisted like a rattlesnake.
She watched Hawkins screw the top back on his canteen. His mind was somewhere else. Maybe trying to figure out the labyrinth they both faced. But those answers weren’t coming tonight. Hawkins, however, was right there, five feet away. “What was your first payout?”
He surfaced from his thoughts. “First bounty?”
She nodded. He looked into her face, considering, then picked up the small paper sack with the dried dates. He ate one and held out the bag to her. It wasn’t easy, learning to share. Stretching out her hand, she took a date from the sack.
Dark sugar and warmth, the flavor spread through her. “Never learned to cook,” she confessed. “They tried to beat cooking and cleaning into me at the orphanage.”
“Orphanage?” He didn’t look too surprised, but definitely interested in the information.
“So I took the broom handle and sharpened the end with a pocketknife I found in the dust of a horse corral. Kept the boys away with it.” She jabbed him with a look.
His smile was warm. “Bet you still have that knife.”
“Of course.” In the front pocket of her dungare
es. “Only family heirloom I got.”
“I understand that.” Slow, and deliberate for her benefit, he reached behind him and drew the short sabre. The blade was only about eight inches long, but it had been cut down and reshaped into a fierce-looking knife. Hawkins turned the point down and stuck it in a log at his feet. Firelight glinted off the brass and steel. Standing there, without his hand on it, the weapon seemed less potent. Hawkins made it dangerous.
His wits were sharp, too. She realized what he’d done, drawing information out of her. After her question, he casually offered food, got her comfortable with her defenses down. Then learned something about her past at the orphanage. No wonder he was one of the best bounty hunters in the West.
He pointed at the sabre with his metal finger. “This was my first bounty. Seventeen years old, living in Fort Collins, doing whatever odd job I could find with half a hand. And I see a familiar face.” His mouth smiled cruelly. Darkness shrouded his eyes. “Colonel Coleman, formerly of the CSA.”
Hawkins glanced at the bottle of whiskey, then decided on water from his canteen. He drank like he was washing the taste of the colonel’s name from his mouth.
After a moment, he continued. “During the war, his regiment was stationed on the land where my family worked. One of the reasons we knew we had to light out or die. They took from us, and everyone else. Forced themselves on women and beat anyone who tried to stop them. Never forgot his dead eyes, so when he showed up in Colorado without a beard, I still recognized him. And I could read enough to know the wanted posters in the telegraph office were for him, even though he’d changed his name.”
He stared at the short sabre. “Son of a bitch was mean. Left behind a lot of scars with that blade. No one in town wanted to take him on. Not even for the hundred dollars. But that was just gravy for me. So I loaded up the old Colt Navy I still had from the war and met him in the street.”
His hand twitched a little with the memory of movement. “We drew. Even using my left hand I beat him. Put a round through his thigh before his first shot. But he didn’t stop trying. So I took out his gun hand with another bullet. Coleman pulled his sword with his left and took a couple swipes.” He reached forward and tested the edge of the sabre with his thumb. “Always feels good to put a couple of knuckles in a bastard’s face.” Satisfied with the sharpness, he pulled the sabre from the log and replaced it in the sheath. “Doc fixed Coleman up, sheriff locked him up. I got paid, bought a new hand, got a job for the rest of my life.”
The fire crackled. An owl asked its perpetual question from the darkness.
Hawkins stared at her. Some of the shadows had lifted from his eyes. “But everyone expects a good-looking and well-built man like me to become the best bounty hunter east of the Japanese islands.”
“Second best.”
He gave her a wink. “The story that really needs to be told is how Anna Blue came to take up arms and put fear into every man in the land.”
Utah winters couldn’t penetrate her buffalo cape. She always built a good fire, and this one breathed healthy and hot. Yet still a chill crept up her spine and down her arms. Her past wasn’t shared. Ever. The memories were for her alone, good and bad. Anyone else wouldn’t understand her pain and joy. They’d take it, use it against her. It had happened once before. Never again.
Hawkins waited, not calculating or greedy. It seemed simple, what people do around a campfire. He’d told a story, now it was her turn. But she hesitated giving anything of herself.
She saw the life in his eyes, the weapons on his belt. Maybe it had to be him. He lived the life of the hunter. He knew what it was to walk through a town at night, only able to look in the lit windows but not share in the warmth of a home. He could be the only one to understand who she was, on the outside and underneath. She realized it was too late—she’d already told him a piece of her past.
The border had been crossed. She was alone with Hawkins, miles into dangerous territory.
Chapter Five
* * *
THE FINNEGAN GANG had ambushed her once, two years ago. Three of the brothers and Sonny Doogan had leapt out of the walls in a bottleneck valley. She’d shot one of them with her .45 before her horse had a chance to panic. Pulling her rifle as she dismounted, Anna hadn’t hidden and she hadn’t run. The Finnegan gang had been worth more alive than dead, but it hadn’t been about money anymore. They’d made their choice when they’d missed with their first shot. She had stalked steadily forward through the narrow valley without fear. Her deliberate progress had panicked each man in turn, making him reckless, then dead.
