This Time for Keeps

by Maureen Child

  "Yes it is." Zacariah pulled a deep, unsteady breath into his lungs and coughed. It felt as though a cold, wet knife had sliced down his throat. Although, he admitted to himself, it did seem to help that strange, fluttery feeling in his stomach.

  "If you went to the Minions and begged forgiveness, they might change their minds. Grant you mercy."

  Beg?

  Plead for mercy?

  He stiffened and ignored the whistle of wind humming around him. "No. I don't beg."

  "Not even for this?"

  Not even to dig himself out of this humiliating punishment would he humble himself like that. "No."

  "I don't understand you at all."

  He smiled wryly. "I know."

  Mordecai glanced over his shoulder into the swirling mist behind him, then turned his sharp blue gaze back to Zacariah. "You realize that the Minions are furious," he whispered. "I've been a Collector for six hundred years, and I've never seen them mad before. In fact, I didn't think you could get that angry while on the Eternal Path."

  Neither had Zacariah.

  "I have to go." Mordecai stiffened and cocked his head, listening to a call only he could hear. "I've a collection to make." He paused, then frowned.

  "What is it?"

  "I have to take Fenwick along with me," Mordecai muttered Zacariah laughed out loud and startled himself with the hearty sound of his own laughter. Mordecai's frown deepened.

  "I'm gratified that your first real laugh was at my expense," he said. "This isn't right, you know. You being sentenced to Earthly life while I am forced to initiate Fenwick into the role of a Collector."

  Fenwick, a good-hearted, recently collected soul, had been chosen to become a Collector himself. And though Fenwick was eager to please, it seemed that not even being on the Eternal Path was enough to rid him of his Earthly clumsiness. Apparently though, his pure heart shone greatly enough to overshadow his inadequacies. Of course, the Minions made the decisions. It was up to the Collectors to train initiates.

  Mordecai glanced over his shoulder into the mist again and nodded. "I must go. Fenwick is waiting and the collection is imminent."

  Zacariah nodded. "For your own sake," he said with disgust, "I advise you not to be late."

  "Coming," the Collector assured someone waiting just behind the curtain of mist. Turning back to his friend again, he said finally, "A month isn't so long, Zacariah. I'll come to see you, when I can. Of course," he added as he stepped back into the surrounding clouds. "Fenwick will probably have to accompany me.

  Mordecai's voice drifted away along with the last of the clouds .

  Alone. Momentarily, he paused.

  A splash of sunshine fell on the meadow grass at Zacariah's feet. A harsh breeze rushed past him and lifted his too-long black hair off his collar, He turned his face into the wind and gasped at the sharp, cold sting of air against his flesh. Below him in the heart of the valley ringed by mountains, lay the ranch where he would live as an ordinary man for one, long, interminable month. The warmth of the sun pulsed through him and he took one hesitant step forward. His booted foot came down on a stone and he staggered slightly before recovering his balance.

  Walking.

  Already, he didn't like it.

  Chapter Two

  Rebecca shook her head and laughed at her own wild fancies. Clouds? Alive?

  She pushed her hair back from her eye and watched as the low hanging mist slowly lifted and swirled with the wind. A small smile curved her lips. She really had to get some sleep. Too much work and worry and not enough rest had her seeing shapes and shadows that didn’t even exist. Soon, she'd be joining her son Danny at bedtime, in checking under the beds for monsters.

  Rebecca shook her head, glanced at the fallen fence post, then up at the blackening sky. She'd never finish the repair work before the coming storm broke. Even as that thought raced through her mind, the wind picked up, twisting her hair into long, tangled threads flying about her face.

  Lowering her gaze, she looked back to the spot where the low-lying clouds had been a moment before.

  It was then she spotted him.

  He seemed to have come from the heart of the mist — though he was much closer to her now than the clouds had been. A man. Alone. Walking. A small curl of worry began to thread its way through her. She tossed a quick glance at the house, a hundred yards away, then looked back at the man steadily approaching. Briefly, she wished that she'd allowed Danny to ride out with Buck and Scotty that morning. She'd feel a lot easier if she only had herself to look out for.

