Desperado

by Lisa Bingham

  Darkness had fallen by the time everything had finished cooking, but P.D. didn’t care. After the day’s strenuous work, she felt as if she were about to eat a banquet. But what made it even better was the way Elam took a bite of his fish and sighed in delight.

  “You constantly amaze me,” he said, fixing her with a warm gaze. “Here we are, under the most primitive conditions, and you still manage to come up with a gourmet meal.”

  “Not quite gourmet, but it will scare the hunger away.”

  They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes before P.D. spoke again. “What do you suppose they’ll throw at us tomorrow?”

  Campfire illuminated his features into golden planes and velvet hollows.

  “They’ve brought us up to the summit, so I suppose we’ll have to go down the other side.”

  She sighed heavily, wondering how she would find the energy. She was utterly exhausted—so much so, that her limbs felt as if they were made of rubber. Her feet were sore and beginning to blister on the heels and toes. Her skin prickled with the beginnings of a sunburn—and she knew she must look a wreck.

  Elam rose, reaching for her mess kit.

  “Spread the bedrolls out. I’ll take care of the cleanup. You go rest.”

  “But—”

  “Go, P.D.”

  She didn’t have the energy to argue. Not really sure how the bedrolls should be arranged—together or separately—she was too exhausted to decide. So she laid them side by side next to the fire, then kicked out of her boots and crawled beneath the covers. She would relax for a few minutes. Then, she’d scramble up the energy to wash her face and brush her hair.

  Just a few minutes …

  *

  ELAM returned later to find her fast asleep, one of her hands tucked under her cheek, the saddlebags her makeshift pillow. In the firelight, he could see that her cheeks and nose were overly pink and the wind had made a wreck of her hair. She had a smudge of flour on her forehead and her shirt was streaked with gunpowder and dust.

  But she had never been more beautiful to him than she was at that moment.

  He waited for the pain to come, the guilt. But what he felt was a tenderness that he’d never thought to experience again.

  Tugging off his boots, he positioned his bedroll closer to hers and slipped beneath the covers. As if she’d been waiting for him, P.D. sighed and rolled into his arms, then fell back asleep.

  He smiled, stroking her hair and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

  “Sweet dreams, Prairie Dawn.”

  TWELVE

  “ELAM!”

  Elam jolted awake, his hand automatically reaching for his sidearm. When he encountered a handful of dirt, his eyes sprang open.

  But he wasn’t in his quarters in Afghanistan. He stared at nothing but the blue sky.

  A face swam into focus above him, and he slammed into the present when he recognized P.D.

  “What’s wrong?” he croaked. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so soundly. Usually, his internal clock awakened him long before dawn.

  “Someone stole our horse.” She leaned close to whisper, “And my underwear!”

  Sitting up, Elam wiped a hand over his face, scrubbing away the last vestiges of sleep.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she hissed. “I wanted to wash up and change my clothes. Last night, the bag was still hooked around the pommel of the saddle. But when I went looking for it, the horse and the tack were gone.”

  Elam peered around their camp, verifying her claims.

  “Do you think it’s part of the challenge?”

  “They haven’t brought us our envelope yet.”

  He grimaced. “So maybe we’ve been sabotaged.”

  Her eyes widened in horror. “They have my underthings!”

  Elam laughed. “It’s not as if they stole your real clothes. If anything, they stole Helen’s underwear.”

  She punched him on the shoulder. “That’s not the point.”

  The sound of heels crunching in the gravel warned them that someone was approaching. P.D. straightened, trying to smooth her hair, then stamped her foot, muttering, “They stole my brush, too, damn them.”

  “Morning, folks.” The rotund volunteer who had taken their time the night before glanced at a huge pocket watch that dangled from his leather vest. He slapped an envelope against his leg, waiting for the appropriate moment. “What happened to your horse?” he asked idly.

  P.D. looked like she was about to explode so Elam said, “It must have wandered off.”

