Being only half-awake as yet, I had no idea what, or who he was talking about, and said so.
“The green-eyed man,” Teagun snarled. “And don’t say you don’t know him. I’d say you know him very well. He called you Boothenay. He called you Sugar.”
“Green-eyed man! Caleb? You saw Caleb? You heard him? Truly?” I sat up, throwing aside the corner of the sleeping bag I’d drawn up to keep the light out of my eyes. “I was dreaming about him. But how could you see? How could you hear what he said? He calls me ‘sugar’ all the time. I like it. ‘Sugar’ hasn’t become an immoral word, has it?”
Things were getting too damn weird to suit me. Teagun’s insistence he’d been able to see Caleb made me uncomfortable, especially since it was my dream he was eavesdropping on—if one can eavesdrop on dreams. Weird, indeed! But exciting, too.
Caleb and I had met in dream-time before when I’d deliberately sought him out. Not like this, though. Most assuredly not like this! My mind whirled. Had they—my family or Caleb—discovered I was missing? Dare I believe Caleb was actively looking for me?
“He was bent over you,” Teagun said, still looking shaken. “I saw him. He looked—he was—real. Trying to get at you. I almost shot him, but before I could get my gun out, he disappeared.”
“Don’t you go shooting my dreams to pieces,” I said, as if such a thing were possible.
“A dream?” Teagun seized on the word scornfully. He paced once around the empty campfire pit, his head up, nostrils flared as if to take scent of the intruder. “Lady, if your Caleb was a dream, I congratulate you on the vividness of your imagination. But I don’t believe you. Nobody can project their dreams like that.”
“Oh, really.” I stood up, swaying slightly, feeling still the aftermath of the heat and dehydration I’d suffered earlier. There may have been a little—quite a little—unfulfilled desire, too, and a lot of bravado. “It’s quite common where I come from.”
His black gaze narrowed on me. Our eyes were nearly the same color, I saw, staring defiantly back, although his held a hard quality foreign to my own. At least, I hoped it was foreign. I’d hate for anyone to see me looking so harsh and so alone.
“Is that right?” he said. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Are you an expert? In my era, it’s very common in certain circles,” I elaborated. “Besides, he’s not here, is he? He went poof, right along with my dream.” Listening to myself, I sounded sad, my elation gone.
He couldn’t deny Caleb had done that—gone poof. But he didn’t much like it. Well, he might as well join the crew.
Slowly, patently uncertain whether he dared credit either me or his own eyes, he stepped over to his sitting place and picked up a bulky package. Snapping the string holding the bundle together, he threw a billowing cloud of silky fine fabric at me.
“What’s this?” I caught the slithery material before it dropped to the ground. “Oh.” As soon as I took possession, I knew Teagun must have acquired a cloak for me such as he wore himself. In color somewhere between brown, dark green and black, and constantly changing under different light conditions, I didn’t need to worry about dropping it on the ground. The fabric seemed to be self-cleaning.
“Keep the hood up,” he advised. “You’ll be almost invisible at night. During daylight, it’ll hide and protect your pretty white skin.”
“Shucks. I didn’t know you cared,” I said facetiously. “Thanks.” He hadn’t sounded overwhelmed with admiration for my Spokane-in-the- spring colored skin and I confess to being surprised at this show of consideration. On second thought, he may only have been trying to protect his investment. He probably didn’t want me to die on him before I’d served his purpose.
“Where’d you dig this thing up? I’d have never of guessed there was a store around here.”
He smiled slowly, surprising me again with the appearance of his dimples. “There isn’t. Petra keeps spare clothing at the farm. I went there this afternoon while you slept. I’m hoping she’ll recognize her own things when she see you and know you come from me. Adainette should be none the wiser. She’s never been to the farm.”
Farm. He’d said it again. What kind of a farm could he possibly have in this arid country? What did he raise? Rattlesnakes?
I took another packet he was pushing at me. “More clothes? Your mother might not like me wearing her things. She’ll probably think I stole them.”
“Then you’ll have to tell her differently,” he said, cool as can be. He was not only annoying, but, as I was learning, almost impossible to argue with.