She didn’t feel fear now, but there was more trepidation than when she pressed on into that valley. Hawkins stared into the fire, waiting. He didn’t pressure her, but he was listening. Some of her past had already been revealed to him. What could it hurt to tell him more? It was a risk she’d never taken with anyone.
“I didn’t know about the money.” It was a test to see if she could speak at all. Hawkins shifted his gaze to her, ready for more. “Working in a paper mill in Medford. Sixteen years old. So I was younger than you when I took my first.”
He smiled, impressed. “Girls grow up faster than boys.”
“We got to. Dangerous place out there.” She glanced at the darkness, confident she could take on anything that might step out of the shadows. Except maybe that Man O’ War, but the device wasn’t buzzing, so she wouldn’t worry about him now. “The shift whistle had blown and I was heading back to the boarding house. Heard a screaming coming from the forest, down a little hill by a creek. A woman.” The terror in the voice still chilled her. Just like going after the Finnegan gang, she hadn’t hesitated then, either. “I ran and fell down that hill until I came upon the scene. She was a friend of mine. We worked and boarded together. Mary. Didn’t recognize the man, but I knew what he was up to. Trying to rape my friend.”
Hawkins shook his head slowly, mouth turned down.
She continued, “I’d always been a good brawler, in the orphanage and whatnot. Took it to that son of a bitch. Busted his nose, broke his wrist. And that was before I picked up a log and clubbed him unconscious.”
The frown turned to a small smile on Hawkins’s face.
“The law showed up, too late as usual, and told me there was a bounty on the man’s head. Stuffed fifty dollars in my hand. Job seemed like a good fit. Better than a sweatshop in a city or a saloon girl in town.”
“More opportunities than that for ladies nowadays.”
“Not orphanage ladies without much education and a made-up last name.”
He drew his brows together. “Blue ain’t real?”
“The color of the blanket I was wrapped in when I was delivered to the orphanage.” How much more was she going to tell him?
“Same as Hawkins. We got that name because of the family who owned us. Somewhere out there is our real name. Same as you.”
“Don’t want to know. Just want to live my life.”
He gestured to her trike. “There’s your whole life, right there.”
“Same as you.”
His smile turned a little more thoughtful. “That Mary was the last real friend you had before you turned hunter. She make out all right?”
“Think so.” It’d been a long time since she’d thought about those days. “Stayed in Medford. Married a man and they run some kind of shop. Candy or shoes or something.”
“Carl Worth: last friend I had in Fort Collins. He’s on the road, doing tricks with a bullwhip for a traveling show.”
They’d shared stories like they were sharing the bottle of whiskey. There was a steady warmth in her bones. Nothing had felt this easy in her life. Maybe not ever. She let her past go, drifting up with the fire’s smoke. Hawkins hadn’t judged her. He didn’t take what he knew and use it against her. He listened and told her his stories.
Now they were silent. The ocean waves continued to pound somewhere below. The fire chattered. She couldn’t remember the last time she wa
s this quiet with someone else. If it was a man, he was usually begging not to be taken to jail or talking bullshit about how hunting bounties was no job for a woman. There was no strain now to fill the air with meaningless words. Each of them mulled their thoughts. When she glanced at him, he was waiting. Their gazes met and held. The campfire seemed to burn a little hotter, even though neither had fed it in a while.
Hawkins took a long breath before breaking the silence. “We don’t get to choose our history. But people like us make ourselves new every day.”
“Like your hand.” He was so easy with it, sometimes she forgot it was part machine.
He turned it in the firelight, looking over the pieces and checking the fittings with his other hand. “Exactly.”
No more fear, she reached her hand out toward him. “Can you feel anything with it?”
The mechanism made small ticking sounds as he turned his wrist, extending the fingers out as he moved to reach her. Cool at first, the enameled metal warmed with her heat. Each segment and hinge was expertly fitted, created by an artist and a craftsman.
Their eyes locked. She didn’t let go of his mechanical hand.
His voice rumbled, low. “Sometimes, it seems like I can feel things. The trigger mostly.”
The hunger she’d come to recognize in him flared as she slid her hand over the metal fingers and against his palm. “Do you feel anything else?”
From the shape of his body, she knew he was incredibly strong. Watching him brawl erased any doubt that he was the best fighter she’d ever seen. But it wasn’t a fight she was interested in. He could’ve pulled out of her grip, or resisted her pull. Instead, it took the slightest influence with her hand to draw him toward her.
They both stood. Her cape fell to the ground. His metal and flesh fingers wrapped around her hand. Just as he could’ve fought her pull, she needed only to pull out of his grip. But she didn’t.
His strength made it easy to come to him. The need in his eyes matched her own. One step, then two, and their bodies were close. They were both loaded with weapons and shifted so they could bring their chests together. Tension ran through them. They were both used to fighting at this distance, struggling for leverage against a foe.
