Desperado

by Lisa Bingham

  They were led past the house, the barn, and a handful of other outbuildings to where the property butted against the hillside. Hurrying to the loading tables, they were briefed once again on the shooting sequence. They were allowed to have their weapons preloaded to start, but were told that the time would consist of the total amount for both shooters to clear the shooting range and make their way through the “landslide.”

  “Do you want to go first or last?” Elam asked.

  “Last.”

  He nodded and they both loaded their weapons. Since the rifle and shotgun would have to be reloaded after Elam had shot, P.D. volunteered to be in charge of the shotgun while Elam took care of the rifle.

  “Ready?” Elam asked when the preparations were finished.

  She nodded.

  Several men ran onto the course to reset the targets from the previous contestants. Elam took P.D.’s hands and held her gaze. “Remember to aim, line up both sights, then squeeze the trigger. Take your time and breathe.”

  “Aim, sight, breathe,” she repeated.

  “When we get to the landslide wall, I want to you hang back so you don’t get hurt.”

  She frowned, sure she hadn’t heard him correctly. It would take both of them to get through the concrete. “What?”

  “Trust me. Hang back by the edge of the range, okay?”

  “Sure.” P.D. was still confused, but she was willing to do what Elam had asked.

  “You folks all set?” the official asked. When Elam nodded, the man barked, “Eyes and ears.”

  Elam and P.D. both donned the provided safety glasses and earplugs.

  “On my mark,” the man said.

  Elam nodded, his hands held at the ready next to his holsters, the rifle and shotgun on the loading table.

  “The range is hot!” the timekeeper shouted. Then, “Go!”

  Elam was the consummate soldier, whipping out the first pistol, sighting, ping, ping, ping, then moving on to the second. As soon as he’d slid the second Ruger into his holster, he was reaching for the rifle.

  At the far end of the range, a contraption much like a Ferris wheel loaded with metal targets spun in a slow circle. Elam was supposed to hit two of them.

  Ping! Elam hit the first target dead-on, causing it to fall from its position, clang!

  Ping-clang!

  He set the rifle aside and grabbed for the shotgun. Toward the side of the range was a round metal target that had been painted red. Elam shot at the target, hitting it and causing a metal object to be flung high into the air. Ca-chick. He ratcheted the second shell into place and shot.

  Too late, P.D. realized the metal object was a can of soda, which exploded when Elam shot it, sending a spray of sticky liquid in all directions.

  “Damn waste of a good Pepsi!” someone shouted from the sidelines, where onlookers had gathered to watch.

  But P.D. didn’t bother to see who’d spoken. She grabbed the shotgun and inserted two shells. As soon as Elam had set the rifle back on the loading table and backed away, she stood in position and shouted, “Ready!”

  “Go!”

  P.D.’s movements were much slower and more deliberate than Elam’s, but when she hit the first target, the second, the third, some of her tension eased and her confidence grew. She emptied her pistols without a miss and moved on to the rifle. Since the target was spinning, she had to aim and judge the movement at the same time. She missed the first one.

  “Breathe,” Elam murmured behind her.

  She took a steadying breath, then, ping-clang. She took another breath, ping-clang.

  Quickly, she set the rifle on the table and reached for the shotgun. After ratcheting the shell into place, she aimed at the red target. Bam!

  The shotgun kicked back against her shoulder, but there was no time to think about it as the shell ejected from her gun and the pop flew into the air. She quickly readied her weapon, and just as the can was beginning to fall, she pulled the trigger.

  Her aim wasn’t quite as good as Elam’s. She winged the edge of the can, causing it to fall to the ground then spin around in a circle as the carbonated liquid streamed out of the hole like flame from a bottle rocket. But she’d hit it!

  The instant she’d finished, Elam scooped up their saddlebags from the ground and raced toward the “landslide” wall. Just as he’d asked, she hung back as he ran past the tools and knelt in front of the wall. With his back to them all, she couldn’t see what his was doing, but within a few seconds, he was grabbing the saddlebags again, and racing back toward P.D.

