Chasing Shadows
Chapter 1 – The Long Road DownBart was dressed in his traveling clothes, with his suitcase in his hand. He looked down at Samantha and a sardonic smile barely creased his face.
He stood there for a moment, not saying anything. Then he made his way down the rest of the stairs before setting his bag on the floor.
"I'm leaving."
She stared at him blankly. "Where will you go?"
He had apparently given that some thought. "Mexico." It seemed like the most reasonable place to him. A man could get lost in Mexico. Hide from the world for a while. Live in a place with no reminders. And maybe learn to live with his grief.
It took her a minute to realize the depth of his need to leave.
The weight of his grief wouldn't let him breathe anymore. If he was ever going to be Bart Maverick again, he had to go. And it had to be now, before the very act of being alive became too much.
He picked up his belongings and walked out the door.
That was three days ago. He'd done nothing but ride since then, ever mindful of the pain in his arm and the knife in his heart. He'd headed southwest and stayed on that course until he ran into the little town of Magdalena. As he rode down the dusty street he counted three cantina's and two social clubs. He was tired, dirty, hungry, and sick, but there was no medicine in the world that would cure the illness he had. And he needed a drink.
At the end of the street was a tiny hotel named 'Mama Castillo's Inn' that was little more than a hovel, but he stopped in front of the building and tied his horse up. With suitcase in hand he went inside, requiring nothing more than a room to sleep and drink in. He was in luck. The last room available overlooked the main street if it could be called that, and it was his. He trudged upstairs and dropped his suitcase next to the bed, leaving it unopened. He slipped the bottle of whiskey out of his saddle bags and pulled out the cork, not even bothering with a glass. Straight from the bottle, the way he'd been drinking ever since he left the ranch in New Mexico. There, that was better. He threw his hat on the chair, dropped his gun belt on the floor, and collapsed on the bed. He unwound the sling from his neck gingerly and tossed it over the back of the chair, next to his hat. He didn't bother with his boots.
He couldn't decide which was worse, the pain in his arm or the one in his belly, earned by three straight days of nothing but rotgut. Drunk had ceased to be a state of existence; it simply was. The only way he could tolerate the misery in his heart and mind was to keep drinking the swill in that bottle, and if the price he had to pay was a stomach on fire, so be it. If he was sober when he closed his eyes he saw Caroline; nothing but Caroline. He heard her laugh, he felt her skin, he smelled her hair. Dead drunk was the only way he could allow himself to rest, so once again he proceeded to get that way. Within an hour he was asleep or passed out; he had no idea which and couldn't care less.
He stayed that way most of the night and when he finally woke a little after sunup his mouth was dry and his head hurt. Only one thing to do, and that was to start drinking all over again. Only problem was, he was out of whiskey. He got up and staggered across the room, trying to remember where he'd dropped everything last night. Slowly he realized that he still had his jacket on and reached inside to see if his wallet was there. It was, and it had money in it. He knew at some point he'd have to start playing poker again, but not today.
Stumbling down the steps he went to the front desk, if it could be called that, to see if anyone spoke English. Right now his tongue couldn't handle Spanish. Fortunately, the man downstairs spoke enough English to get by. He put ten dollars down on the desk. "Bring me back two bottles of whatever you can get and keep the rest."
"Mescal, Señor? Is okay?" the desk man inquired.
"Don't care. Long as its liquor. Room six."
"Si, Señor. Uno momento."
He managed to get back upstairs without falling down or over anything. This time before he lay back down on the bed he did his best to get his boots and jacket off, and after a struggle managed both. The whiskey had been out of his bloodstream long enough that his arm throbbed and ached; that came from forcing it into holding his horse's reins long before he should have. He couldn't hold the reins in his right hand, he needed that to hang onto the bottle.
It took almost fifteen minutes before there was a knock on the door. He struggled to get out of bed but finally managed it and pulled the door open. There were two large bottles of something that looked like murky amber, and he picked them up one at a time and brought them into the room. This time he used a glass, pouring the golden liquid almost to the top before corking the bottle and taking a drink. He shuddered but swallowed. It was better than the whiskey and worse than the whiskey. He set the bottle on the floor next to the bed and took the glass with him over to the window. The sleepy little town was just starting to wake up and come to life, and he pulled up a chair and sat down to watch the world pass him by.
He drank almost half a glass before the pain in his head started to lessen. That wasn't enough to make his mind and heart stop aching, but it helped. He knew that in a few minutes that pain would begin to fade, too, and he'd be left with a big, black hole where his life had been. For right now Caroline was still alive in his thoughts and all he wanted to do was drift into a stupor and hold her close once more. It had been more than two weeks since she was killed, shot right in front of him, and he still hadn't been able to bury her in his mind. She was always there, right below the surface of his consciousness, until that beautiful warm glow from the nasty tasting liquor overtook him and he could forget everything . . . . . . . . the love, the pain, the girl. His girl. His wife. His dead wife.
But with the liquor and the blessed, mind-numbing stupor came the tears. Whether he wanted them or not, they appeared just as surely as he breathed. In great gulping sobs, over and over they wracked his body, his soul, until he was exhausted and drained of feeling and spirit. Then the cycle started all over again, and he succumbed to unconsciousness or slept for more hours. Right now that was Bart Maverick's life. And he had no desire or will to change it.
She was truly beautiful. How had he not noticed that all this time? She briefly smiled at him and lowered her eyes, as if she knew what he was thinking.
He gathered her into his arms and kissed her. This time there was no hurry to his kiss, no apologizing for it. There was only the kiss and the way she felt in his arms. She kissed him back.
They stepped apart and looked at each other. He swept her into his arms and carried her up the staircase and into his room.