I know, I know - it's been over six weeks since I updated and that's just plain terrrible. What can I say? The holidays and real life beat the heck outta me and my poor muse and left us for dead. We have recovered though, and hope that those of you who are still reading will enjoy this next chapter. It's a long one - you've been warned!
Many thanks to Cybrokat and dreamsofhim for their excellent beta work. All mistakes are definitely mine as I love to tweak.
I wake in darkness, horribly disoriented. My mind comprehends little more than the crackle of kindling and the stirrings of the desert at night. Blinking, I turn and stare into the small fire on my left, feeling its warmth and relishing in it. Beyond the flames sits El Vaquero, the dim light flickering against the gentle, bearded face of Mr. Grissom. The world spins for a moment as I come to terms with what I'm seeing.
His eyes are pinched in concentration as he works the small pestle into the mortar he holds in his palm. He hasn't noticed I'm awake, providing me with the perfect opportunity to study him.
His mask lays forgotten on a rock off to his left, kin to a pair of dark leather gloves. The warm tendrils of the fire's heat have persuaded him to roll his sleeves and unbutton three of the buttons on his black cotton shirt. I know it is exactly three because I cannot draw my eyes away from the pale expanse of skin the buttons reveal. A few droplets of sweat glisten along his throat and collarbone.
I acknowledge the reason for the fluttering in my belly, but I'm not pleased by it, not in the slightest. This man lied to me; he took advantage of me. My mind reviews the night El Vaquero came from the bowels of the desert, toying with me and taking advantage of my swiss-cheese memory to make love to my mouth. I also recall the subdued and mysterious Mr. Grissom – always polite, always the perfect gentleman, but there was that strange undercurrent I couldn't explain away. I remember El Vaquero's chiding comments when he blindfolded me in the doorway to Catherine's saloon. I remember the heat of Mr. Grissom's fingers against my skin that same night, the tingling of his kiss upon my hand when he commented on his own damned handkerchief.
Anger flares within me and I growl in frustration. I've been such a fool!
My groan puts him on instant alert and those blue eyes bore into mine from across the flames. He places the mortar and pestle on the neighboring rock and hurries to my side. I watch him warily as he lowers himself next to me.
"You're awake," he says softly. "How are you feeling?"
I want to snarl at him, but his thumb is lightly brushing my hair from my face and I'm entranced by the sensation. How is it that I can be so aggravated and aroused all at the same time?
"I'm preparing a poultice for you. It should help the scrapes on your cheek and your wrists heal quicker, and it should minimize any scarring."
His fingers brush lightly against my cheek, the contact with my sensitive skin reviving the past twenty-four hours in a rush. I sit up abruptly, shivering uncontrollably as the memories flood me. The Indians. The glimmer of the knife against wood as Red and White Feathers taunted me. The feel of his slimy, cold hands on my body. And the blood. The blood when the arrow severed the carotid artery. Streams of it spattering into the dust as he fell towards me.
"Easy, easy honey." He wraps a warm but scratchy blanket around my shoulders, holding me tight and rocking me softly. "It's over. No one is going to hurt you."
It takes minutes for my racing heart to calm. He is right, I keep telling myself. It is over. I am safe.
I turn to him and when my gaze meets his, the situation suddenly turns awkward. He withdraws his arm from around my shoulders and rises to his feet.
"I'll, uh… get that poultice for you."
If I didn't know better, I'd say Mr. Grissom was shy. But there was nothing shy about El Vaquero – ever, so what is going on? I can't bring myself to question it, so I just watch as he adds a few more leaves to his mortar and works them with the small pestle.
"How did you know where to find me?" I ask hesitantly. "And who was that other Indian with you?"
His tone echoes mine when he replies. "To be honest, I didn't know where to find you. Walking Bear did. He sent word to me that a woman from my town had been kidnapped by his rebellious nephews."
So, he hadn't known it was me that was kidnapped. He hadn't ridden like the wind on his wild black horse, desperate to rescue me. I'm not sure how I want to feel about that, so I push it to the back of my mind and attempt to learn more about the Indians.
