He grinned at my demand and I shivered hard, feverish with heat and slippery-wet at the sight of that grin. He drew back to tug the shirt over his head, his chest with its hard, wiry muscles and clear demarcations where clothing protected him from the sun.
“Pants,” I ordered breathlessly and he obeyed at once, exposing his lean hips and the huge, swollen evidence of his desire. I begged, “Oh God, come here, come here now…”
He lunged and I shrieked, giggling, as he growled against my neck, pinning my shoulder blades to the mattress. And then the flood came on, stamping out all amusement as rampant hunger flared anew between us. I took him firmly in hand, my bare thighs gliding around his waist, and he convulsed with a shuddering gasp as I guided him straight to the tight, wet cleft between my legs. He groaned as if I’d torn out his heart, thrusting deeply as I clutched his shoulders. My hair spilled all over us when I rolled on top, riding him until we hung off the opposite side of the bed.
Malcolm took control once more, clutching my hips and shifting me full-length beneath him, there pausing for the space of several frantic heartbeats. Breathing hard, he smoothed hair from my sweaty forehead, cupping my cheek, bracketing my lower back to anchor me against the hard length buried fully within my body. He smiled so sweetly I came all over him yet again, quivering and gasping as he grasped my right ankle from his lower back and drew it gently higher, latching it around his neck as he resumed our rhythm. Kisses deep and deeper still, on and on, an eternity of living and loving, enclosed within the barriers of this one precious, stolen night.
Much later we lay entangled, utterly sated and lax in each other’s arms, unwilling to release hold; dawn could not be more than an hour away. I didn’t want to waste one second sleeping, my forehead against his neck, my right arm and thigh draped possessively over his torso.
Ending, I kept thinking. You’re coming to the ending.
Devastation hovered close, ominous and unavoidable.
Malcolm rolled to an elbow, bracing above me; his eyes told me with no words he knew my thoughts. His beautiful, sensual lips appeared slightly swollen, his dark hair standing on end; bite marks decorated his shoulder muscles and thick stubble covered his jaws and chin. The only illumination in the little room came from the guttering candle on the dresser; we hadn’t touched our dinner. In the dimness, which masked exact eye color, he could have been Mathias. There had been moments last night in which I had confused the two of them – Malcolm became Mathias in my mind, and back again – my husband and my lover, their passionate, sensitive souls one and the same. My love for them was inextricably braided together in my heart, no separating one from the other.
“You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?” he whispered, fingertips trailing along my flushed cheek.
“You are him,” I whispered. “And he is you, just like Cora is me.”
“If I had any less honor, I would beg you to forget him and stay here with me.”
I cupped his jaws, tears rolling down my temples. The words cut at my throat. “I can’t stay…”
“I know, love, I truly do.” He kept his voice steady but the torture in his eyes could not be so easily hidden. His expression grew all the more intense, his arms tightening hold. “How much time?”
“I don’t know.” I pressed closer to his naked warmth; I harbored the notion that once we’d succeeded in preventing Fallon from altering the timeline, I would be returned to 2014. But I assumed, using my severely limited experience in the matter, the moment of return would occur without warning – a few seconds from now, or much longer.
“They’ll have received word by now, out in Howardsville. The station operator there wired back last night that a rider was sent to Grant’s. I forgot to tell you I checked. And Cole will have taken Patricia far from our original route by this time.” Malcolm searched my eyes. “This Yancy from your own time, he is to be trusted?”
“He wants Fallon dead as much as we do. My sister trusts him.”
Malcolm’s gaze went suddenly to the middle distance, sending a spike of pure foreboding down my spine. His voice came from far away; he sounded like a stranger, a man full of menace and dark purpose, a man who had seen things I couldn’t imagine. “Ain’t no one alive wants Fallon dead the way I do.”
“Tell me why. There’s so much I don’t understand…”
And so he spoke, low and quiet, explaining the hatred between the Yancys, Carters, and Davises. Of an ancient wound never healed, of vicious loathing between men who fought on opposite sides of the conflict I knew as the Civil War. Of Fallon’s intent to enact vengeance, to drive the blade of pain so deeply within our families it could never be removed.