  “Fire in the hole!” he shouted.

  The timekeeper stood slack jawed. “What?”

  “Duck!”

  Elam barely had time to issue the order before a huge explosion rocked the ground and the concrete wall instantaneously turned to dust, shooting dirt and debris in all directions.

  P.D. quickly shielded her face, then began to giggle. Elam had somehow blown up the wall. He’d blown it up!

  She turned to find Elam laughing behind her, admiring his handiwork. The wall was completely gone—as was a good portion of the ground and the frame that had once held it.

  The timekeeper stood transfixed, bits of dirt clinging to his mustache. Suddenly, he remembered his job and pushed the plunger. Wiping the dust from the timepiece, he coughed and choked out, “Two minutes and twenty-two seconds.”

  P.D. squealed, clapping her hands. Elam caught her around the waist and whirled her in a circle. Then, letting her slide down the length of his body, he kissed her hard and said, “Let’s get our buggy and the next set of instructions and go.”

  *

  ELAM grabbed their things, then raced toward the buggy and horse tied in the shade next to the barn. He wanted to get out of here before someone realized that he’d stolen some simple household items, a pop bottle, and fertilizer from the barn, and used it to fashion his own personal IED.

  They were just rolling past the barn and beginning to pick up speed when P.D. shouted, “Stop!”

  The horse sidestepped skittishly and Elam automatically pulled back on the reins. They hadn’t even come to a halt yet when P.D. dodged from the carriage.

  “What the he—”

  He bit off the exclamation he’d been about to give when he saw P.D. marching toward a pair of contestants who were just now dismounting in front of the Mickelson house. Elam swore when he realized they were riding the horse that he and P.D. had bought with their Wild West Bucks the day before. The drawstring bag with P.D.’s belongings was still slung across the saddle horn.

  Before either of them knew what was happening, P.D. stormed toward them in full fury. But only Elam seemed aware of the peril that was about to befall the team dressed in Mountain Man finery. By the time they became aware of her presence, it was too late.

  “You, there!” P.D. called out, nearly spitting out the words in her fury.

  The taller of the men jabbed his partner in the ribs to get his attention.

  Elam wouldn’t have been surprised if steam started pouring out of P.D.’s ears. Her cheeks glowed red with righteous indignation as she stopped in front of them and planted her hands on her hips. For one brief instant, she looked like a warrior princess, her braid swinging, her breasts thrust forward by her corset, her waist seeming impossibly slender.

  “Lose something, missy?” the taller of the two asked, snickering.

  She wrenched the reins out of the man’s hands. And when he laughed again, she slugged him in the stomach.

  The man doubled over and Elam winced in sympathy—even though he probably wouldn’t have been as charitable as P.D.

  “Touch my underthings again, and I’ll make you a eunuch,” P.D. proclaimed to the pair of men dressed in buckskins. Then, spinning on her toe, she marched back to the buggy, tied the horse to the side, and climbed back into her spot.

  “Remind me never to get you angry,” Elam murmured, trying not to laugh at the saboteurs with their dazed expressions.

  “Damned Skipp
y,” P.D. said with a huff. “Now let’s get out of here.”

  They were a good mile away before Elam dared to say, “Feeling better?”

  Her posture was still ramrod straight. She whipped around to look at Elam, her eyes still flashing.

  “They cheated.”

  Elam didn’t bother to point out that using an explosive device wasn’t exactly playing by the rules either. He valued his health too much.

  “I could excuse stealing the horse,” she continued. “Almost. But to steal my belongings … my underwear …” she finished in a fierce whisper. She speared Elam with a gaze full of blue fire. “What would you have done if they’d stolen your underthings?”

  Elam didn’t even hesitate, saying, “Shot them.”

  P.D. pointed at him with a finger. “Exactly!”

