The Time-Traveling Outlaw (5 page)

But to do so wouldn’t be fair, to either of them. He could be pulled back any second. Besides that, her husband had died much more recently that he’d lost his Natalie. Sitting in a dead man’s house, with his wife, wearing his clothes…it just didn’t seem right.

He thought about taking himself out of the jeans, stroking himself to find some relief, but the thought of appearing back in the future like that made him think twice.

Instead, Logan put his hand on his stomach. Sam had said the machine was inside him. Could he put his finger down his throat and throw it up? If he waited long enough, would it pass through him? Maybe it hooked onto something inside him, making it stay put in spite of his bodily functions. Or maybe when it hit his stomach, it dissolved throughout his bloodstream. 

His mind was torn between what to prepare for: the trip into town tomorrow or the trip back to the future. He tried to tell himself that all these people here were already dead. They died over a hundred years ago, so they didn’t really matter, right? But he couldn’t make himself actually think that way, especially about Sally. She seemed so alive. 

He didn’t think he’d even be able to fall asleep, his mind racing and shifting back and forth between his time and this one. But it had been a long day, and he was exhausted. So before long, despite all he had on his mind, Logan drifted to sleep.

A rooster crowed.

Logan snapped his eyes open. Where was he? For the last six years he’d woken to the sight of the criss-crossing metal grating and dirty mattress bottom of the bunk overhead, to the sights and smells of Wicklehut. 

It took him a moment to realize that wasn’t where he was. He smelled hay. He heard the whinny of horses. Sunlight streamed in through the slats of the barn wall, motes dancing in the yellow light. 

He was in Sally’s barn. The year was 1861.

He breathed a sigh of relief. They hadn’t found him yet. Maybe they never would. That was probably too much to hope for. 

He looked at the bedside table, where his hat lay. They had taken the two gunbelts off the dead men, along with the knife and sheath. He suddenly felt vulnerable. He should have carried a gun up here with him last night. Sturgess’s men could have come back in the night, and then what would he have done?

Sturgess. Not Harken, not the one from his time. What was this one's name? Camden. That’s what Sally had said. He hoped he could stay a little longer in this time. He wanted to go into town this morning, find this other Sturgess, and look him in the eye. Then he’d know.

He swung his legs off the edge of the bed, groaning. His hand hurt like hell, and so did his head. Even if men had come in the night, the liquor had knocked him out so hard he probably wouldn’t have been much use. 

He pulled on his boots one by one, then placed the hat on his head. These clothes, they felt good. He felt like, in some way, he belonged here. He thought about putting his finger down his throat, forcing himself to throw up. But it was probably too late for that. He felt like he had something like a plan, but he would need to see how things played out.

In the meantime, the smell of food drifted over from the house. His stomach rumbled. 

After climbing down the ladder, the first thing Logan did was go to the stall where he had stashed the weapons. He tried on the first gunbelt, a black leather rig that sat low on his hip. Skinny must have been left-handed, because the revolver rested heavy against his left hip. He thought about taking it off to put on the other rig, then decided to just put the other one on over the first. This worked surprisingly well, the belts criss-crossing, a gun on each side. 

Logan slid the gun from the left holster. The handle was mother-of-pearl, the plating a dull silver. The gun looked old, maybe handed down a generation. But it also looked clean, and felt heavy and deadly. He flipped open the chamber and checked the rounds. Skinny hadn’t fired a shot yesterday, so all six bullets rested in their homes. He flicked the chamber closed with a click and slid the gun back into its holster.

The right run was black, newer and shinier, also well-maintained. It was a little lighter than Skinny’s gun. He checked the rounds and re-holstered it. The guns felt heavy, but comfortable on either side. He picked up the sheathed knife and tied it across his chest with the leather lanyard.

Then he opened the barn door to the warm Texas morning and breathed in the smell of food just under the scent of grass. Was that eggs? Baking bread?

He looked around, a little wary now, then headed for the house. Sally turned from the stove as he entered, a skillet full of fluffy, steaming yellow-white scrambled eggs.

She smiled, a beautiful sight, lighting up her face. She was wearing a dress today, light blue, with a floral pattern across the bottom. She looked different somehow, prettier even than yesterday, more alive. Had she changed her hair? Put on some makeup? Her cheeks seemed a little redder. Her lips too.