  Immediately, she told herself she was borrowing trouble. Most people were decent. The chances of someone arriving out of the blue… and on foot, to do her harm, were pretty slim.

  Her fingers tightened around the hammer. Still, she couldn't help wishing she had her rifle with her.

  Rebecca studied the stranger coming steadily closer. Wind rushed past her and the clouds overhead seemed to dip and sway under the heavy burden of rain they carried. A single drop of water plopped into the dirt at her feet. She silently took the stranger's measure, despite the distance still separating them. A tall man, with long, jeanclad legs, he walked stiffly, as if carefully planning each step. His movements seemed almost uneasy, like a man not used to walking.

  She smiled to herself. A cowboy. Rebecca had never met a cowhand who would walk when he could ride. Most of the men she knew looked a little out of place when they were out of a saddle. Besides the high-heeled boots cowboys wore were designed to keep their feet in stirrups. Not for walking. But where was his horse?

  He came still closer and Rebecca could see his eyes. Even at a distance, she was stunned by their color. A clear, startling blue, they shone like sunshine on a mountain lake. His night-black hair was too long in back and shaggy on the sides. It fell across his forehead and ruffled in the wind. As he pushed one hand through his hair, she noticed for the first time that he wasn't wearing a hat.

  Everybody wore hats. Protection from the sun and the rain, a hat was as much a part of a Westerner's outfit as gloves or a horse. Another solitary raindrop splashed against Rebecca's shoulder. Thunder rattled across the sky and lightning lit the clouds from behind, giving them an eerie glow. The first crash of thunder was followed quickly by another .

  "Ma!"

  Rebecca tore her gaze from the approaching stranger, and spun around to look at her son. Standing in the open doorway, Danny shouted, "I can't reach the big pans."

  As if the sky had waited for the news that not all of her leaks were looked after yet, the clouds tore apart and a hard, heavy rain fell onto the ranch.

  Drenched in seconds, Rebecca strained to see past the wall of water to the man headed toward her. Instinctively, she raised her arm and waved him on, silently telling him to hurry. Then she turned and ran for the house.

  She stopped on the porch under the overhang, just long enough to kick off her muddy boots.

  "Who's that?" Danny asked as she tossed the hammer and nails into a corner of the porch.

  "I don't know yet," Rebecca told him and, gently pushed him back inside. "Stay there till I find out."

  "Maaa…"

  "And hand me the rifle." Rebecca ignored her son's whine and stood on the threshold, ready to bar the way into her house with her body if she had to. Without another word, Danny slapped the rifle stock into her outstretched hand. Rebecca's fingers curled around the worn wood and she held the weapon barrel down, but ready. Lord knew, she didn't mind helping a stranger in need, but she wasn't about to take chances with her son's safety, either.

  A moment later, the stranger leaped up onto the narrow porch and shook himself like a dog after a swim. He wiped one hand across his face, then stared at his wet palm as if he'd never seen it before.

  "It's raining," he said and his voice sounded scratchy and rough.

  She frowned thoughtfully. What if the man wasn't quite right in the head? What if he'd escaped whoever was supposed to be caring for him?

  "Yes," Rebe
cca agreed, keeping a wary eye on him.

  "I'm soaked through." He shook his head and stared down at his own clothing, now hugging his tall, lean frame. He sounded almost surprised that his clothes we drenched. Hmmm. A man who didn't know rain was wet obviously shouldn't be out on his own. Maybe she should just slip inside the house, bar the door and wait for Scotty and Buck to return.

  The man shivered. "Cold, too," he remarked.

  "Course ya are," Danny piped up. "You're all wet."

  "Danny," she said softly.

  Then the stranger sneezed and he looked so surprised she almost laughed aloud. She stared hard into his eyes, looking for what, she wasn't sure. But there was no sign of madness in his clear blue gaze. Instead, she saw just what she would have expected to find in a man in his condition.

  Disgust.

  He turned his head to look out at the deluge and Rebecca studied his profile. Pitch black, sodden hair clung to his high forehead and lay just above slightly arched black brows. His straight nose had never been broken in a fight and his lips, still twisted in a grimace, were wellshaped. She even noticed what was probably a dimple in his right cheek.

