Desperado

by Lisa Bingham

  Elam smiled, pulling her close. “And are you? Wicked?”

  He looked at her with such hopefulness—such blatant awareness—that she couldn’t resist and melted into his arms.

  “I’m so tired. I just want to go to bed.”

  “So do I.” But it was clear from the low rumble of his voice that he wasn’t contemplating rest.

  P.D. lifted her head enough to peer around them. “Shouldn’t there be a volunteer somewhere?”

  This comment caused Elam to look up as well. “Yeah. We’ve had one at each of the other stops. Maybe they’re off watering the weeds somewhere.”

  “Maybe …” But P.D.’s uneasiness remained. She wanted credit for their times—and their food should be judged as soon as it was ready. Without a volunteer, there might be a problem.

  “Let’s just get this over with as fast as possible,” she said.

  “Sounds good to me.” He looked at the list again. “Tell you what … I’ll use the horse to take care of the cattle, haul a log closer for firewood, and bring you the milk cow.” He squinted at her. “Can you milk a cow?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve milked a goat before.”

  “Shouldn’t be too different. You get the bread going since that seems to be the most time-consuming element.”

  “Okay.”

  As Elam took a lariat from the table and disappeared in the direction of the cows grazing in the distance, P.D. looked at the ingredients that had been left for her. There were basic baking supplies—yeast, sugar, oil, and shortening—as well as one cooler filled with meat. Examining the packages, she saw chicken, trout, bacon, and ham. In a second cooler she found hunks of cheese, vegetables, berries, and watermelon. Her mouth watered at the bountiful supply.

  Examining the packages that had been opened, she could tell that most of the other contestants had kept things simple. The bacon was nearly depleted, as was the lettuce and watermelon. But P.D. knew it wouldn’t take much more effort to roast chicken and vegetables along with the bread. She could also bake potatoes, and throw together a summer salad with lettuce, strawberries, and even some candied seeds.

  For the first time since the competition began, P.D. felt comfortable with what she was being asked to do. While waiting for Elam to bring her the cow and firewood, she grabbed the glass canister of wheat and the hand grinder. Again, this wasn’t beyond the realm of her experience. Her mother had once been on a whole-wheat, whole-grain kick, and P.D. was more than familiar with the grinder.

  Although a recipe had been provided for the bread, she made a few adaptations. She had brown sugar, raisins—and yes!—a tiny container of cinnamon. It would be easy to make a cinnamon swirl loaf, which would complement the dense texture of the whole-wheat flour.

  There was an apron hanging from a hook and she wrapped it around her body, then headed toward the temporary chicken coop, which had been erected in the shade of an old maple tree. After shooing the chickens out of the way, she checked through the straw, quickly gathering three eggs. Since they were clean and shiny, it was obvious that these chickens hadn’t laid them. Which meant there should be a contest official somewhere.

  Ducking out of the coop again, she shaded her eyes and searched the area. Elam was heading back, towing a cow with swollen udders, but other than that, she couldn’t see anyone else.

  Elam tied the cow a few yards away from where she was working.

  “Everything all right?”

  She smiled. “They’ve left enough supplies for a veritable feast.”

  “Hallelujah for that. I’ll go get the wood so you can fire up the stove.”

  “Thanks.”

  When Elam disappeared again, P.D. quickly mixed together the bread dough. She worked from memory, using one of her own recipes rather than the one provided. With as much bread as she made at Vern’s, she could do it by rote.

  She left it to rise in a well-oiled bowl draped with a dishcloth and grabbed a bucket from the table. According to their instructions, they would only need enough to churn the half cup of butter. But she had no idea how much cream would separate from the milk, and the cow looked so miserable, she figured she may as well get as much as she could.

  Wetting a cloth at the nearby pump, she washed the cow’s udders, then pulled a chair close.

  “Don’t kick me,” she warned the huge animal.

  The cow twisted to look at her with thickly lashed eyes.

  Gingerly, P.D. reached for the udders, but the cow stepped away, switching its tail.

