“We’ll come inside and we’ll talk,” he said, deciding. Unknown Fevered, even someone as gentle seeming as Abigail Turren, needed to be assessed.
“You sure, Jimmy?” Shane didn’t sound nearly as friendly.
“No,” he said then tapped his gun. “And I am not in a forgiving mood.”
Ten minutes later, Jimmy stood in the middle of their modest kitchen. His attention remained on the husband, though he remained aware of Abigail preparing food. They were delaying, buying more time for the mysterious bounty hunter—he’d finally remembered where he’d heard the name before—to get away. He appreciated the gesture, but without more information, he wasn’t sure how much of a problem it presented.
Mrs. Turren put out plates loaded with meaty stew and more fresh biscuits. His stomach protested his staunch refusal to eat, especially when Mr. Turren tucked into the food. Mrs. Turren poured the hot chicory and finally took a seat next to her husband.
“Did you buy Quinn enough time yet, Mrs. Turren?” Jimmy refused to be mollified by their exhausted manner.
“Please, call me Abigail. This is my husband, Thomas.” She wrapped her hands around a tin cup. The tautness of her knuckles went white then relaxed. “You have to understand, Quinn has helped us—helped me—in the past. I owed a debt, and Quinn meant you no harm.”
Is Quinn Fevered? It seemed a rational explanation. “You let me take a place in the barn and, when I would have followed your friend, you interfered.”
“If you’d stayed in the barn, if you’d been who you said you were, then it would never have been a problem.” Unlike earlier, nothing in her pupils changed. Either she wasn’t trying to use her gift or she told the truth, maybe both. “Look, I’m sorry I tried to manipulate you, but you’re Fevered or you wouldn’t know what it is or be so resistant.” For a moment her gaze flickered to Shane then back to him.
No, Jimmy hadn’t been resistant. He’d been about to do what she wanted, but Shane split her attention. Not giving in on that front, he waited.
“Why are you here?” her husband demanded.
“Thomas.” She touched his arm, and he shook his head.
“No, dammit. They’re the guests. She showed you a kindness, and we don’t owe you anything. If you want to shoot us, it makes you a murderer.”
“Really, don’t provoke them.” Worry coated Abigail’s tone.
Preferring her husband’s direct attitude to her attempts at soothing, Jimmy eased his stiff posture and finally took a seat. “I appreciate your candor. You’re right, your wife did do us a favor. I apologize for the hostilities.”
“Why the bla—?” Shane began, but silenced with one look from Jimmy. The boy learned swiftly. He rubbed at his head, but said nothing further.
“You were honest about the person leaving, so I’ll be honest as to why I’m here.” Jimmy kept his attention squarely on Abigail. She might be Fevered, she might even be like Kid, but she didn’t disguise her reactions like an accomplished liar. “We’re hunting a doppelganger.”
“A what?” Thomas frowned.
“He’s Fevered and he can look like anyone.”
Horror creased Abigail’s face.
“If you tell me Quinn is exactly who you know them to be, I’ll let it go.” After all, they had enough trouble.
“Truly?” She wanted to believe him, but she needed confirmation.
Jimmy shrugged. “I have no quarrel with keeping your status as Fevered a secret. I understand the whys of the choice.” He certainly didn’t advertise his own ability.
“Well, you have no reason to trust me, but I’ve met Quinn on a few occasions. I assure you we know Quinn and Quinn is gone.”
“All right. Anyone else come through these parts lately? A stranger, or even someone else you might be passingly familiar with?”
Both shook their heads. “It’s been quiet. We get a stagecoach once every eight to ten days or so, sometimes a little more often in the summer, but no one else. You two are the first we’ve seen since the stage last week.”
He believed her, but no matter how good the food smelled, he still wasn’t touching it. Shane apparently didn’t share such compunction. He’d taken one of the biscuits and began to bite into it.
“Now what?” Abigail asked, trepidation still in her tone.