“Morning,” she said. “I hope you like eggs.” Then she looked at the guns slung on each hip. “Those suit you.”

He looked down at them. “Thanks. And yeah, I love eggs.” He sat at the table as she spooned steaming heap onto a plate in front of him. The smelled delicious. He felt like maybe he’d made an ass of himself the night before, shoving food into his face like an animal. But he couldn’t help himself. He was ravished, and the food was delicious. Still, today he thought he might actually try a little harder.

Logan picked up the fork by the plate and dug in. They tasted as good as they smelled. He’d heard the rooster, but hadn’t seen any chickens. Still, he assumed these were fresh, and they tasted amazing.

Sally served herself some eggs, then sat down, putting the skillet on the table. “So,” she said, taking a small bite. “Got any plans for the day?”

“I’m going into town,” he said. 

“Oh?” she said, taking another bite.

“Yes. I need to have a talk with Sturgess.” He’d woken up determined to confront this era’s Sturgess, to see if he looked or sounded like the one he knew. But now he found himself distracted. Sally took another bite of eggs, the small fork passing between her lips. They were definitely redder. She was wearing some kind of lipstick. And was he smelling some kind of perfume?

“Why do you need to talk to him?” she asked.

His reasons were mostly personal, but he still couldn’t tell her that. She’d think he was insane. 

“Men like that, they don’t stop until they get what they want,” he said. “Or someone stops them.”

“And you’re going to stop him?” There was a playfulness to her voice, the hint of skepticism, that he found both slightly insulting and arousing.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m going to talk to him first, and see how it goes.”

The playful tone left her voice. “Well, let me tell you a couple of things before you go trotting off to get yourself killed. Those men on the road were only the tip of the iceberg. Sturgess has a small army, and even if you managed to fight your way through them, he’s got enough money to hire twice as many. And if you think you’re going to get anywhere near close enough to kill him yourself, you’re flat wrong.”

“Thanks for the advice,” he said. “But I just want to talk.”

“After you killed one of his men, I doubt he’ll be much in the talking mood.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m going anyway.”

“Of course you are,” she said. “My mother used to say the only thing more stubborn than a mule is a man who thinks he’s right. But you’re not going into Lockdale on your own.”

“No,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit here on my behind and let you saunter into town on my behalf?”

He wanted to tell her that’s exactly what she was supposed to do. Her behind was far too cute to be put into harm’s way and maybe get shot off. But he could tell that wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He shoveled the last of the eggs into his mouth and got up.

“Okay, then,” he said. “You about ready to go?”

She looked at him, surprised. He could tell she had expected more of an argument. 

“We taking the wagon?” she asked.

“Better if we take the two new horses we acquired yesterday,” he said. “We may need to leave in a hurry.”

She smiled at him, and again that impulse hit him. He wanted to clear off the table with the sweep of his arm, grab her by the waist, and pulled her down on its surface. He wanted to kiss her neck, get a better whiff of whatever it was she’d put on. He knew she’d put it on for him. He wanted to pull the dress up over her head and kiss her body all over.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

He shook his head, trying to clear away the image of Sally naked, laid out upon her kitchen table. “No reason,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They headed out into the yard, but before they got to the barn, Logan turned to her. “Your mother was wrong,” he said.

“Oh? About what?”

“Pretty sure a woman with her mind made up is the most stubborn of all.”

After showing him to the loft, Sally walked back across the yard and returned to her own bed. After she’d shut off the lantern, she lay there in the darkness, the sound of a lone cricket chirping outside. Part of her, a very large part, wanted to climb back out of bed, to go back into the barn and slide into the straw bed next to him.

She longed for the touch of a man, the feeling of strong arms holding her tight. Even more than that, she yearned for the sensation of a man’s rough hands sliding across her naked body, caressing her legs and cupping her breasts. She missed the touch of a man’s lips on her neck, her stomach, her nipples. 

Before she knew it, she had slid her hand between her legs, rubbing herself while she thought of him, lying only twenty-five paces away. Maybe he would be so hungry for her, he wouldn’t be able to help himself. She’d seen the way he looked at her, caught those furtive glances at her chest, his eyes flitting away when he thought she was looking. He wanted her. Just how bad, she didn’t know. 