  “Come on, let me touch you. I’ll help you feel better.”

  Again, P.D. reached for the udder. Since the sound of her voice calmed the animal, she spoke low, nonsense words to the beast until finally she was able to grab hold. Sheesh, this was nothing like milking a goat.

  Resting her head against the animal’s side, she squeezed.

  Nothing happened.

  She pulled.

  Nothing happened.

  “Are you crossing your legs or something?” she muttered, trying again. This time, a small dribble emerged from the end.

  Adjusting her motions, she squeezed and pulled at the same time and was rewarded with a small stream.

  “Yes!”

  It didn’t take long for her to finally get the hang of things. Granted, she would never break any land-speed records, but at least she would get the job done. Eventually.

  She heard Elam return, heard the rhythmic whack, whack, whack of the ax as he chopped wood. This was followed by clangs and bangs as he started a fire in the stove.

  Since the cow was beginning to grow restless, P.D. concentrated on her work. She really wasn’t in the mood to start the entire process over again if the cow accidentally tipped over the bucket.

  She was concentrating on the hiss, hiss of the milk jetting into the bucket and the frothy bubbles rising around the rim when she became aware of footsteps running toward them. But when she looked up, it wasn’t a volunteer, but another pair of contestants.

  “Hey.” A red-faced teenager stumbled into the camp followed by a taller gentleman, who looked so much like him, he could only be the boy’s father.

  “Where’s the contest volunteer?” the father gasped.

  “We haven’t seen anyone.”

  “What?” He straightened, standing with his hands on his hips, staring out at the surrounding countryside. “Aren’t they supposed to take our time?”

  P.D. shrugged. Since she wasn’t getting much milk anymore, she lifted the pail and untied the animal. Then, with a swat on its rump, she sent it back toward the other cows.

  If P.D. were honest with herself, she was beyond irritated that another group had shown up at the same challenge. She and Elam had already done part of the work, gathering the wood and firing up the stove. Now this pair could ride on their coattails. But that wasn’t what irked her the most. She resented any intrusion at all on her time with Elam. The end of the competition and the return to the “real world” were already breathing down her neck. Did she have to share these last few days as well?

  Knowing that the arrival of another group could also compromise her supplies, P.D. draped a cloth over the pail and made room for it in one of the coolers. Then she quickly gathered all the ingredients she would need for their meal and piled them on one corner of the table.

  “Nice dough,” the father said, sidling up behind her.

  “Touch it, and I’ll shoot you.”

  He held up his hands in a defensive motion—especially when she brandished the butcher knife in his direction. P.D. supposed she was overreacting, but she was suddenly in a really, really bad mood.

  “Josh, why don’t you start on the furrowing. I’ll … uh … I’ll go get us a cow.”

  The teenager ran toward the partially tilled field.

  Grabbing the chicken, P.D. seasoned it with salt and pepper, then stuffed the bird with half of an onion, some carrots, and leafy celery. Using one of the tin baking pans, she set the bird in a bed of new potatoes, carrots, and
turnips, then slid the whole thing into the oven.

  There was no way to gauge the temperature of the old stove, but it felt hot enough, so she slammed the door closed. Then, since her dough hadn’t quite doubled in size, she checked the milk.

  A little of the cream had begun to separate, so she skimmed off what she could with a spoon, pouring it into a mason jar and securing the lid. Then, sitting on the stoop, she began to shake the bottle. There was no way she was going to take the time to use the paddle churn on the table, and this should work just as well. Maybe if she did several smaller batches, she could make the butter a little faster.

  In the meantime, she could enjoy the scenery—and she wasn’t talking about the Wasatch foothills.

  After gathering the firewood and starting the stove, Elam had moved to the field. Stripping to the waist, he’d manned a strange-looking plow that was mounted to an iron wheel. But since the ground was untilled, he strained to dig the plow through the matted weeds and dry earth.

  Sweat gleamed on his skin, highlighting the bunching muscles. His shorter hair lifted in the breeze, making her fingers itch to touch it. But his jaw, which had once been smoothly shaven, was already darkening with a day’s worth of stubble.