"Walking Bear is a chief, right?"
He laughs softly. "No, Walking Bear is a Mojave warrior and a council Elder, but he is not the clan head by any means."
"And the Yellow Feather brothers are his nephews?"
More laughter. "Yes. The two older boys are … well, one translates to Coyote Howl and the other to Coyote Stalking. The younger boy is kin by different brother, his name translates to…" He coughs slightly. "It's best to say his name is Small Rooster."
He raises an eyebrow at me in a sly gesture and I totally miss the hidden meaning for a good forty seconds. My eyes widen as I realize why the other men were teasing Young Yellow Feathers. That explains the gestures.
"Who would name their son such a thing? Don't they realize the implications of that?"
"In their world, no. Roosters are tough birds and respected by those who know them. In our world, the slang of his name is indeed rather degrading. It doesn't help that the poor young man has been slow with his development. He most likely will live up to his name."
With that statement, he starts to laugh and I can't help but join in.
"That's terrible," I say. "The poor kid."
His laughter ceases and his tone grows cold. "Wild Hawk was not from the Mojave. Wild Hawk was Paiute, and a rogue. He abandoned his tribe and their ways for the gallons of whiskey he poured down his throat. He worked in Techatticup, and he worked for Ecklie."
Wild Hawk must be Red and White Feathers. The disgust is evident in El Vaquero's tone, so I wonder how he feels about the others who were clearly in league with Wild Hawk.
"What about the Coyote brothers?" I ask. "They were working with him too."
"Yes, I know. Walking Bear has been scouting their activities for quite some time, overseeing what they do while their father remains at the clan's summer location. He wasn't to interfere until the brothers truly crossed the line. Walking Bear is known for his tracking skills – he is rarely discovered."
"So he tracked the four of them, he saw them take me, and then he told you?"
"Something like that," he mumbles. "It was wrong for him to interfere and to kill Wild Hawk. Wild Hawk is not of our people; his death might cause problems between the two tribes."
I blink. "Our people?"
The expression on Mr. Grissom's face shows he revealed more than he intended. He stares into the embers of the dying fire before putting the mortar to the side. It is only after he has re-stoked the flames with twigs and a rotting log that he speaks.
"I left Chicago with my parents when I was nine. We traveled west for days, weeks maybe, in a makeshift wagon with only one horse and minimal food. We arrived in Colorado with nothing and could go no further without supplies. My mother was tired of the open road, as was I. My father acquiesced and we settled in what is now Denver. Back then, it was just being developed.
We were there for over a year when a great blizzard hit. It was incredibly cold and it snowed for what seemed like months. We weren't prepared and our home was too far from the main settlement to easily travel for food or supplies. Both my parents grew ill with what I now believe was an early form of influenza. Neither survived."
His words cease; the pain of his loss still evident despite all the years that have passed. With a slight roll of his shoulders, he continues.
"Although the townsfolk did want to help, no one could afford to take on the responsibility of an orphan. Within two months I was loaded onto a stagecoach heading to Utah. I was to be indentured to a blacksmith in Gold Hill, an uncle of one of the men in Denver. Three days in, the coach was raided by Indians, by a clan of the Mojave."
He needn't say more as the pieces of the puzzle click into place.
"They took you in. Made you a member of their tribe."
"Not quite," he murmurs. "I was a slave first, oh… for at least two years. I worked long and hard, doing what they directed and fearing each and every day that they were going to kill me like they had the other people in that coach."
He looks at me sharply. "They were ruthless. It took me a long time to see beyond that."
"Well, they didn't kill you."
"No, they didn't. The … I guess you could say shaman or medicine man… well, he fascinated me. I couldn't stop myself from watching him work. I got many a beating because of it. An older woman finally noticed why I was distracted and spoke to the clan on my behalf. That clinched it and I became the property of the medicine man. In time, I became his son."