“He tried to hang you?!” I cried at one point. How had I ever imagined understanding what Malcolm had lived through, what horrors he’d faced in his life?
“Fallon would never have been able to hang me on his own. He was no older than me. But he had others to help disable us, including Virgil Turnbull, the rotten bastard. Ruthann told me of an association that yet exists between the Yancys and the Turnbulls, even in her own time. I suppose it ain’t no surprise. There was a rumor I heard once, of a child Virgil had fathered with Isobel Faucon…” He drifted to silence, overcome by an onslaught of memories. I held fast, listening with all my attention, and at last he whispered, “Boyd and Cora saved me from hanging that night. There’s been many a time I wished they hadn’t, if only to kill the pain that came later, after Cora was lost.”
“Cora forgave you long ago, sweetheart. Never forget that.” Tears built in my eyes at the expression in his; dawn threatened the window by now, our time leaking away. Rebelling against its encroaching expiration, I gripped his strong hands and threaded our fingers.
“Once more,” he whispered, a command and a plea, both at once.
Yes – the word lost between our mouths as I rolled atop his chest, taking him back inside the sleek wetness in which he had spilled over countless times since yesterday evening. Urgency tinted everything now, each kiss, each touch – no longer secure in the night with the promise of another hour to follow. We both knew it, clinging, coupling with the desperation of those who understand how little control they truly possess. He cried out, low and harsh, as he came, and I wrapped arms and legs around his body, unable now to restrain sobs.
“I love you, Malcolm, my sweet Malcolm…” Crying hard, gasping between each breath.
“Don’t cry, sweetheart, it breaks my heart. I love you more than my next breath, more than my own life. I’ll never stop.” He rested his forehead to mine, our bodies linked as closely as our souls for one final moment in this place in time. And it was enough and never enough, both at once.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Montana Territory - June, 1882
I WOKE SHROUDED BY UNEASE, THE REMNANTS OF A BAD dream lingering for a last second before wakefulness swept them away. Sweat plastered my nightgown to my skin. Our room was veiled in the darkness of deep night, morning still hours away, but awareness pulsed at the base of my neck and I sat straight, the covers falling to my hips.
Camille…
I hear you…
“What’s wrong, love?” Marshall murmured, rolling over, wakened by the sound of my voice.
“I don’t know exactly. I was having a nightmare…” I threw off the quilt and hurried from our bed, drawn to the single window to peer out at the black night, plagued by the sense that my oldest sister had just called my name. I’d been restored to full consciousness for a reason – something out there demanded my attention and Camille wanted me to know. But what? I shivered so hard I would have pitched forward out the window if not for the glass.
Marshall was on my heels, clutching my upper arms in a gesture both concerned and protective. He drew me from the window – and potential harm’s way – sheltering me against his nude body. “Same here. I was dreaming about Garth and Case and Mathias, just now. They were singing at The Spoke and something was really wrong. Something was about to happen, I don�
�t know what exactly, I just knew they were in danger.”
Shivers rippled over every inch of my flesh; my voice emerged as a terrified, high-pitched bleat. “Camille was trying to tell me something, just now. Marsh, something’s happening…”
“Stay away from the window,” he ordered, grabbing clothes from the floor, scurrying into them before opening our bedroom door and yelling, “Grant!”
It was more than I could bear – far too similar to the night last summer when Miles was shot and killed. “No,” I choked, watching Marshall buckle his gun belt into place around his hips. “No, don’t go down there.”
He crossed the room in three strides to gather me close, understanding the reason behind my distress. Harsh, unyielding in his conviction, he said, “Angel, listen to me. I’m not Miles. I will not die and leave you alone, do you hear me?”
Raised voices in the rooms below, the household roused to action. I heard Grant and Birdie, then Celia; baby Jacob began crying. Thunking clatters met our ears as rifles were pulled from the rack and boxes of bullets retrieved from the top drawer of the hutch. No chances would be taken this time.
