Many thanks to dreamsofhim for the beta. All mistakes are mine because I'm a bozo and love to tweak before posting.
Many thanks to my readers! We're about two-thirds of the way through this fic, maybe even a little further. Hope you all enjoy this chapter!
We wander through the dusty streets in silence, our footfalls barely echoing in the still of the night. There's awkwardness between us, a feeling that some unspoken rule is breaking with each step we take.
My head is throbbing, but I'm unsure if it's a sign that something is amiss. The slight thrill of dancing with Mr. Grissom hasn't quite faded; yet I can't help but wonder if my mind was seeing more than what's really there.
We've passed the general store and are now in a part of town I'm not familiar with. It's here I see Mr. Ecklie's bank, the police headquarters, and the municipal hall. As we walk past that rather unpretentious building and turn down a clearly residential street, he finally turns to me and speaks.
"Lovely evening, isn't it?"
"Yes, yes it is."
We continue, a calm developing between us despite my anxiety. We skirt the edge of the town, avoiding the inky depths of the desert. Somewhere out there is a set of trails that lead to the mines. I've walked down those trails, I knew this town. But now, nothing is familiar to me at all.
A sigh escapes my lips unbidden. Mr. Grissom pauses and looks at me curiously.
"Is everything okay?"
"Yes…I was just, well, thinking."
There is a light humor in his voice. "Those must be some intense thoughts. It sounds to me like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders."
This time I sigh in earnest. "I suppose I do."
"Would you like to talk about it?"
I'm sure my eyebrows are reaching new heights along my forehead. We've walked all around town in silence and now, when we're thirty yards from my home, now he wants to talk?
He takes my hand gently. "Let's go sit over there for a bit." I mutely follow him over to a wooden bench near the barn. He sits next to me, not close enough for us to touch but not far enough for the strange current between us to be broken. It's then I realize how truly exhausted I am, not just from the day, but from my swiss-cheesed memory.
"Having amnesia is difficult," I say after a few moments.
"I wouldn't know, but I can imagine it would be trying."
"There are things I know, things that are as clear to me as night and day. There are people I recognize and know by name." I turn to face him. "I knew the sheriff and Deputy Stokes. I knew them. I knew Doc and David, but not Annie. And according to most everyone, I spend a lot of time with Greg, but… I didn't recognize him at all." I don't mention my reaction when I met him, although the memory hovers between us.
He waits before speaking, gathering his thoughts, I assume. "Sometimes when the human brain suffers trauma such as yours, it takes a great deal of time for it to heal."
"You're suggesting I should be patient," I say dejectedly.
"No," he replies firmly, "I'm suggesting you be realistic. The damage you incurred was significant." There's a pause while he swallows lightly. "We didn't know if you were going to survive."
I hadn't thought of this. I've been more focused on what I've lost rather than what I didn't lose – my life.
"I didn't know I was hurt that badly."
He looks away from me and says softly, "You were."
The urge to reach out to him is strong but I can't bring myself to do it. I did so with Warrick earlier today, but somehow with him it would be different. It would cross a boundary whose purpose I don't quite understand. All I know is that it is there and to act against it would be a mistake.
Instead I let out a soft sigh. "I will be okay. I just have to keep telling myself that."
He nods in agreement. "Your memory will return… eventually." He doesn't sound overjoyed at the prospect. His lack of enthusiasm reaffirms that there was something between me and him. Again, as I can only assume with him, I'm guessing whatever it was between us was not positive.
Subtlety hasn't seemed to be my strong suit, but I decide to give it a try. "To be honest, I'm surprised so many people were concerned about me. From what I can gather, I wasn't exactly the friendliest person in town."
He doesn't quite laugh, just emits a low sound that is between a cough and a bark. "You were very … focused, Miss Sara."
"Yes, I heard about my extracurricular activities. I guess you were aware of them as well?" Oops. Maybe that wasn't so subtle.
One eyebrow rises and his face morphs from sharp surprise to forced innocence. He's the mild-mannered shopkeeper again, the one who doesn't have an inkling of the charged connection between us. His tone is formal, clipped. "I'm not sure why you would think that, Miss Sara."
Now I'm truly confused and more than a little hurt. "Oh… well, I just thought you'd have heard it from Greg."
"Oh!" he says rather loudly. "Well, he and I don't interact much outside of the confines of the store."
"Really? I thought you were mentoring him."
"Well, yes, I am, but… uh… we don't talk about anything that doesn't relate to the store."