  “Along with its saddle and bridle,” P.D. muttered under her breath.

  “Shame.” Suddenly, the man sprang into action, handing the envelope to Elam and backing away. “Good luck to you both!”

  Elam tore into their clue. “We need to find Black Bart Mines due west.”

  “Do we have the compass?”

  “It’s in the saddlebags along with our supplies and ammo. Do we still have the saddlebags?”

  “Yes. I grabbed them last night for a pillow.”

  “Good girl.”

  “The weapons were on the ground next to us, so we’ve got them, too.” She sighed. “Elam, can we do this on foot? Or will I slow things down too much?”

  Elam rolled to his feet and offered her a searing kiss. “We have our wits and each other. That’s all we need. And you haven’t slowed us down at all.”

  She took a deep breath, gripping her hands in front of her. “Okay. You’re right. I’ve spent weeks getting as ready for this as I can, so feet, don’t fail me now.”

  He grinned at her little pep talk and gestured to the bedrolls. “Help me get everything gathered together, then we’ll hoof it out of here.”

  They were able to don their holsters, pack up their gear, and leave camp within ten minutes—although P.D. continued to grouse about her missing clothes. With no horse, Elam knew that the trip would take double or even triple the time it would have with a mount. The two of them would have to move as quickly as they could. But Elam doubted that P.D. was up to a punishing pace—especially with a rifle and shotgun to carry.

  After yesterday’s punishing hike up the mountainside, P.D. was flagging, so Elam did his best to keep her going, and damn it all, she gave him everything she had. Heading down the summit helped to some extent. But the shoes they wore weren’t optimal for the terrain. So Elam shifted the rifle to the same shoulder as the saddlebags and took P.D.’s hand to steady her. Then, knowing he needed to get her mind off her pounding pulse and the heat of the day, he asked, “So why were you named Prairie Dawn? There has to be a story to it.”

  P.D. grimaced. “Supposedly, I was born in South Dakota just as the sun broke through the clouds.”

  “Supposedly?”

  She grimaced. “I’m not sure if that’s the real reason or if I really was named after the Muppet character. My mother was a fan. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the sight triggered her memory somehow. To make matters worse, my parents didn’t believe in formal medicine either. So no one was called in to help with the birth—which also meant there was no legal documentation. Later, they couldn’t remember exactly where or when it happened, just that it was morning, sometime in the first week of April.” She winced. “I can’t tell you how much grief that cost me later when I needed a birth certificate.”

  Although her comments were offhand, Elam sensed a hidden pain behind the story she told. Good hell, her parents didn’t remember the day she’d been born? How could you forget something like that? And what about birthday parties and celebrations to make her feel valued and special?

  But when Elam opened his mouth to ask, he caught the brittleness of her expression. Instinctively, he realized that she’d probably told him more in the last few minutes than she’d ever told anyone else. But she didn’t want his pity. And that was something he understood all too well. So when he spoke, he purposely kept things light.

  “Could have been worse,” he sai
d.

  Her brows rose. “How?”

  “They could have named you The Badlands or something.”

  She laughed, and her guardedness disappeared. “True.”

  He helped her climb down from a large boulder. Then, when she would have continued down the slope, he stopped her, turning her to face him.

  “I like it. Your name.” Unable to help himself, he framed her face with his hands. “It suits you.”

  She stared up at him with disbelieving eyes, and he brushed his thumbs over her cheeks.

  “It’s feminine and fanciful and full of joy. Just like you.”

  Lord, she was pretty. Even with the beginnings of sunburn and her face beaded with sweat, she made his heart beat faster—and he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. Now that he’d given himself permission to go wherever his emotions might take him, he couldn’t help thinking that things were proceeding way too fast. He’d courted Annabel for years, taking his time, feeling his way.

  But with P.D., he wanted to jump in headfirst. He wanted to wallow in her joyful nature and drown himself in her passion. But he couldn’t help thinking that anything that burned so white-hot was bound to peter out just as quickly. And wouldn’t that be a shame.