  Again, Elam fought the urge to laugh. And it was in that moment, with P.D. folding her arms in satisfaction and nodding her head in emphatic agreement, that Elam realized he was having fun. Damn it all to hell, he was having the time of his life. He couldn’t even remember the last time that he’d laughed so much. This whole situation—P.D., the competition, the test of wits—was the most damn fun he’d had in years.

  Pulling on the reins, he brought the buggy to a stop, then reached to pull P.D. close, kissing her fiercely, tasting her lips, but more. Absorbing her love of life, her passion, her willingness to fight for what she believed in. When he drew back, she stared up at him, bemused.

  “What was that for?”

  “You are so fucking amazing.”

  A slow, self-conscious smile spread over the lips he’d just kissed. “You’re just saying that because you don’t want me to slug you.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  Her mouth dropped in indignation. Then, when she realized he was teasing, she slapped him on the arm.

  Elam lifted her chin. “But you are amazing.”

  This time, it was a blush that stained her cheeks, and he suddenly realized that she probably wasn’t used to receiving compliments. Further proof that the world was full of idiots.

  Elam kissed her again, then again, then drew back to say, “Thank you.”

  Her brows rose questioningly. “For what?”

  “For bringing me on this little adventure.”

  Her grin was lopsided. “From what I remember, you didn’t have a whole lot of choice.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But I’m glad I came.” He hesitated before adding, “I’m glad I could share this with you.”

  For once, P.D. seemed at a loss for words. She waited for him to qualify the statement, to temper the intimacy of his sentiments. When he didn’t, her breath escaped in something akin to a sigh of wonder.

  “I’m glad I could share this with you, too.”

  THIRTEEN

  AFTER another sweet, sweet kiss from Elam, P.D. gestured to the envelope in her hand.

  “I guess we’d better make sure we’re headed in the right direction.”

  Elam nodded, but the way he zeroed in on her lips made it clear that wasn’t his primary focus.

  She ripped open the clues, then smiled when she read them. “This time, I know where we’re going.” She gestured to a gravel access lane up ahead. “Head north.”

  Even towing the extra horse, they were able to move at a fast clip down the canal road. Twice, they were forced to a stop when they were jolted into the modern world by asphalt intersections and late-afternoon traffic. But after turning onto another gravel path, they were swallowed up by lush farm ground again.

  Green wheat fields bobbed in the wind, the stalks heavy with kernels that would soon turn to gold. Other plots had new shoots of corn bending like seagull wings toward the sun. But P.D.’s favorites were the acres of canola with their bright yellow blooms.

  “It’s so pretty here,” P.D. murmured, feeling something akin to reverence.

  “Is that why you decided to live in Utah?”

  “Partly. But I suppose it had more to do with the fact that, when I was about seven or eight, my parents stayed for a month in the campground. There was a library nearby—”

  “I know the one.”

  “The woman in charge knew I wasn’t a resident.”

  “That would be LaVerna Wamsley.”

  “I think I lived in that library for several days. I’d never known such a place could exist. I started with A of the picture book section, and I was bound and determined to reach Z before my parents pulled up stakes. After I’d been in there several times—spending hours and hours there—she gave me my own laminated library card and allowed me to take two books home each night.”

  “That sounds like LaVerna. She kept me supplied with Louis L’Amour novels through most of junior high.”

  “I’m sure she broke a dozen rules giving me that card, but she made me a reader for life.”

  “She’s still around, you know.”

  P.D. breathed, “Really?”

  “Sure. She’s probably in her eighties now. She lives with her daughter, LaVae, in a little house about three miles away from the ranch. I’d be happy to take you there sometime. She’d get a kick out of seeing you again.”

  P.D. shook her head. “I doubt she’d even remember me.”

  “Oh, she’ll remember you. She never forgets a reader or their favorite books.” He bumped her shoulder with his. “Wanna go?”

  “Sure.”

  There was a fork in the road and P.D. pointed to the right. “That way.”

  An old frame house appeared in the distance. It had probably been built more than a hundred years ago. The paint had long since disappeared and the porch was sagging in the middle. The clapboard walls looked as if a good puff of wind could collapse the whole structure.