He says the last with pride and I wonder what his relationship to the authoritative Walking Bear is. Walking Bear is too young to be the medicine man of his story. A brother perhaps? Cousin?
"I had all intentions of staying with the Mojave forever," he says with a sad nostalgia. "I became a warrior and brought much to my clan. But it wasn't meant to be. I fell in love with a young woman who didn't care for me at all. I challenged her chosen man, and I lost."
I don't know how to respond to that, so I just say, "I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago and I was foolish to wish the attentions of a woman already attached to another man. He was older than I and left me with only a few battle scars. The worst wounds he gave were the ones to my pride." He shuffles his weight slightly.
"I had to leave. My clan father argued with me for days, but I wouldn't listen. I refused to stay in a camp where I was humiliated." He chuckles. "I was quite full of myself back then."
I bite my lip to keep from saying, "And you aren't now?"
He smirks at me as he picks up the mortar he abandoned near the fire. After pouring a small amount of water into the bowl and stirring it a few times, he approaches with both the bowl and the water flask, settling himself next to me in the dust.
"Hold out your wrists. The sooner we get those cuts cleaned, the better."
I wince as he washes the debris from my wounds and then carefully applies the poultice. It is warm at first but cools as it dries. It doesn't smell all that pleasant either. While he is dabbing at my wrists, he continues his story.
"I went back to Denver and apprenticed myself to the town physician. He was quite literate, but a complete imbecile when it came to applying theory to practice. I thanked God each day for my parents – for teaching me to read; and for my clan father – for teaching me the skills of medicines. I learned quite a bit from combining Mojave medicine with his collection of books, and I saved quite a few lives during that time."
He lowers my right wrist and gestures for the left. "As Denver grew, so did the crime element. I never was one to follow the rules, so I started my own version of peace-keeping outside of the law."
He looks me in the eye while still holding my hand. "It was the way of my clan, and some of their ruthlessness seeped into me, I suppose. I've since toned down my ways, but I've been a vigilante in many towns for quite some time."
I am afraid to ask him, but I do anyway. "Did you ever make it to Tennessee?"
He releases my wrist and glares at me, growling, "You are very stubborn, Miss Sara. I told you I did not murder your brother and by God, I did not!"
"Just checking," I say.
He rolls his eyes at me, clearly exasperated. "I did my share of killing, yes. Not everything I've done has been legal. But I have always been morally correct in the actions I took."
I get it and my expression tells him so. There is silence between us until I ask, "So why here? Why Nelson?"
"Techatticup was in serious need of my services. I made it my mission to go where I was needed, help those who couldn't help themselves. Word of mouth brought me here and I'll leave when the mines are safe for the decent men who try to work them."
"Why not work for Doc Robbins and Annie? Why work at the store? Why take on Greg?"
"Doc Robbins and I spoke when I first came to Nelson. It was clear that he was skilled in the art of healing. I did not want to intrude on his practice." He smiles. "It was Annie Robbins who told me of the plight of the general store. It seemed I would be more useful there as an apothecary. Plus, I could help keep the store out of Ecklie's greedy little hands. That in itself was motivation. Ecklie started out in Denver. He doesn't know it, but I've been following him for a while."
I wonder to myself if Mr. Grissom realizes how much Ecklie wants him dead. I suppose he does and it's obvious to me he's not intimidated by the man in the slightest.
"Anyone ever tell you that you have a serious Robin Hood complex going on?"
He laughs. "I suppose I do. Then again, you aren't exactly in the position to make judgments against irrational behavior now, are you?"
I scowl. "I see nothing wrong with seeking justice for my brother's death."
"You seek justice by risking your life needlessly against enemies you could never defeat. Where's the sense in that?"
His tone is so haughty that I remember why I originally labeled El Vaquero as a pompous ass. I'm tempted to slap him but he's dabbing my cheek with his nasty poultice, so I just glare venomously into those sparkling blue eyes.
He again chuckles as he finishes his work. "Try not to roll around in the dirt too much this evening, Miss Sara."
