his head had cleared of pain enough to follow the conversation. “You’re missing the kids that just appeared?”
“Yes!” Sarah answered, frustrated.
“Maybe you just imagined they were here.” He scrubbed his face as if fighting his way out of a hangover. “I’ve sure been having some crazy dreams.”
“Maybe I did.” Sarah set her chin on her bent knees. “And maybe I just dreamed we had supplies.” Her gaze fell on the empty boxes beside the wagon, then back at the bare table where she’d stacked Sam’s supplies. Only the half-full whiskey bottle remained.
SIX
SAM FORCED HIMSELF TO MOVE. THE PAIN IN HIS BACK competed with the throbbing in his head. Slowly, like a man laden with lead, he stood, letting the night’s cold add another measure of discomfort to a body he thought had already reached full capacity. His mind floated with the pain.
Move! He took a step. Keep moving or they’ll bury you! With each stride he stopped and rested, bracing raw will against the desire to retreat. He’d faced this hell before and he knew the way out ... refuse to give in to the torture. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember where he was, or how he got to this place. If he lived, his head would clear in a few days. All that mattered was controlling the terrible throbbing that broke in waves across his senses.
Whiskey still clouded his mind, blurring dreams with scraps of reality.
Early morning drifted across the clearing without warmth. Hesitantly Sam staggered toward the water. He thought of bending down for a drink but knew the agony would be too great. He pressed his lips together, holding in a cry, as he unstrapped first his holster, then his trousers. Thankfully, someone had already removed his boots and Colts. He would never have been able to pull off his boots, and he’d not allow his Colts to fall into the sand.
With grim determination he stepped into the river.
For a moment the blast of icy water outran all other pain. His knees buckled from the force, and he crumbled into the current like a warrior made of sand.
The cold water, rushing past his chest and face, made his legs, now somewhat accustomed to the temperature, seem warm. For several heartbeats Sam remained underwater, welcoming the feel of nothing but waves circling him. Finally a need for air forced him up. He planted his feet wide apart on the rocky bottom and stood, allowing a hundred streams to rush down his chest to where the river rounded his waist.
Plowing his fingers through his hair, he lowered once more. This time the current welcomed him as wet-warmth replaced the chilly air’s touch. He floated for a while, inches beneath the surface, enjoying feeling weightless. No time. No place. No problems. The thought crossed his mind that he could continue doing nothing. He’d drift downstream like a log, bumping against the shoreline, rolling in the current, until he reached the ocean.
A strange sound, like a bird’s cry or a woman’s scream, bubbled around his ears. He stood once more, pulling reluctantly from the peace of drifting.
“Are you crazy?” A shout echoed off the walls and bounced back and forth along the canyon.
Sam looked about, trying to tell where the noise originated. At first all he saw was the clearing, the trees, the water.
Then she came into view. A tiny, half-pint of a woman standing at the water’s edge with her fists on her hips. She looked every bit as if she planned to wring his neck when she got hold of him. He found it impossible to believe such a dainty creature could have created such volume.
“Get out of that water, Sam Gatlin, before you catch your death!” She paced inches from the shoreline. “I didn’t keep you alive for four days to have you drown yourself.”
Sam tried to bring her into focus, but water dripped off his hair into his eyes. The woman multiplied like ripples on the waves. Surely she was only in his imagination. She couldn’t be real. He’d never even seen a woman
“Yes!” Sarah answered, frustrated.
“Maybe you just imagined they were here.” He scrubbed his face as if fighting his way out of a hangover. “I’ve sure been having some crazy dreams.”
“Maybe I did.” Sarah set her chin on her bent knees. “And maybe I just dreamed we had supplies.” Her gaze fell on the empty boxes beside the wagon, then back at the bare table where she’d stacked Sam’s supplies. Only the half-full whiskey bottle remained.
SIX
SAM FORCED HIMSELF TO MOVE. THE PAIN IN HIS BACK competed with the throbbing in his head. Slowly, like a man laden with lead, he stood, letting the night’s cold add another measure of discomfort to a body he thought had already reached full capacity. His mind floated with the pain.
Move! He took a step. Keep moving or they’ll bury you! With each stride he stopped and rested, bracing raw will against the desire to retreat. He’d faced this hell before and he knew the way out ... refuse to give in to the torture. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember where he was, or how he got to this place. If he lived, his head would clear in a few days. All that mattered was controlling the terrible throbbing that broke in waves across his senses.
Whiskey still clouded his mind, blurring dreams with scraps of reality.
Early morning drifted across the clearing without warmth. Hesitantly Sam staggered toward the water. He thought of bending down for a drink but knew the agony would be too great. He pressed his lips together, holding in a cry, as he unstrapped first his holster, then his trousers. Thankfully, someone had already removed his boots and Colts. He would never have been able to pull off his boots, and he’d not allow his Colts to fall into the sand.
With grim determination he stepped into the river.
For a moment the blast of icy water outran all other pain. His knees buckled from the force, and he crumbled into the current like a warrior made of sand.
The cold water, rushing past his chest and face, made his legs, now somewhat accustomed to the temperature, seem warm. For several heartbeats Sam remained underwater, welcoming the feel of nothing but waves circling him. Finally a need for air forced him up. He planted his feet wide apart on the rocky bottom and stood, allowing a hundred streams to rush down his chest to where the river rounded his waist.
Plowing his fingers through his hair, he lowered once more. This time the current welcomed him as wet-warmth replaced the chilly air’s touch. He floated for a while, inches beneath the surface, enjoying feeling weightless. No time. No place. No problems. The thought crossed his mind that he could continue doing nothing. He’d drift downstream like a log, bumping against the shoreline, rolling in the current, until he reached the ocean.
A strange sound, like a bird’s cry or a woman’s scream, bubbled around his ears. He stood once more, pulling reluctantly from the peace of drifting.
“Are you crazy?” A shout echoed off the walls and bounced back and forth along the canyon.
Sam looked about, trying to tell where the noise originated. At first all he saw was the clearing, the trees, the water.
Then she came into view. A tiny, half-pint of a woman standing at the water’s edge with her fists on her hips. She looked every bit as if she planned to wring his neck when she got hold of him. He found it impossible to believe such a dainty creature could have created such volume.
“Get out of that water, Sam Gatlin, before you catch your death!” She paced inches from the shoreline. “I didn’t keep you alive for four days to have you drown yourself.”
Sam tried to bring her into focus, but water dripped off his hair into his eyes. The woman multiplied like ripples on the waves. Surely she was only in his imagination. She couldn’t be real. He’d never even seen a woman
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