"Oh." This conversation has gotten very strange. There's something fluttering in my mind, some connection I'm not making. A concept I can't quite grasp, but I know it's within my reach.
He stands slowly so I do as well. "It's late; perhaps I should walk you to your door."
It seems our chat is over. The energy around him is restless, I can sense it. He wants to leave. I am making him uncomfortable.
"Yes, perhaps that is best."
I walk before him, expecting to feel the warmth of his hand against my back, but it never comes. Damn. I must have said something wrong, but hell if I know what it was.
We're at my back door and I turn to him, feverishly eager to send him on his way. "Thank you for a lovely walk, Mr. Grissom." Thank you for confusing the hell out of me and making my heart race before smashing it flat like a pancake. Thanks very much.
He looks down at me with that familiar cool fire glowing in his eyes. He reaches out to me, his fingertips brushing lightly against the small knot of fabric still tied around my neck.
"This looks pretty on you," he murmurs.
I reach up and touch El Vaquero's handkerchief. I had forgotten it was there. "Oh, well, thank you. But it isn't mine."
He grins. A big wide grin.
"Thank you for an enjoyable evening, Miss Sara." His touch drifts slowly down my collarbone and down my shoulder. He takes my hand in his, lifting it towards his lips.
His kiss is light across my skin, making me question if it did indeed happen. I'm left standing dumbly at the back door watching his silhouette disappear into the night.
He's a strange man, that Mr. Grissom.
oooooooooooooooooo
I wake the next morning with one hell of a headache. This is decidedly unfair since I did not imbibe any of the wine or whiskey the evening before. I hear Annie cheerfully talking to Al down in the kitchen, pots and pans banging harshly, leaving painful ringing echoes in my ears.
I'm glad one of us had a good night. I pull the covers back over my head but the noise is too much. I wonder if the curious Mr. Grissom has a tonic or powder for headaches. I could never go and ask him though. Not after last night. He goes from sexy hot to sterile cold in seconds. I decided when I went to bed that I wasn't going to waste my time worrying about him.
Of course, I'm worrying about him now. Ugh.
With a groan, I make yet another executive decision – to get out of bed. Bitter cold shoots through the soles of my feet when I realize my slippers are on the other side of the bed.
This is going to be one of those days, isn't it?
It takes me longer than I'd like to remove the ribbons Annie wove into my hair. I should have taken them out last night and sleeping has not done me any favors. I finally do get them out and brush through the tangles and snarls. It isn't pretty, but it is going to have to do.
My headache follows me downstairs, worse than ever because of all the tugging and pulling I did to my hair. Damn Mr. Grissom for being so strange. If he hadn't walked me home last night, I would have been able to go to his store and get something for this headache. Now I can't, because it would be awkward. Very awkward.
Annie serves me fried eggs and toast for breakfast. My stomach turns at the sight. I finish it slowly, swallowing each bite with a sip from the cup of tea she's also prepared for me.
"You have a nice time last night, dearie? I saw you went for a walk. It was a beautiful evening for walk. Very romantic."
She's at it again. Miss Matchmaker. I'm surprised she's moved on from El Vaquero, but it's clear she approves of me and Mr. Grissom.
"It was nice," I say vaguely.
"Nice?"
"Yes. Nice."
She puts her hands on her hips, the wooden spoon bumping against the butcher block counter. "You know child, you are about the stubborn'st thing I've ever seen! Mr. Grissom is a very good man. You should be pleased he favors you."
Yeah, lucky me.
"Look Annie, we can talk about the virtues of Mr. Grissom later, okay? I've got a splitting headache and I just can't handle it right now."
"Oh you poor thing!" she cries, switching to Mother mode in an instant. "I have something for that. Here." She retrieves a small packet from one of the drawers and taps some herbs into my tea.
"Stir that in and drink it quickly. It'll help with your pain. Have you finished the medications Mr. Grissom gave you?"
"No, but this isn't that kind of headache. This is… something different." It's a hangover is what it is, but that doesn't make sense because I didn't drink anything! Maybe it was that sarsaparilla. I thought it had a kick to it. Damn Warrick.
I stir the pale leaves and bits into my cup of tea and drink it as quickly as I can. I wait a full five minutes with no results.
"Maybe I need some air," I tell her. David has joined us and definitely looks the worse for wear. Christ, I thought I was bad. His hair looks like a bird nested in it and the dark shadows under his eyes put mine to shame.