I said, “She . . . Adainette . . . may never have been to this farm of yours, but I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts she can pinpoint the location on a map. I think you should stay away from there, especially now more outlaws have arrived. It’s too dangerous.”
I had the somewhat uncharitable idea that if anything bad did happen to him, I stood in danger of losing the Weatherby to the enemy. That didn’t suit my plans at all. I wanted him, and the pistol, where I could keep my eyes on them both. If that included guarding Teagun as well as the gun, then that is what I’d do. My mind was already made up to help him. I might as well quit fighting him every step of the way.
The last of the gaudy sunset faded as we ate a dinner of re-hydrated dry stuff; traditional back-packer fare, I think, tasting vaguely of chicken. Easy to fix, I noted, although none too plentiful. All he had to do was pour a little water over the ingredients and squeeze his handy- dandy heater-upper ring around the tumbler. Dessert was a genuine fresh apple and more of the herbal tea. If this was his regular fare, no wonder he was so thin.
I sighed. Oh, well. I could stand to lose a pound or two. Too bad if my belly didn’t believe it had been fed.
Teagun hadn’t started a fire tonight, not wishing to risk alerting the outlaws of our presence. With their increase in personnel, one or more of the outlaws might be prowling about, able scent the odor of burning sagebrush or see the flame. This danger didn’t keep Teagun from staring into the fire-pit as though he were in a trance of some kind.
He’d been sitting quietly on one of the chests, hands dangling loosely between his knees, until he blinked and stood. He moved so abruptly I jumped.
“What’s up?” I asked in alarm. “Where are you going?”
“To bed,” he announced, yawning wide. “I haven’t slept in 42 hours.”
He made it sound like his lack of sleep was my fault. The Weatherby, riding in the custom holster strapped across his back, rose over his shoulders like a lumpy, abnormal growth. He did look haggard, worn to a rag. The bruises on his face had blossomed like pansies during the day, turning a vivid yellow-edged purple.
“You want to keep a watch over the camp?” he asked.
“Sure. Although I must say I’m surprised you trust me enough to serve guard duty. How do you know I won’t turn you over to the outlaws in exchange for the Weatherby?” Unwise, I know, but I couldn’t stop myself from goading him.
“You won’t.”
“I might.”
He smiled faintly. “No, Boothenay. You won’t.”
He hadn’t called me by name before. It kind of threw me.
“Well, aren’t you afraid I’ll steal the Weatherby for myself? Or do you plan on sleeping with it on?” I was only partially kidding with my questions, which he must have guessed.
“Um,” he said, which could have meant anything. “For the record, I sleep light.”
The statement rang like a warning. “I’ll just bet you do,” I said.
In the end, he did unstrap the gun from his back, but he wrapped the belt around the piece and rested his head on the holster when he lay down. Hard sleeping, if you ask me. It must not have bothered him, though, for with the automatically warmed sleeping bag cocooning him, he’d fallen sound asleep in an instant, leaving me to keep watch.
“My, my,” I said aloud, keeping my voice low. “Some entertaining host you are.” I’d meant to ask him to return my L
adySmith .357. Given a situation that had ten outlaws running loose in the countryside, I can guarantee I’d have felt a great deal more secure with it at hand. The little Guardian in my ankle holster didn’t seem substantial enough for good self-defense with only six shots to expend.
Keep watch, Teagun had said. Fine. I had no problem with that. But before settling in to patrol, I couldn’t resist tearing open the packet he’d brought and checking out ladies fashion a-la 2120. The garment turned out to be a body suit, much the same as I’d seen
Adainette wearing. I supposed the style must be as ubiquitous in the 22nd century as the jeans and tee of my own. Petra obviously favored this strange, indeterminate color she’d chosen for the suit, which matched that of the cloak. I found the color growing on me, too.