“Now I say thank you for letting us sleep in your barn and for the meals.” Jimmy owed them gratitude for the small kindnesses, at least.
Thomas covered his wife’s hand with his own. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Shane dug into the plate of stew, and they were all quiet as he ate. When he’d finished the first plate, he glanced at Jimmy’s. Nudging it toward him, he let the kid eat.
“You don’t trust me enough to eat my food, but you’re letting him.” Abigail said after Shane nearly demolished the second plate.
“You’re not nervous,” Jimmy said when Shane froze. “You were really nervous earlier and you were jumpy. Now you’re just tired and a little puzzled.”
“Can you read emotions like me?” Shock rippled through her voice.
No, but he could see her pulse, the way her pupils changed, and the flare of her nostrils as she took a deeper breath. When a person lied, they showed it in a physical manner. If Jimmy paid attention, he could read the signs, his acute vision giving him a unique insight into a person’s reactions.
The gift would help him identify Ryan, no matter what form the bastard took. He had a couple of tics Jimmy noticed. He planned to watch for them in every person he met.
“No, ma’am. I can’t.”
When he didn’t elaborate, her expression clouded over.
“Well, if you’re done, you should go.” Thomas was through being polite. He stood and gave them both a stern look. “My wife and I would like to get some sleep.”
Taking the hint, Jimmy nudged Shane and the kid stood. They left the couple and Jimmy ignored the sound of the bar being placed across the door once they were outside. Shane remained silent as they walked back to the barn, and stayed quiet all the way up into the loft.
Jimmy took time to scan the area before settling on a makeshift bedroll. He could feel Shane staring at him and, despite the late hour, asked the question. “What?”
“You didn’t yell at me for not staying here.”
“No need to yell. You saved me from whatever she attempted to do.”
The boy considered his words, rolling them around in his head before asking, “So it’s all right I disobeyed you?”
“You had my back, didn’t you?”
“I saw her talking to you, and you didn’t behave like you, so I wanted to help.”
Settling back, Jimmy nodded. “You did good, kid. How’s the head?”
“It’s fine.” Shane flexed his hands, the motion as nervous as testing. “Who’s Quinn?”
Precisely what Jimmy wanted to know, but… “Not our problem. We stay focused. We also remember where this farm is.”
“Cause she’s Fevered.”
“Yes.”
After another protracted silence, Shane sighed. “Are all Fevered secretive?”
“Yes.” Jimmy slanted a look through the boards. He wouldn’t sleep tonight. Not with the mysterious Quinn somewhere nearby, and not with so much on his mind. “Go to sleep, Shane.”
For once, the boy didn’t argue. Maybe a full belly and exhaustion worked where nothing else managed so far. Jimmy pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and continued to keep watch. The world turned translucent between one blink and the next.
“Quanto?”
The weathered Indian took a seat opposite him in the loft, his smile benevolent. “Who else would put you in the dreaming, son?”
“Buck’s getting better at it.” Jimmy grinned, unreasonably happy to see the old man. “It’s not safe, though—”
“Safe enough for now.” Quanto glanced around the barn briefly before regarding the still slumbering Shane. “I see you’ve found another brot
her.”
“He’s a good kid. Dealt a hard hand in life, but he’s tough.”
“You will be a good teacher for him.” High accolades from Quanto. “I wish to know more of him.”
“Somehow, I doubt Shane is why you’re talking to me.” Jimmy sighed then pushed his hat back. “What’s wrong?”
“This mission you’ve undertaken, it will take you north, yes?”
He had no reason to keep his whereabouts a secret from his father and every reason to be honest and forthright. The old Shaman raised him from childhood, gave him brothers and a sister. A purpose. A place. “Yes.”
“Then I have another task for you, my son…”
Chapter 3
Onsi, Tsitsistas Winter Encampment
The moon rose over the river, a beautiful sliver. The waning disc didn’t promise to linger long, but Onsi didn’t need hours to spend with the moon. The late season air carried a bite of chill. Without the heavy buffalo hide cloak, she would likely be shivering. She’d left the relative safety of the encampment for a private moment with the elements. The river cave flooded during the spring, but with the earth slowing the water flow, it gave her the perfect escape to ask the spirits for guidance.