  P.D. smiled to herself. Lordy, he was a sight for tired eyes.

  From somewhere behind her, P.D. heard the soft mewl of a cat. She glanced around the edge of the cabin, but saw nothing.

  Checking the mason jar, she saw that she already had a small lump of butter. Draining off the liquid that remained, she added a pinch of salt to the butter. Then, since her dough was ready, she set it in the cooler and moved back to the table.

  Her movements were as familiar to her as signing her own name. She dusted the table with flour, and since no rolling pin had been provided, she patted the dough into a rectangle. Retrieving the butter, she spread a thin coat on the dough and layered most of the remaining brown sugar on top of that. Then she speckled the layers with raisins, rolled the dough into a log, and set the whole thing in a loaf pan that she’d greased with the rest of her butter. Topping it with a dishcloth again, she set it aside and checked the pail of milk.

  This time, she was sure that she had enough to make the half cup of butter that needed to be checked off. Filling the mason jar again, she topped it with the lid, and began shaking it.

  She was settling onto the stoop when the mewling came again. A little closer this time. Had the smell of the chicken and the fresh milk attracted a cat?

  Still shaking the jar, P.D. pointed an accusing finger at the other contestant. “Don’t touch my dough; don’t touch the stove.”

  The poor man was probably wearing more flour than was in his bowl. “But I need to bake it.”

  “If you don’t let it rise first, you’ll have a huge hockey puck on your hands. Did you proof the yeast first?”

  “Proof … what?”

  She leaned forward, looking into his bowl. His dough was a gloppy mess.

  P.D. sighed. “Start over. Put your yeast in the water with a little bit of sugar, then leave it alone for at least ten minutes.”

  He regarded her as if she were the pickiest woman on the planet, so she shrugged. “Frankly, I don’t care if you start over or not. But eventually, someone is going to have to eat”—she pointed to the goo in the bowl—“that.”

  The mewling began again, and following the noise, P.D. set the jar on the corner of the table and rounded the cabin. Maybe there was a litter of kittens hidden in the bushes.

  Moving as silently as she could, she peered into the bushes. She couldn’t see any kittens, but …

  On the other side of the bushes, she could see a flash of white.

  The noise came again, closer. But this time, the sound caused the hackles to rise on her nape. Rushing around the bushes, she cried out when she saw a woman’s shape crumpled on the ground.

  “Elam!” she shouted. Then again, “Elam!”

  Elam finally turned to look and she frantically gestured for him to follow her.

  Racing toward the figure on the ground, P.D. gasped when she saw that the woman was dressed much like her in a dark skirt and a light blouse, her hair worn in a braid down her back. But when she drew closer, P.D. could see that the back of the woman’s hair was matted with blood.

  Kneeling on the ground beside her, P.D. felt for a pulse just as the woman made a soft keening noise.

  “Shh, shh, help is coming,” P.D. crooned.

  Elam came flying around the end of the bushes, followed quickly by the other team.

  “What happened?”

  “I—I don’t know. This must be the contest volunteer. She’s been injured.”

  “Go see if you can find something clean that we can put on the wound.”

  P.D. ran back under the awning, searching through the supplies. She found a pair of clean flour sack dishtowels and used a knife to help her rip one so that she could tear it into strips. Then, grabbing a bowl and filling it full of water, she returned to Elam’s side.

  “What happened?”

  He pointed to the bluff a few yards away. “Looks like she dragged herself from over there, so maybe she fell.”

  P.D. handed him the supplies and Elam gingerly began to wash the area enough to reveal a deep gash in the woman’s scalp.

  P.D. hissed, her stomach flip-flopping, and she was forced to look away. “She needs a doctor or a paramedic. She’s going to need stitches.”

  “Yeah. She’s still bleeding like crazy. The other volunteers were communicating by phone. Does she have one in a pocket somewhere?”