Pausing to listen for the regular rate of Teagun’s breathing, and judging him well and truly asleep, without further ado I stripped out of my jeans and shirt and donned the body suit
If these were Petra Dill’s clothes, she must be in excellent physical shape, I decided a short time later. These weren’t the clothes of a middle-aged, overweight housewife, that’s for sure. Once on, the fabric clung to me like it had been patterned from my own skin, feeling perfectly right and comfortable. It must have done the same for her. Conscious, however, of the extremely revealing fit, and ignoring the fact there was no one to see, I sucked in my gut and straightened my posture. Nothing less did the get-up justice
Wistfully, I wished Caleb had been here to judge the result. I felt sure he’d approve. Feeling let down, I folded my own clothing into a neat pile and took up Teagun’s perch on the hold-everything chest.
An hour passed, dragging a bit after the excitement of my newly expanded wardrobe palled. Periodically I would make a circuit around the camp, listening to the utter stillness of the empty country, each time finding nothing to cause alarm. As the night deepened, the temperature grew ever more chilly, until I slipped the burnoose on over the jumpsuit and held out my arms to check it out. To my surprise, I found Teagun had been right. The muted coloration did render me almost invisible, as it faded into the background. The fabric kept me warm.
At moon rise, a coyote barked his demented cry, and as I heard an answering yodel, my relief was so emotional I nearly broke out crying myself. Everything had not died with the old century. What a relief, even if coyotes and rattlesnakes were the only the only ones? I’d ask Teagun when he woke up. Along with the other thousand questions I had for him: 1. Farm; 2. Wildlife; 3.
What I needed was something to write with, to make a list, which already threatened to become lengthy.
With this in mind, I set out upon a search for my purse, which Teagun had taken from me, lugging the substantial carryall into camp himself. I didn’t remember seeing it anytime after he’d knocked me on my rear when we got here. “Where, oh, where?” I whispered, knowing he must have put it nearby.
I glanced over the campsite. Teagun, being a naturally tidy person, didn’t leave much lying around. Only the sleeping bag spread under the ledge’s shadow, the lantern and the two chests. Nothing else.
Well, he most often sat on the chest nearest the ledge and used the stone wall as a backrest. He kept the food supplies in the other. So if food was in one, what was in the one he used for a chair?
The chest lid lifted silently. There, as I’d come to suspect, he’d neatly stowed my purse. I lifted it out with a sense of thankfulness, part of my home away from home. I carry a lot of essential stuff in that bag, a pen and notepad being only minor necessities among them.
More importantly, I found the LadySmith, back in its holster and returned to my bag. The ammunition he’d bought the first time he came through time was stacked in the chest, as well, with one of pistols he’d mentioned, a 9mm Glock lying on top of everything else. My heart skipped a beat with pure relief. The list I’d meant to make slipped to the back of my mind.
Teagun slept on as I twisted a couple of strands of nylon cord together for a belt, passing the string through the rear slots in the LS’s holster and tying a knot at my waist, so the pistol hung at the small of my back. Like I said, I carry a lot of essentials in my purse. I’d bought the cord a few days earlier for a garden project I hadn’t, by fortuitous accident, gotten to as yet. Chances were I never would now. Resolutely, I pushed that anxiety out of my mind.
OVERCONFIDENCE CAN KILL YOU. Isn’t that what they say?
With this in mind, I stepped beyond the rock fissure, ready to spread my field of guardianship. It’s all very well to mind the home front and wait for the enemy to coming looking for you, but in my opinion, safety lay in keeping the wolf from your door in the first place.
I cast about the camp, listening and looking, finding my direction. Nothing alarmed my hyped-up senses or broke the still, waiting silence of the night. Once outside the protective stones encircling camp, I remembered the way Teagun had shown me this morning to the Crossroad Hotel.
Had it only been this morning? Had I really been only twenty-four hours in this place? Had anyone missed me at home as yet? I put these painful questions out of my head, concentrating on the matter at hand.
My most imperative need, I decided, was for another look at the hotel, the roads leading to it, the outbuildings and the approaches. Sure, I could depend on Teagun to fill me in on all of this, or should be able to. But I’d seen already that he was a very secretive man, reticent in the extreme. One who, because he’d kidnapped me and brought me here by virtue of his own power, his own act of dominion, hesitated to put much trust in me. He didn’t want his secrets placed in my keeping. The logical part of my brain accepted this as only wise if he wanted to stay alive.