Normally, she would follow the wisdom of her dreams, but the older shaman haunting her made the task impossible. Surely he could not be right with his strange warnings. She couldn’t be destined to leave her people. Should they perish to the last memory, she would perish with them.
Crushing a pine cone, she sprinkled it amongst the flames before she added other herbs she’d gathered and dried over a long season following the buffalo. The migration should have taken them further south, but where once they would have challenged the Arapahoe and the Comanche for a warmer winter, now they contended with the towns of the white man, with their laws and worse, their fears.
Warmth drifted up from the fire, carrying the rich scents of cedar, pine, and sage. Closing her eyes, she extended her arms. Waving the scents toward herself, she inhaled a lungful of the spice and the world splintered. She used the gift of the shaman to see not only as what was, but how it had been and could be. Her inner eye opened, and she reached for the spirits. They were there, dancing amongst her flames.
The kind eyes of the corn woman, the clever smile of the coyote, and the brooding wisdom of the bear, further still from the flames lingered the wolf brother, the buffalo, and the beaver. The animals regarded her with varying degrees of affection and aloofness. What did she want? The question each held clearly appeared in the forefront of her mind.
Guidance. She exhaled the request from the depths of her soul. Her people needed a sign, to know which path to follow—no. The moment she considered the depth of her question, she understood the inherent dishonesty. Corn Woman nodded to her, because the spirits could see into her soul.
I need guidance. A shaman wants me to leave my people, but what will happen to them if I obey his request? What will happen if I don’t? She didn’t want to leave. The spirits seemed to consider her question while time hung suspended. Coyote laughed and paced away from the fire. The world changed around her, the seasons racing past too fast for her to comprehend, and she could do nothing to halt the changing focus.
Falling to her knees, Onsi tried to control the sickening lurch threatening her stomach. The world twisted sideways and jerked to an abrupt halt. An encampment, much like the one her people made, settled alongside a river. Rich and populous, the living, breathing image of a thriving Tsitsistas filled her eyes with tears. Warriors worked and laughed together. Mothers herded their children toward the river while they managed the washing. Others carried in spoils from hunting—fresh meat, furs, and skins. Everywhere she looked, she found them working together.
A good day.
On the edge of the encampment, a lone teepee sat, the rich skins and furs heavily decorated and painted with the history of their people. A tall man stepped out, his ruddy skin gleaming in the morning light. Taut muscle stretched across his shoulders and down his chest. He bore the marks of a shaman, the painted arms and a blood red handprint fastened over his heart.
A shaman who’d taken a mate. No sooner had the thought of the shaman’s wife struck her than she saw the golden-haired woman. She stepped out of the teepee behind the shaman and considered the encampment with vibrant blue-green eyes, one babe fastened to her breast and another in a cradleboard on her back.
Twins.
The realization struck her like a lightning bolt, sizzling through her senses. The shaman turned and a smile softened the firm line of his mouth. Love shone in the deep dark of his eyes. He stretched out his hand and stroked the woman’s cheek, then the cheek of the baby nursing at her breast.
Amongst her people, they considered the birth of twins a sign of shadow and danger. It left them exposed. If the babies survived a night alone, then the spirits deemed them worthy. Perhaps a harsh practice, but one they performed for all the years Onsi could remember.
These babies appeared healthy, strong and undeniably male. Perhaps the spirits gave her the information, for she saw no other reason for the determination. The shaman glanced from his mate to the encampment and then his gaze collided with Onsi’s. She knew without a doubt, he saw her.
His eyes narrowed and he waved his mate back into the teepee before striding toward the river cave. Bracing herself for confrontation, she wasn’t prepared for the shaman to pass through her as though she weren’t there. Turning, she followed him to the back of the cave. There, huddled before a fire much like her own, sat an elderly, frail figure.