“Do you think Miles thought he was going to die?” I cried, not about to release my hold on Marshall. “He had no control over what happened, just like we have no control!”
“I can’t argue with that, Ruthie, it’s not fair.”
“Don’t tell me what’s fair!” Pregnancy robbed me of what little emotional control stress had not; tears painted wet tracks over my face. “And don’t you dare mention dying! Knock on wood, right now!”
Grant hollered up the stairs. “Marsh! Rider!”
Holding my gaze, Marshall reached and rapped his knuckles firmly on the doorframe, then planted a kiss flush on my lips and tucked me close to his side. “I love you, Ruthann Rawley. C’mon. Stay beside me.”
The rooms below remained shrouded in darkness as we descended the stairs; lighted candles would obscure the view outdoors. Grant, armed with a rifle, waited to the left of the front windows. Birdie and Celia had herded the boys into the pantry, a small, windowless space in which Birdie had once stitched Axton’s gunshot wounds.
“Ruthie, come join us,” she ordered in a hushed whisper.
Marshall kissed me once more, quick and possessive. “I’ll be right here.”
He took up a position to the right of the windows, opposite Grant, as we all strained to listen. Celia, sitting on the floor with her back braced on the pantry wall, nursed Jacob so he would keep quiet while Birdie knelt, holding her boys around their waists. I crouched beside Birdie and her sons, pressing both fists to my lips.
Shouting voices outside – I heard Axton’s among them.
“Grant! Marsh! Rider from Howardsville!” Ax yelled, and Grant lowered his rifle barrel from a position of direct threat, flinging open the outer door.
Axton, who slept in the bunkhouse, entered in the company of three other men, two of them ranch hands, the third unknown to me. Axton carried a lantern and everyone spoke at once. The pantry allowed for a slanted view of the action; behind Birdie and me, Celia murmured, “That’s Pete Darnell’s boy, from the telegraph office in town.”
Grant ordered, “Hush up, you-all! Darnell, what’s this about?”
Darnell pulled a slip of paper from inside his shirt, which he thrust at Grant. “Telegram for you, from Iowa. Sender requested immediate delivery, so I told Pa I’d ride out.” He was young, probably no more than seventeen or eighteen; excitement radiated from him at the privilege of such an important and urgent errand.
“From Iowa?” Axton spoke roughly and I knew, like me, his first thought was of Patricia.
I refused to stay put in the pantry and scrambled to my feet. Marshall reached with his free arm and gathered me close to his side while Grant unfolded the tattered paper containing the message; rifle propped against his hip, Grant cleared his throat and began reading.
“‘Camille arrived this morning…’”
My heart slammed to a halt; Marshall and I stared at each other with flat-out stun.
Grant read on, “‘Please get immediate word to Grant and Marshall Rawley. Tell them Fallon is on his way. Will reach you by tomorrow. Be prepared. Do not leave for Howardsville.” He paused for a split second, rereading a line. “Cole and Patricia are safe. Request word when rider is sent. Malcolm A. Carter.’”
“Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.” Marshall’s eyebrows were lofted almost to his hairline.
“When was this sent?” Axton demanded.
“Around dinnertime, last night,” Darnell said. “From Muscatine, Iowa.”
“Oh, my God…” I couldn’t think fast enough to make sense of what this meant. Camille was here in 1882? In Iowa? And she had found Malcolm. Reeling, I clung to Marshall, seeking a single point of orientation upon which to focus. How had she known when and where to come? For that matter, how had she arrived in the nineteenth century in the first place?
“Yancy.” Grant spoke the name like a curse. “It’s time to finish this, once and for all. Time to send that bastard straight to hell.” He looked to his ranch hands. “Fellas, we got a situation here. Shit, we have to spread the word quick, it’s nearly tomorrow already.”
The hows and whys would have to come later; Grant was right – it was time to finish this.
A fair morning bloomed on the eastern horizon; June thirtieth, the last day of the month. Marsh and Axton were due in Howardsville later this day to greet the new marshal, a man sent to Montana Territory to replace Marshall’s post, but Malcolm’s telegram ordered to stay put and we were not about to question the warning, let alone disobey it. Word had been spread to Grant’s men of the approaching danger; they were armed at all times but most rode in at some point to gather additional rifles, bullets, and pistols. Morning passed in a tense haze, bright sun shining down as a benign, windless day unfolded outside.