On the other hand, my life depended on knowing everything possible about what I was getting into. To help myself, I must help the Dills, or so I believed. In the interest of expediting this mission, an information-gathering foray couldn’t go wrong. I didn’t want to rely on anyone else’s judgment of the situation. It’s not in my nature to trust anyone but myself. Teagun and I had more in common than I wanted to admit.
The country came alive at night, Teagun had said. Commerce and people moved from the coast to the interior of the country, and from the interior to the coast. They made the run across the upland plateau during darkness in an effort to avoid the overwhelming heat of the day. It seemed obvious I would learn more now than at any other time of day or night.
With a final glance around the camp to make certain all was secure, and in part to guarantee I’d be able to find my way when I returned, I walked rapidly away, soon topping a rise, and following the landmarks. In a remarkably short time, I found the highway. Traffic sped non-stop in this early hour of the night.
The noise had picked up as well. An odd noise, to one accustomed to the roar of gasoline or diesel-powered engines. Fans whined in the hovercraft. Displaced air made great whooshing sounds. Earlier, Teagun had explained a little about the guidance systems on the vehicles, which monitored following distance and positioning on the road. That didn’t mean the movement was robotic in nature. All was not static. Private “cars” passed slower “trucks” from time to time, weaving in and out of the line of traffic.
Any of the craft might suffer mechanical problems at intervals, and both they and the distance haulers paused in their journeys to affect repairs and seek refreshment at the Crossroad Hotel. Daylight would find every hotel room filled. The scene appeared quite normal to me, with the more than one-hundred year difference between this time and my own being mostly a matter of transport locomotion and the necessity of moving at night.
I watched the activity for a long time from the rise above the road, crouching hidden behind rocks and pungently scented three-toothed sage. This is where we’d hidden ourselves earlier, only now I felt completely anonymous and invulnerable concealed in Petra Dill’s cloak.
Beyond the two entrance gateposts, sans gate, the pullout area in front of the hotel was sketchily illuminated. Strong yellowish light flooded down from wi
dely spaced poles, the gaps between appearing all the darker, shadowed and dangerous. Vehicles requiring repair or maintenance occupied the spaces directly beneath the lights. I noted this with satisfaction.
I also noted there were as many women as men passing in and out of the hotel before taking their places in the trucks and moving on. They were all dressed like me, body suits and boleros. A few wore cloaks.
Gaps opened periodically in the lines of traffic ripping along the road. If a person moved fast, there’d be plenty of time to cross unseen to the hotel for a better look around. No doubt it would be sensible if that person—namely, me—stayed out of sight, keeping to the middle- ground between lights. But if I were to be seen, I felt sure I would not be remarkable in any way.
Moving off the rise and closer to the road, I watched for the next gap. I wouldn’t enter the hotel compound, I assured myself. I’d stay outside the gates. Make my observations from there. If the hotel was equipped with surveillance cameras, or whatever they had in this age, it was possible they would spot me right away.
But when the opening fell into my lap, the circumstances seemed so providential, I couldn’t resist.
I’d planned to get across the road, then get closer, by running in beside a slowly moving truck-hauler. Consequently, my concentration had been on a truck moving from east to west. Fate decreed otherwise. A vehicle came limping in, traffic backed up for miles behind. And the driver was heading east, which meant the truck was already on my own side of the road. This close to the vehicle, I saw something that looked like a deep running board. As the driver, a woman, slowed a little more prior to making the turn in front of oncoming traffic, I saw the craft had wide skirts flaring out from the sides.
A perfect stepping-stone to ease my access to the hotel courtyard.
I found a handle, convenient for me to hold as I jumped aboard while she was making the turn. I rode the truck through the gates, only dropping off when we halted, the cushion of air dissipating and lowering us to the ground.
Nearly overpowered by the temptation to go inside the hotel, my more judicious instincts guided my actions. No need to push my luck quite so far, I decided. Besides, my hands were shaking with nervous reaction, my pulse felt erratic and I was fluctuating madly between being too hot and too cold. It would be enough to scout from the outside, watch the people, listen to what they said.
Crossroad (The Gunsmith Book 3) Page 6