  “The old Colby place?”

  “Is that what it’s called?” P.D. had come here several times to gather wild asparagus from the ditch banks.

  “When we were kids, we all believed it was haunted. At school we used to dare one another to sleep overnight here.”

  “Did you do it?”

  He shot her an “are you kidding me” look. “Several times.”

  As they neared the house, they saw one of the contest volunteers sitting in a camp chair beneath a huge orange umbrella. Elam drove straight toward her, not even bothering to get out of the buggy.

  “Afternoon,” called a woman in a sunny yellow Civil War–era day gown. As she stood from the chair, her hoops ballooned into shape. Peering under her bonnet, the woman checked the numbers on their armbands and wrote the time in the log book. Then, she handed them a piece of paper, a paperback book, and two pairs of scissors. “Good luck to you. You’re going to need it—most of the contestants have struggled with this challenge. As soon as you’ve gathered everything, bring them back to me to be checked, and I’ll write down your time.”

  Elam handed the items to P.D., then touched his hat with his fingers. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Allowing the horse to meander forward, he asked, “What does it say?”

  P.D. glanced at the book, A Guide to the Flora and Fauna of Utah, then at the instruction sheet.

  “‘Medical professionals of the nineteenth century were few and far between, so many of the original settlers relied on cures involving natural remedies of tonics and poultices made from local plants and herbs. Below is a list of twenty such plants. You must locate and provide a small clipping of fifteen varieties.’”

  “Do you know anything about these herbs?” Elam asked.

  She scanned the list. “Some. There are a few that I’ve cooked with before and some that my mother used to make teas.” She handed the paper to Elam. “What about you?”

  He looked over the paper. “Maybe half a dozen. I can sure as hell identify dyer’s woad. It’s toxic to our crops.”

  “Tell you what …” She took the paper and ripped it in half, then began wrestling to do the same with the binding of the paperback.

  Elam’s brows rose. “Don’t you think they’ll want their
book back? In one piece?”

  “I’m sure they have more.” She finally tore the tome in two and handed Elam the front half. “As soon as you’ve found eight of them, meet back here.”

  “Do you want the buggy?” he asked.

  “Are you kidding? I can’t drive the thing—and I doubt I can get on the other horse without a boost.” She squinted at the surrounding area, then pointed toward the mountain bench. “I’ll head toward that little pass there, you go the opposite way.”

  He nodded and she jumped from the buggy. Since they hadn’t been given a shooting sequence, she removed her holster and the heavy pistols and set them on the seat next to Elam. Then, she resolutely strode toward the foothills.

  “Wear your hat!” he ordered.

  She dragged the sunbonnet out of her pocket and plunked it on her head—feeling like the dork of the year. But she knew the wisdom of wearing it, so she securely tied the ribbon under her chin.

  “Sagebrush will be easy,” she muttered to herself. The area was covered in the stuff.

  She used the scissors to snip a twig from a bush and tucked it into her pocket.

  “Sunflower, also easy.” She marched toward the fence line, where the waving yellow blooms beckoned to her. The stem was sticky against her fingers once she’d cut it loose and she reluctantly put it in her pocket as well.

  “Sorrel, sumac.” Squinting, she realized that most of the sumac was high on the bench. She’d rather not go on a hike if she could avoid it. Sorrel, she’d recognize if she stumbled across it.

  Realizing it would be easier to study the unfamiliar plants first, she spent at least a few minutes dog-earring the pages and reviewing the pictures. Then, reluctantly, she looked up the hill. At least with the sumac, she knew where to go.

  Gathering her skirts, she wrestled her way through the barbed wire fence, wincing when her hair caught, and began to scramble up the slope. After riding in the buggy, her thigh and calf muscles had tightened up, and they screamed at the renewed exercise. Her heels were chafing against her boots, and P.D. winced again, realizing that she’d have full-blown blisters by the end of the day. What she wouldn’t give for a hot shower. Or a long soak in a tub. A bed.