The Drifter by Vicki Lewis Thompson

diaper to protect her shoulder, she climbed off the bed and studied the room while she burped him.
    The floor would do, she decided, pulling the comforter off the bed and folding it awkwardly with one hand. Finally, she’d created a soft padded surface that would cushion Bartholomew as he slept. A nap would be nice for both of them, she thought with a sigh as she settled him on the comforter.
    On her hands and knees, she was stroking his back when a movement from the bedskirt caught her eye.
    The bedskirt, also made of Battenburg lace, fluttered gently. She wondered if a draft from the air conditioner had caused it. The lace fluttered again. But there is no breeze down here, she thought, her heart pounding, her hand reaching for Bartholomew.
    From beneath the lace darted a forked tongue.

4
    A FTER NEARLY a half hour of looking, Chase and Rosa found the cradle behind boxes of Christmas decorations in a little-used storeroom. With a dustcloth Rosa gave him, Chase cleaned the cobwebs from it and in the process noticed the handholds carved into the headboard and footboard were in the shape of a heart. He wiped the dust from the handholds with care.
    Rosa returned with a clean quilt that she folded into a serviceable mattress. After thanking her, Chase picked up the cradle, his fingers fitting perfectly into the hearts on either end, and started for the cottage. Carrying a cradle wasn’t how he’d pictured this little trip to visit Amanda, he thought with a grimace. Now the scenes he’d imagined taking place in the cottage weren’t likely to happen, unless he’d completely misread the signals she’d been giving him.
    About a hundred yards from the cottage he heard a screech. He dropped the cradle and started forward just as the door flew open and Amanda bolted out, barefoot, with her blouse undone and Bartholomew clutched against one shoulder, screaming lustily.
    â€œSnake!” she cried above the sound of Bartholomew’s screams. She ran toward him, her eyes wide, her face the color of snow.
    His blood froze in his veins. “Where?”
    â€œUnder...under the bed!”
    He tasted the metallic flavor of fear. “Did it bite you?” He reached for the wailing child. “Is the baby—”
    â€œNo!” She stepped out of reach. “We’re not bitten! Get it out, Chase! Just get it out!”
    He glanced around for a stick and broke a forked one off a palo verde. “Stay there.”
    â€œDon’t worry.” She gasped for breath. “I’m never going back in that place.”
    He approached the door of the cottage with caution and listened, trying to tune out the baby’s crying. Rattlers didn’t always rattle, he’d learned, but if he heard the buzzing sound first, at least he’d have a better idea what he was dealing with. The cottage was silent. He knocked the stick against the open door. He heard nothing but the baby’s ratcheting complaint.
    With slow, even steps he walked through the door and cast a look over the polished oak boards covered with Indian-patterned throw rugs. On the far side of the room a white comforter lay folded on the floor, an indentation in the middle where the baby had obviously been lying. He shuddered. Amanda should have put him in the bathtub, but then, she didn’t know. A New York copywriter would have no experience with snakes.
    Not that a snake was even supposed to be in here. A maid had cleaned the room just that morning. He wondered if the reptile could have slipped through the door when he’d brought Amanda’s suitcases over earlier, but he doubted it. He might be a little distracted by Amanda and the baby’s arrival, but not that distracted.
    Since the snake wasn’t coming out to greet him, he supposed he’d have to search for it. Too bad it was probably hiding under the bed. He didn’t relish putting his face down there at striking level to find out whether or not it