“Father, why do you continue to hide here?” The shaman’s words resonated within her as he crouched before the emaciated figure. “You must eat and rest.”
“The spirits have warned me of a great threat coming for us all,” the man said. “And until I unravel the full meaning, I shall remain in this place. Go away with you, to your stolen wife, and leave me be.”
Stolen wife?
The woman’s golden hair and pale skin were hardly those of a Tsitsistas woman. Perhaps the shaman had indeed stolen his bride.
Instead of being aggrieved by the charge, the shaman chuckled. “She is mother of my sons and the wild fire in my heart, Father. Have a care for how you dismiss her.”
“She carries white man’s magic.” The older man scowled then threw dust into the fire. The flames leapt, and Onsi withdrew a step. The magic he’d ignited was beyond physical, for it burned even in the spirit plane. Around her, the spirits crowded close. They surveyed the two men, and she could see the inner glows—a tempest in the younger, but a steady beat in the elder.
The elder’s time passed, and his son’s strength grew with each day. “She is a good woman, Father. She healed the wounded from the hunt with a single touch and the exhale of her breath. She took their pain, made it her own, and left them whole. How can you call her evil?”
“Her spirits are not ours, and yet you have forced them together in your children. You are shaman; your place is with your people.” The chastisement echoed through the spirit world, and Onsi felt the weight of their regard. They didn’t watch the exchange between father and son as she did, but kept their attention on her.
“Our sons are healthy, Father. This is a gift. The spirits have spoken.” The younger shaman’s anger reverberated in the words. “That you would find fault with the spirits is your injury, not my own.”
“You think their illness was not a punishment?” The elder demanded. “Of course you do not, because you bound your gift to hers and used white man’s magic to save them.”
Save them? Onsi didn’t understand. The babes looked healthy. She’d seen them with her own eyes—well, her spirit’s eyes. They were healthy, weren’t they?
The world ripped sideways as though shredded by claws. Once more, she stood before the teepee with its ancient history painted along the walls. Inside, the blonde woman knelt on the buffalo skin rug. A low fire smoked in the center, but the babies lay side-by-side, screami
ng. Their skin mottled red, a deep shade so unnatural it made Onsi’s heart hurt to gaze upon them.
What little hair they possessed was soaked with sweat. Though their screams seemed a thousand miles away, Onsi could feel them echoing inside of her. The woman worked with quiet precision, weaving dried grass together into dolls. Her lips moved, giving voice to a language Onsi didn’t understand.
The flap opened and he entered on a waft of colder air. Wearing only buckskin on his legs, his powerful chest bare and painted for war, he came to kneel next to her. His words, she could understand.
“How long have they been like this, wife?”
“Three nights,” she answered, her hands continuing to weave. “I dare not wait any longer.”
“We cannot,” he told her. “We will anger the spirits.”
A hesitation in her weaving, then she turned her head. Her golden hair fell away from her face and the mottling of red on her skin shocked Onsi. Blisters, fat and heavy, decorated her cheeks. A sea of red encircled her too-blue eyes. “Your spirits have no love for me, but I will not let their disdain rob our children of their lives.”
“How long…?” Without hesitation, he touched her face. Though she tried to pull away, the shaman tangled his hand in her hair and pulled her to him. The rough gesture, somehow tender, combined with the ragged note in his voice. Onsi’s heart began to bleed. The shaman’s world teetered around him, and she could feel his strength gathering. Still more spirits crowded into the teepee, pressed in so tight against her she couldn’t do anything but watch as the scene unfolded.
“Since dawn,” the woman admitted. Tears fell like blood droplets from her eyes. “They will not survive the night, and I fear I will follow them. Going into the long dark does not frighten me, beloved. But I cannot consign my sons to this fate, not when we have the power to save them. Let me heal them. My magic will do what your spirits will not.”
The Quick and the Fevered Page 4