Maybe any second he would storm into the house, find her in her bed, and wordlessly take her. He would rip her nightgown open, greedily kiss her breasts. He’d push her down against the bed, spreading her legs as he took himself out and thrust himself inside her.

She rolled over, burying her face in the pillow and screamed in pleasure as she worked her fingers in tiny circles, arching her hips. 

When she was done, she pulled her hand from between her legs, the fingers wet, and rolled back over with a heavy sigh. The cricket chirped one last time, and Sally fell into a deep sleep.

They rode into town, side-by-side.

Before they left, Sally had reloaded the shotgun and slung it from the saddlehorn by a leather strap.

The morning sun peeked over the horizon, making even the smallest pebbles by the side of the road cast shadows. The air was unusually cool, making the ride into town feel pleasant. Sally thought maybe they were prodding the bear with a stick, just asking to get mauled.

She looked over at Logan, relaxed in the saddle, the mismatched guns slung on each hip, that grotesque knife hanging in a sheath across his chest. If she were going to face Sturgess and his men, she couldn’t think of anyone besides him she might want to have at her side. There was so much she wanted to know about him, so many questions she had to ask. But she started with the one that had nagged her since the moment they’d met.

“Who was she?” Sally asked.

He didn’t flinch, keeping his hands on the reins, his eyes out on the road.

“Who?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. They both knew who she was asking about. There was no need to dance around, to be coy about it. The first thing he’d done was ask her what year it was, and she had questions about that as well. But then he’d said a name. He’d looked at her with an expression of recognition and something else. Longing? And then he’d said a name.

Natalie.

“She was my wife,” he said.

Sally waited, hoping he would say more. The subject caused him pain, that was clear enough. But she’d felt that pain herself, and she knew how hard it was to talk about, but how good it could feel. Well, maybe not good, but relieving, like lifting a heavy stone off your chest. 

He didn’t say anything for a little while. They rode in silence, with only the sounds of the horse’s hooves on the road.

“She died,” he said. 

“Oh,” Sally said. “I’m so sorry.” She suddenly felt awful. Her curiosity had gotten the better of her. She had obviously suspected his wife was dead, but perhaps bringing it up—

“It was my fault,” he said. His voice sounded strained, tight, as if it might cry. But he didn’t. He did keep talking, though, his eyes still looking forward, out at the road ahead.

“She was sick,” Logan said. “Real sick. I used to be a soldier, a long time ago.” He let out a bitter little laugh at that, and Sally wasn’t quite sure why, but she didn’t want to interrupt. “I was going to re-up. I loved it, felt like it was what I was meant to do. But Natalie hated it. I was gone all the time, flying—going all over the world, putting my life in danger. She wanted kids. She wanted me to be there. And I loved her, more than anything else. So I quit. For her.”

Some of what he said didn’t make any sense. She wanted to ask if this was in Virginia, and if so, what army was he fighting for? Surely he was fighting for Southern independence? But going all over the world? And yet, she could tell he wasn’t making it up, at least not the core of it. 

“I came back home,” he went on. “I found a job in construction, building things. Within a couple of years, I moved up to foreman, and pretty soon I was managing projects, big ones. I was doing well.
We
were doing well. I was making good money, had good insurance. I convinced Natalie to quit her job as a nurse. We started trying to have a child.”

To Sally, his story sounded like it had come from another place, another time. And not Virginia. But she kept her mouth shut and listened.

“My last project, it was a big one. It was for a man named St—”

 He broke off, giving her a sideways glance from under the brim of his hat before going on. “A man like Sturgess. He was rich, powerful. He had hired my company to build a new hotel, the biggest in the city. Only thing was, he wanted to cut corners. He knew people, people in official positions. And the ones he didn’t know, he paid. He wined and dined commissioners. He bought off inspectors. All so he could save some money. I didn’t realize what was going on until we were halfway in. When I found out, I went to his office. I threatened to expose him, to go to the press. At first he offered me money to keep my mouth shut. That’s what men like him do. I said I didn’t want money. I wanted my men to work in a safe environment. I said I wanted to building to be up to standards. But that would have set us back six months, and would have cost him a lot more money.”