Despite my anger over it, Marshall rode Blade to the summit of the ridge opposite the house, along with Axton and Grant, who toted along a telescoping brass spyglass. From the ridgeline, the spyglass allowed observation of the foothills for dozens of miles. I stalked the front window, feeling like an animal in a too-small cage, not removing my gaze from the specks of their mounted figures up on the distant ridge.
“Men. They ain’t no better than little boys when they get a notion in their damn heads,” Celia said as she joined me. “And the Rawleys are about the worst, stubborn as hell, the entire lot of them.” She rubbed a comforting hand between my shoulder blades, muttering, “Don’t we know?”
I cupped the roundness of my lower belly, where Marshall’s son grew daily; Celia knew just how to coax a smile, albeit a grim one. I muttered, “Damn right. Don’t they know it’s dangerous to be out there, exposed like that?”
Birdie, who alleviated her worry best by keeping busy, looked over her shoulder at us. She stood at the table, a smooth, perfect oval of pale dough rolled out before her. Using a small water glass, she cut biscuits with the deft movements of an action completed thousands of times before. “Grant said he won’t be kept like a rabbit in a cage in his own house.” She sighed. “Danger and excitement tend to blend together in their man-minds.”
I smiled at Birdie’s words, which reminded me of something my sisters would say. I’d spent so much of the day imagining Camille somewhere in Iowa, both of us existing in the same century for the first time in over a year. It killed me that I couldn’t make contact; riddled with questions I had no hope of answering short of a conversation with her, the foremost of which being how. How in God’s name had she known, with such specific timing, where Fallon would appear? How had she reached 1882 and found Malcolm Carter? I was dying to know. And I wanted so badly to tell her my news. I wanted so much for the womenfolk to know I was pregnant.
Celia snorted at Birdie’s words; Celia knew her own sense of humor was far more ribald, winking at her dear friend as she muttered, “Most every man’s got but two things on his man-mind, himself and his pecker.”<
br />
“And his pecker’s likely higher on the list,” Birdie said, giggling, the three of us craving a little relief from the tension.
“In my experience, that’s God’s truth.” Celia grinned, that wide, knowing Rawley smile I’d seen so many times on the faces of her many descendants. Love for her swelled in my chest. Nodding toward the ridge, Celia murmured, “Aw, them fellers are good men, as men go. Even if they are stubborn creatures the Rawleys know how to treat a lady, and Axton is as sweet as a man can be. Sweet to the bone, that one.” She clucked her tongue. “It’s a shame he’s so dead-set on a woman he can’t ever have. I hate to see it.”
“Me too,” I whispered. “I worry about him so much. And I miss Patricia all the time, not a night goes by when I don’t think about her. I can’t imagine what Ax is feeling. I pray she’s safe with Cole, like Malcolm said.” Even as I spoke, I kept my eyes fixed on Marshall and Blade, the two of them no larger than the top joint of my index finger at such a distance, Blade’s gorgeous hide catching the sun like a silver coin – and making a clear target for anyone looking, damn him.
Birdie balled up and then kneaded the remaining dough, flour dusting her nose, fingers, and wrists. She spoke with quiet reassurance. “Cole can handle himself. We have to trust in that. I wonder where they are as we speak. Are they still so far south, in Muscatine along with Malcolm? They’d have backtracked in that case, because we know they reached Fannie and Charley’s homestead weeks ago, which is much closer to Iowa City.”
I sifted again through the limited information available to me, imagining circumstances that would culminate in Camille appearing in the nineteenth century. ‘Arrived this morning’ the telegram stated, meaning she had been here for at least twenty-four hours. Had she arrived from 2014? Was she alone? As close as I could figure, her passage backward through time was probably inadvertent, just as mine had been; I found it very difficult to imagine Mathias allowing her to leave the safety of the twenty-first century without his protection.
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