I wrap his smelly blanket tighter around me, careful not to disturb the treatments on my wrist. "I'll be fine, thank you."
He returns to his spot on the other side of the fire. "It's late," he says while looking up at the night sky. "We have a long ride home tomorrow, so you'd better get some rest."
I settle on my side, the blanket doing little to relieve the chill in the air. I scoot closer to the fire, eager for its warmth.
"Good night, Miss Sara," he murmurs huskily from beyond the flames. "Sleep tight."
I do not reply.
ooooooooooo
The morning arrives entirely too soon for my liking and I spend a good five minutes fumbling over how I should address my traveling companion. Do I call him Mr. Grissom or El Vaquero?
He is cleaning up our campsite, scuffing dirt over the remaining coals of the fire. His horse is nearby, restless and impatient. Beyond him lies the great unknown of the desert, cacti, brush and boulders partially obscured by early haze of dawn.
"Who are you?" I ask him.
He freezes and stares at me in surprise. His boot lingers over the still-hot ashes and when the heat penetrates through his sole, he yanks his foot back with a yelp.
"I'm serious. Are you El Vaquero de la Noche, vigilante extraordinaire, or Mr. Gil Grissom, town apothecary?" I stand and face him squarely. "I need to know so that I may address you properly."
My tone sounds so prim that I almost wince at my own words. Almost. I expect a smart rebuttal from him, but instead his voice is deadly calm.
"I would prefer it if you called me El Vaquero when I am operating in this capacity. I also would prefer you call me Mr. Grissom… or Gil… when we return to Nelson. I also ask that you keep my extra-curricular activities to yourself. My success relies on others not knowing who I am."
With that statement, he pulls the familiar mask over his head. The dark hat completes the ensemble and El Vaquero as I know him stands before me. Only the shine of his eyes give his identity away.
"So be it," I say, rebuffed. "Well, what's the plan, Mr. Vaquero?"
He is all business as he hands me a clean cloth and the water flask. "Wash the poultice from your wrists and your face first. After that, we'll start on our way back."
"No breakfast in bed?" I gripe, regretting the words the instant they fly from my mouth.
His voice is a low rumble. "Is that what you'd like? A novel concept, but it can certainly be arranged."
This is the El Vaquero I remember. I find it interesting that without the mask, the polite and mild-mannered shopkeeper seems to prevail, but when it is in place, the bold and amazingly sexy rogue is the dominant personality. What's worse is that I'm attracted to both sides of the coin, or man as the case may be.
"Dr. Phil would have a field day with you," I blurt.
He looks at me strangely. "Who is Dr. Phil?"
I search my mind but draw a complete blank, feeling as if the answer is just out of my reach. "I… I don't know."
We leave camp with a restless tension between us, neither of us comfortable with ourselves or each other.
ooooooooooo
It is well into the afternoon when we finally stop to rest. His horse is sweating from the exertion of carrying us both across the barren terrain. My shoulders are blistering from the heat of the sun and I am not in the best of moods.
My temperament improves when he dismounts and leads his horse and I into a sheltered outcropping, a smaller version of the canyons down by the mines. There is an indent along the rock face; we enter into a large covered area that isn't quite a cave. At his signal, I dismount and stand idle while he ties off his horse to one of the larger rocks, making sure he remains in the shade. He removes two water casks and a small pack from the horse's saddlebags.
He undoes the straps around one cask and it opens to a wide-mouthed bucket. I realize this is for his horse right before he offers the water to the stallion, who slurps it happily.
He then walks into the gloom of the pseudo-cave, so I follow. It isn't quite dark, but it isn't quite light either. There is the echo of running water; at least I hope that's what I'm hearing.