  He bent, brushing her lips with his, needing to drown out the voice in his head that insisted that this romance with P.D. couldn’t last. She leaned into him immediately, her hands on his chest, their warmth burrowing straight through to his heart. Even so, a taunting voice inside his head chanted: It’ll burn out soon … it’ll burn out soon …

  His arms swept around her waist and he hauled her against him, trying to deny the fear that rushed over him. He’d already survived the death of one relationship. Could he really handle that again? Could he bear having P.D. tell him that they should “just be friends” or that she was ready to move on? Because he knew that, deep down, she was as free-spirited as her name. She would have to be, given the nature of her upbringing. Sure, she was fond of Bliss and determined to make Vern’s a success. But there would come a time when she would want to try something else, somewhere else.

  Someone else.

  And Elam’s days of wanderlust were gone. He’d seen enough, done enough, to know that this was where he belonged. If anything, the last year his roots had sunk even deeper into the soil of his birthplace. Now, more than ever, he wanted to spill his sweat into the land and the horses and the honest toil of making the ranch a success. He wanted to see the march of the seasons in the crops they grew and the ever-changing weather.

  Drawing back, he stared down into P.D.’s bemused gaze.

  “You are so beautiful,” he whispered, knowing he would probably get hurt in this affair.

  P.D. shook her head infinitesimally. “No.”

  “Yes.” Then he kissed her again, harder, fiercer, willing away the demons that told him he could never be enough for her and denying the chattering fear that warned him that none of this was real.

  She must have sensed his desperation because she wrapped her arms around his waist, clinging to him, imparting the warmth of her body into his, easing that icy sliver of dread that warned Elam that nothing this good could survive for long.

  Then, breaking their kiss, he tucked her head under his chin, willing his pulse to ease and the pounding desire to ebb.

  “We’ve got to get going,” he whispered.

  She nodded against him. “I know.”

  But he continued to hold her, imprinting the feel of her into his brain, knowing that whatever pain and loneliness might come in the future, he had today. And he wasn’t going to throw it away.

  *

  P.D. was sure she was on her last legs when, finally, their goal appeared up ahead.

  Black Bart Mines were actually the property of the Mickelsons, Clive and Sandy, who were regulars at Vern’s. As soon as P.D. and Elam burst through the main gate, their time was taken by a woman dressed in Scarlett O’Hara finery.

  “Great time!” she exclaimed. “You have thirty minutes for a food and bathroom break before reporting to the shooting range behind the barn.”

  Sandy Mickelson beckoned to them from the front porch of her home. “Come in out of the sun, you two.”

  P.D. seriously wondered if she would have the strength to go even that far. But somehow, with Elam towing her forward, she managed to step inside the sprawling home.

  “They have central air,” she sighed with reverence as a cool blast hit her cheeks.

  Elam laughed.

  “The bathroom is down the hall to the left,” Sandy continued. “I’ve left clean towels and washcloths on the counter if you’d like to wash up. When you’re done, there are sandwiches and drinks for you in the kitchen. Tables have been set up on the patio and there’s a set of instructions for the shooting sequence on each table.”

  P.D. didn’t need any further bidding. She hurried down the hall while Elam stowed their weapons and saddlebags.

  As soon as she’d made use of the toilet, P.D. opened the spigot wide, letting the water run cool. She splashed the liquid on her face and hands until she’d eased the heat of her skin. Then, she used a washcloth to get as much as the griminess off as possible before patting herself dry. Finally, she spied a brush and made quick work of her hair, plaiting it down her back.

  When she emerged again, she found Elam leaning against the wall opposite the door.

  His eyes crinkled in the corners as he smiled. “Feeling better?”

  “Much.”

  She allowed him to take her place in the bathroom and hurried to the kitchen, where the food awaited.