  Ignoring her completely, the stranger suddenly stretched out one hand, palm up, from under the porch overhang. When he'd caught a handful of rainwater, he dumped it on the ground and grumbled something unintelligible.

  Rain. Raindrops. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them.

  Zacariah inhaled deeply and tried not to shiver. He was cold right down to his bones. Bones! By the Path, he actually had bones. Something tickled in his nose and he wrinkled it in reaction. It didn't help. That same, helpless feeling he'd experienced a moment ago swept over him. He inhaled sharply, his head jerked and he shot the air out of his lungs in a powerful sneeze.

  Blast it anyway. Why he was forced to endure such privations for a few paltry mistakes was beyond him. Wouldn't it have been kinder to sentence him to the dark road for Eternity? A half smile lifted one side of his mouth. At least then he would have been warm.

  He felt the cold caress of water droplets rolling down his back beneath his sodden shirt and twitched his shoulders uncomfortably. Wind brushed past him, knifing through his flesh, pushing the cold even deeper.

  Everything was so… awful. By the Path, why would a human fight against a Collector's presence? To escape such misery, he would leap across the chasm separating life and death! He drew another deep breath and inhaled the mingled scents of pine trees and muddy earth. He listened to the drumming patter of the rain against the dirt. He shivered again as the wind taunted him.

  "Where you from, mister?"

  Zacariah straightened, glanced at the woman and ignored the suspicion in her eyes. How difficult could it be to sway this one human female to sympathy?

  "I'm not sure, really," he said and knew the instant the words left his mouth that it had been the wrong answer.

  "Is he crazy?" the boy asked in a whisper loud enough to be heard by everyone.

  Zacariah frowned briefly at the child.

  "I don't know," his mother assured him. "What do you mean, you're not sure?" she asked, cocking her head to look at him harder. "And while you're at it, where's your horse?"

  Horse. Hadn't he told Gabriel that he would need a horse? Disgusted, Zacariah realized he would have to use Mordecai's suggestion. All he needed now was the proper note of sincerity to make it all believable.

  "My horse threw me," he said, glancing at the boy to avoid, however briefly, looking into the woman's suspicious gaze. "I must have hit my head when I fell, because I can’t seem to remember anything."

  He hoped it sounded like a plausible explanation for his sudden appearance. Although, he thought, sending a silent message to whoever might be listening, none of this would have been necessary if his superiors had outfitted for his punishment properly.

  He took a step closer and smacked his forehead on the low-hanging curve of the warped, wooden overhang. Yelping, he jumped back and rubbed the painful spot. By the Path! Why had no one warned him about this? Had it really been necessary to force him to feel pain on top of everything else? Under the relative shelter of the porch roof, the sound of the rain was loud, insistent.

  It drummed on his nerves and pounded against his now throbbing head.

  Dropping his hand to his side, Zacariah noticed for the first time the rifle in the woman's right hand. Shooting him wouldn't do her the slightest bit of good — although he was almost tempted to let her try it. Maybe he could be collected. No. it wasn't his 'time' yet. And it certainly wouldn't set the right tone for his visit, either.

  "Well." the woman said with a cautious smile, "that's an interesting tale." She looked him up and down, carefully, then added, "I suppose you're harmless. I've never yet turned away somebody needing our help."

  He sneezed again. Violently.

  The woman handed her rifle to the boy butt first, then reached out and grabbed Zacariah's forearm. Tugging at him, she drew him nearer the light-filled doorway.

  "We can finish talking inside," she told him. "After you dry off and before you catch your death."

  Zacariah smiled at that.

  She, of course, misinterpreted that smile and warned, "Now don't you make me sorry I invited you in, mister. You mind your manners or you'll find yourself back out in the rain, with a bruise or two to keep you company."

  … Download The Soul Collector today!

  Other historical romances by Maureen Child:

  Mountain Dawn

  Nevada Heat

  Small Treasures

  Charms

  Wishes

  Paper Hearts (novella)

  Frontier Bride

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