I'm delighted when we come to a small but powerful stream cutting across our path. The rock walls have been smoothed by years of torment from the water, and I wonder how we are going to wash in this violent little river. My thoughts are on ways to avoid getting caught in the current when El Vaquero warns me to watch my step. I turn to him and he is hopping from stone to slippery stone, heading towards the other side of the river. I follow, although he has to grab my arm and pull me to safety when I lose my footing on the last rock. While I'm recovering from my near-death experience, he takes a small box from his pack and places it on the ground. Reaching behind a boulder, he retrieves what can only be a torch. I watch as he strikes two stones together and a spark flies onto the dark batting, igniting it easily.
"I hope you aren't too afraid of the dark, Miss Sara. Or of tight spaces."
I happen to feel quite uncomfortable about both, but I'm not about to inform him of that. "I'll be fine," I say.
He turns and heads into the darkness. It's obvious he's been here before as the torch seems to be for my benefit more than his. I am so busy watching my feet to ensure that I don't trip over anything, that I don't notice when he comes to a stop.
I crash into him with an oomph and immediately backpedal away from him into the darkness.
"You should watch where you are going," he chides softly as he removes his hat and pulls the mask from his head. I step towards his outline and notice that there are sparkles in the ceiling. I look beyond him and am astounded by what I see. The cave opens up to a cavern, a huge underground labyrinth. The reflections of light on the ceilings and the walls are golden, and it doesn't take me long to realize that there is more gold here than in half of Techatticup.
"It's beautiful," I say. There is a long, winding path that leads down to a pool, a small, calm pool large enough to bathe in. There are others pools further away, but it is the closest I am eyeing with unadulterated hunger.
He is still studying the labyrinth, examining each wall and each corner. It hits me then – all this must belong to him. All this gold and it belongs to him. My God, he's a millionaire!
"Why haven't you mined this yet?" I ask, astounded.
His eyes burn a bright fire when he turns to me. "I will never mine this. This is sacred ground. No one must ever learn it is here, do you understand?"
I nod, thoroughly intimidated.
"The gold that is so craved for its monetary value is special to the Mojave in a different way. It is cherished and spiritual, a connection to the Earth that is very sacred to them. I brought you here so we could rest for a while before returning to Nelson after the sun sets. I'm sure you realize that I can't be seen during the daylight."
I hadn't, but it makes sense.
"There is some food down below; at least there should be some. There might also be some towels and a change of clothes."
He's my hero. "I can bathe? In that pool?" I point at it excitedly.
He smiles. "It's heated. That's an underground hot spring. See the bubbles?"
I look closely and sure enough, there are little bubbles in the water. I'm half-skipping down the dirt path as he hollers, "Be careful!" Yeah, right.
The water is warm to the touch and I almost moan in delight. A warm bath. A long, hot bath. I hope to God he's got towels and soap somewhere in his little pantry. Even the crudest of soap would be acceptable.
A few moments pass before he joins me at the pool's edge, smiling brightly. "I'll be right back." He walks to a dark cave, sticking the torch into the wall before going inside. A few moments later he returns, a thin but serviceable towel draped over one forearm.
He hands me the towel, and the small bar of soap clasped within his palm. There is a God. I'm a believer.
"Oh you wonderful, wonderful man. I take back every horrible thing I ever said about you, even all the things I can't remember saying. Thank you!" I hug him impulsively and suddenly the air around us is charged with sexual heat.
"I doubt you'd take back everything you've said," he says with a purr, lifting my face to his. "I am still a ruthless savage at heart."
His mouth crushes my own. I feel myself fall into him, delighting in the heat of his body against mine. His hands are gentle against my face and his kisses are intoxicating. To Hell with the old Sara and her bias against this man.
He pins me back against the cool cavern wall, his fingers entangled in my hair. I moan his Christian name against his throat and he groans mine in response. I can feel his need and my body is responding in kind.
He pulls away from me slowly, desire still lingering in his gaze. "You should freshen up."
"Uh… yeah." Damp caverns aren't the most romantic places in the world, but you know, I was ready and willing to give it a try. It seems he is not.