"Coffee," he grumbles. "Please. Coffee."
Al hands him a mug with a chuckle. "That'll teach you to go drink-for-drink with Mr. Sanders."
David holds his head up in defiance, wincing as he does so. "I won."
"I'll bet you did," Annie chirps.
"I'll be outside in the barn," I tell them. "Maybe I'll take Pista out to stretch her legs."
Annie is focused on David, lightly tugging at the spikes of hair protruding from his scalp. "Hurry back," she calls lightly. "We've got lots to do today."
Whoopee. I can't walk to the barn fast enough, the overcast sky protecting my eyes from the sun. I don't think I could handle the sun today.
Pista is delighted to see me and makes many different noises to tell me so. She nips at my hand when I'm too slow in putting on her halter.
"Ow! You knock that off or I'm leaving you here."
She shakes her head up and down; if I didn't know better I'd say she's laughing at me.
"Very funny. You should mind your manners missy," I say sternly, pointing at her. "It isn't polite to tease a lady with a non-alcoholic hangover."
She snorts. "Oh, knock it off."
I ready her and hop into the saddle with a jolt. She turns and gives me the horse equivalent of a scowl.
I grin evilly. "Serves you right. Now let's go."
She dose a little dance in agitation before trottings us out of the barn. Sniffing the air, she chooses to take us east, into the desert. I let her have her way and we wander through the scrub brush and grasses, no real destination in mind. Once we pass the other end of town, I turn us around and pick up the pace.
Freedom doesn't begin to describe how it feels to ride with her. When we pass the barn I slow her, pointing us towards the stream that Annie and I bathed in. A voice echoes in my head – Brass warned me not to go here alone.
But really, I'm not alone, I'm with Pista. I doubt anyone would mess with me on a horse. Even if they did, I have my gun. I have no idea how to use it, but I've got it all the same.
We're making our way through the pines towards the river when the crack of a branch startles us both. I reach for my gun and hold it in front of me while urging Pista forward.
The stream is ahead of us; there's no sign of anything amiss. No footprints in the dust, no stray clothing or other signs of folks nearby.
I pat Pista's neck gently, lowering the quivering gun to my lap. "Just some animal," I tell her. "Nothing to worry about."
She's still nervous, her ears almost flat against her skull and her eyes white and wary.
"It's nothing… just an…"
There is a man standing at the edge of the stream; he appeared out of nowhere. Pista screams and rears, almost throwing me from her back. I grab her reins tight and urge her backwards.
The man is scowling, dark, with a large knife in his hand. I can see it gleam in the muted light. He's wearing a stained breechcloth and there are two feathers attached to a thin leather headband: one red, the other white.
Indian. I should have listened to Brass. It isn't safe here. I point my gun straight at the man's chest, still trying to get Pista to back up. The sweat from my hands makes holding the gun and the reins difficult, so I tighten my grip on both. We need to get out of here.
"Leave me alone!" I shout. "Stay away or I'll shoot!"
There's a loud, whooping cry from behind me that sends Pista into a fury. I can hear her crashing through the underbrush, galloping to safety as I feel my body fall through the air.
I hit the ground hard, my gun flying free of my grasp and landing over in the tall grass a good five feet away from me. The Indian from the stream approaches me, twirling his knife slowly. As I attempt to sit up, two more dark-skinned faces appear in my line of sight. Their eyes are dark and bloodshot, cold beads of hate boring right into me.
"Get up," says the one from the stream. His English is stilted, but understandable. I do as he says.
Hard metal pokes me between my shoulder blades. "Move," says a voice from behind. I yelp and turn my head instinctively. This Indian is younger than the rest; he has a headband with two yellow feathers. I look back and notice that his friends also have two yellow feathers. They look similar, brothers perhaps. One has a paper-thin scar running along his right cheek.
My heart is in my throat as we head past the stream and back into the desert. Four scraggly-looking horses are waiting there. The Indian behind me gestures towards one of them with his gun, indicating for me to mount. Red and White Feathers waves his knife at me in warning, saying something that I don't understand.
I do want they want. The painful poke in my side when Young Yellow Feathers joins me in the saddle indicates that I am not to try anything stupid. It isn't necessary, I know what happens next.
I know they're going to kill me.
A/N #2: "Oh Noes! Sara's in trouble! People want to kill her! Will anyone save her? Oh Noes!"
LOL! Isn't this fun? Next week's chapter should be very exciting, don'tcha think?