  Spread out on the counter were thick sandwiches wrapped in plastic; small bags of chips; bowls of macaroni, potato, and green salads; and tubs filled with ice, soft drinks, and water bottles.

  Heaven.

  P.D. loaded up her plate and snagged a bottle of soda, then headed outside onto a shady patio where several card tables had been arranged.

  There were already a few teams of competitors present, finishing up their meals. P.D. worried that it might be a sign that she and Elam were really far behind in their times, but as she sank into a chair, she realized she couldn’t worry about it now. She and Elam only had a few minutes to eat before they would have to be on the road again.

  Elam appeared a few minutes later. Like her, he’d taken the time to clean off the dirt and sweat. His hair was wet, as if he’d plunged his head into the running water, and fresh tine marks showed that he’d also taken advantage of the brush.

  “The food looks good,” he said as he sank into the chair next to her.

  “It’s wonderful.” P.D. sighed as she took a bite of potato salad.

  Elam chuckled. “Tired of frontier cooking already, I see.” But as soon as he bit into his sandwich, he began to eat with the same uninhibited enjoyment.

  As they consumed their meal, they noticed that one of the contest volunteers would appear at the side gate and yell out the names of a pair of contestants, presumably to take them to the shooting range.

  “So what do we do next?”

  P.D. grabbed the laminated set of instructions and read the scenario printed at the top. “‘Black Bart Mines has just been attacked by outlaws who are determined to steal the precious silver that is about to be shipped to Denver. You must protect your cargo at all costs as well as escape the cave-in caused by the gun battle.’”

  She looked at the accompanying chart. “There are five targets shaped like outlaws”—she squinted at them—“or Scooby Doo, it’s hard to say.”

  Elam laughed.

  “Anyway, we shoot them with pistols, left to right, then right to left.” She read the rest of the instructions. “Then, there are metal plates on a spinning target. We each have to shoot two of them off with the rifle. Last, there’s a pop-up series with the shotgun.” P.D. peered up at Elam, who had eaten his fill and now leaned back with his hands laced over his taut stomach. “What’s a pop-up?”

  “You shoot a release button, which launches
something into the air. Then you hit that as well.”

  She blinked at him and winced. “Great. I can barely hit a nonmoving target with the shotgun.”

  “You’ll do fine. Just keep your eyes on your sights.” He gestured to the paper again. “What’s the deal with the landslide they mentioned?”

  She flipped to the back side. “It’s hard to tell from the drawing, but it looks like they have several archways that are filled with big rocks and we have to move enough of them to get through.”

  “Any specific instructions?”

  She skipped down to the words underneath. “‘Use your wits to create an opening large enough to crawl through. Once on the other side, you’ll be handed your next challenge envelope and will continue your journey.’ There’s a picture of several tools available: a pickax, shovel, or a sledgehammer.” Her eyes widened as she continued to read. “‘The first team to breach the landslide with a time under five minutes will be given a horse and buggy!’”

  Sandy Mickelson happened to come by at that moment and reached to collect Elam’s empty plate. “Teams have been trying for two days to win the buggy, without much success. It’s actually a concrete panel that’s been painted to look like rocks. Frankly, I think Clive is up in the night if he thinks anyone is going to get that buggy,” she said, referring to her husband, who was one of the contest organizers.

  P.D. sighed. The food and rest had brought some life back to her body, but she didn’t know if she had the strength left to swing a sledgehammer.

  Elam abruptly stood. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to gather our things. Our thirty minutes are just about up.”

  As he disappeared, P.D. hurried to finish her food. She wasn’t about to leave a single bite on her plate—not when their next meal would probably be jerky and raisins.

  She was just pushing her empty plate away when Elam reappeared. She paused in chewing, noting that their saddlebags looked bulkier than before. But before she could ask about it, a man dressed all in black with a huge Yosemite Sam mustache appeared next to the patio gate and called out, “Taggart and Raines!”

  “Good luck to you both,” Sandy called out with a wave as they followed their guide.