He turns away and heads into the small pantry, leaving me to bathe in privacy. How very gentlemanly of him. I spend the majority of my marvelous bath wondering whether he left to protect me, or to spite me.
ooooooooooo
Our trip out of the beautiful cavern is uneventful, although I feel much, much better after my bath. Our supper consists of a can of beans, eaten cold as there isn't enough kindling around to start a fire. I try to think of home, of Annie's cooking, of a nice warm cup of tea as I spoon the cold, tasteless beans into my mouth.
My stomach reminds me that this is the only food I've had in over 24 hours and demands more. My tummy is growling when I mount behind the now-masked El Vaquero and we head out into the darkness.
The stars slowly make their appearance overhead and despite our previous encounter, there is minimal tension between us. It is like an unspoken communication occurred between us. I'm curious about what will come next.
My curiosity is not sated when we approach the barn. El Vaquero dismounts and offers his hand to help me down.
"Welcome home," he says softly.
I hit the familiar soil and realize I haven't thanked him for saving me. "Thank you … for all of this. If you weren't there…" God, I don't want to even think about that.
His palm cradles my cheek. "But I was. I was there and you're safe now." I revel in the warmth of his touch; full moments pass before he slowly withdraws his hand. "I need to go. "
"I know." I look past the barn at the lights glowing in the kitchen. Annie is going to freak. "Thank you."
He lifts himself into the saddle and tips his hat at me in farewell. "'Til we meet again, ma'am."
I stare out into the darkness as he rides away. When he is completely gone from my sight, I walk to the back door and knock.
Through the sheer curtains, I see Annie leap from her favorite chair in the kitchen and rush to the door.
"Gil? Gil is that you? Did you find her?"
Boy is Annie surprised when she realizes it is me standing in the doorway.
"Sara!" she screams, enveloping me in a huge embrace. She's squeezing me so hard I swear that ninety percent of the air capacity of my lungs has been permanently disabled.
Tears stream down her face as she babbles through her sobbing. "…. we were so worried… didn't know if you were dead! Dead! But you're not… oh dear Lord, Sara, I'm so glad you are okay!"
Then she hollers, "Al! David! Sara is back! She's back and she's safe!"
Al and David rush in from the clinic door. More hugging and squeezing commences as both men express their delight at my safe return. This must be what a stuffed teddy bear feels like. Loved and squished all at the same time.
"Your face!" Annie cries when David and Al let me go. "What happened?"
"I had a negative confrontation with the desert floor. It'll heal, Annie."
She scowls heavily, but lets it pass. Instead, she offers me a cup of tea and some potato and leek stew, which I accept and devour with fervor.
"Never run off like that again," she scolds as she mixes up the dough for tomorrow morning's biscuits. "Pista came back a total wreck and it took me and David three hours to calm her enough to get her into her stall."
She shakes the wooden spoon at me. "Never again, ya hear?"
I smile at her. "Never again, Annie. Believe me, I won't be going far from town for a very long time."
It's an hour later when Annie is done with her hugging and reprimanding. "I'm so glad you're home safe, Sara," she says. "See you in the morning."
"Good night, Annie."
It is refreshing to walk up the familiar stairs and through the familiar hallway to my very familiar bedroom. I go straight to my wardrobe and retrieve the softest nightgown I can find, as well as clean panties and my thickest wool socks. I pull the fluffy cotton blanket from the hope chest and spread it across my bed before burrowing under the sheets, the quilt and the blanket.
I remember it all, the light musty smell of my pillow and the crisp smell of the sheets. There is safety in remembering, in knowing and taking comfort in my surroundings. I try to shake off the memories of Red and White Feathers and concentrate on the more recent and pleasant memories of El Vaquero.
Or, as Annie called him, Gil. Wasn't that interesting. Annie and I should talk tomorrow morning. We should most definitely have a little chat.
A/N #2: So yay for a new chapter! I can't guarantee that I'll have another by next Wednesday, but I will try. There are only two left - the next one, which will be incredibly long, and the final chapter, which will also be incredibly long. I hope you at least enjoyed this chapter - let's all hope I can get the next one out soon!