  P.D. gingerly slid her hands into the pockets hidden in the side seams of the woman’s skirt. The first one was empty, but the second one …

  “Aha!” But as soon as P.D. lifted the phone free, she saw that it would be no help. The screen was shattered. Just in case, she pushed the power button, but nothing happened. “It’s ruined.”

  Elam looked up at the father and his son.

  “Oh, no,” the older man said, shaking his head and backing away. “We’re already way behind in our times and I heard from one of the volunteers that there are only a few minutes separating first place from last place. I’m not hiking to the nearest telephone and back again. That could be the end of our chances to win.”

  P.D. stared at them aghast. “Seriously? You’re worried about your times?”

  “Look, we got lost day before yesterday and we’re still trying to catch up. And since there’s no one to check us off here, we’re moving on to the next challenge. We’ll let the next group know what’s happened. They can come back here and get things squared away again.” He elbowed his son. “Josh, see if you can find the lady’s clipboard. We’ll grab our envelope and be on our way.”

  P.D. opened her mouth, ready to lash out at the man, but Elam stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  “We’re better off without them,” he murmured, and P.D. realized he was right. This woman didn’t need to hear their callous disregard of her injuries.

  “What should we do?” she said softly.

  “I’ll need to take the horse and ride for the nearest house. It shouldn’t be too far.”

  He squinted into the distance. They were in a part of the valley that was used for dry farming, and buildings of any kind were few and far between. He’d have to ride a few miles at least.

  “Will you be okay if I leave you for a little while?”

  P.D. realized that he was thinking about the unknown person who’d pushed her down the hill the day before. But she made a shooing gesture. “Go. Go! I’ll be fine until you get back.”

  “I don’t want to move her since she might have a neck injury as well, but we need to get her out of the sun.”

  She urged him on. “I’ll rig up something to shade her then use the cold water from the water buckets to wash her off and cool her down. The sooner we get her into an ambulance, the better.”

  Elam stood. “Are you sure? You need the prize money for Vern’s and—”
/>   P.D. cut him off before he could even finish. “I don’t care. This woman needs help and I’m not going anywhere.”

  Elam leaned forward to kiss her hard and fast. “That’s my girl.”

  He pushed to his feet and ran toward the spot where he’d left the horse tied to a tree. Swinging onto the saddle, he whistled and kicked the animal into a swift gallop. In a flurry of dust, he was gone, hoofbeats thundering into the distance.

  The woman whimpered and P.D. hurried to gingerly touch her hand. “Don’t worry. I’m here. I’m just going to get you some water, okay?”

  The woman’s lashes flickered and she looked at P.D. with glistening brown eyes.

  P.D. squeezed her hand. “I’ll be right back. I need to find something I can drape over you so you’re not directly in the sun, then I’ll get you a drink.”

  Racing back to the supply area, P.D. took several water bottles from the waiting bucket. There were no more clean dishcloths, so she slid the loaf of bread into the oven so that she could use the one that had been covering the dough. Then, knowing there was no way she could manhandle the awning behind the bushes, she grabbed a pair of long sticks from the pile of firewood and returned to the injured woman.

  “I’m back.”

  P.D. skewered the sticks into the ground, then, since there was nothing else available for shade, she wriggled out of her skirt, draping it over the sticks and throwing the woman’s upper body in shade.

  A soft sigh of relief pushed from the woman’s throat and she tried to turn, but P.D. stopped her. “Shh. You’ve got to stay still until the EMTs get here. You might have some injuries we don’t know about, okay?”

  An imperceptible nod.

  Knowing the gravel and weeds must be biting into her cheek, P.D. shimmied out of her petticoat. Folding it into a makeshift pillow, she carefully tucked part of it under the woman’s cheek and neck. “Better?”

  Another nod.

  P.D. opened the water bottle, then realized that it was going to be tricky giving the woman a drink when she was lying on her stomach. “Sorry. I need some ice. I’ll be right back.”

  She ran to the supply tent again and grabbed a bowl, filling it with the half-melted ice from the water bucket.