The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare (28 page)

Again.

In 1876.

CHAPTER 22

 

 

“How?” I said, my hands trembling over the kettle.

Blue knitted his brow together. His hair was a lot longer this time, almost down to his jaw, and he was thinner, yet still muscular. His skin was bronzed from a life spent working outdoors, but his eyes were the same striking blue-green. Truth be told, he was even more handsome than ever before.

And it totally pissed me off.

“How?” This time I demanded an answer. But he only looked more confused.

All the other guys were sitting up and staring now. Yates twisted one end of his handlebar mustache, his eyelids making slits. There was a blob of soup on William's chin. Cask's heavy brow shadowed his eyes so darkly, it looked like he was wearing a Lone Ranger mask.

Blue grabbed a long-handled spoon and tried to fish my bowl out of the soup. I watched him, my mouth hanging open, unable to feel my body. I was numb, barely standing, shuddering from the inside with shock. How could he be here? How?

“Answer me.” The words scorched my tongue.

“I'm not sure how you dropped it,” he said, carefully lifting the bowl out of the hot soup with his forefinger and thumb. “You just… dropped it.”

“You know that's not what I mean.”

He looked up at me, no longer confused but annoyed. “You and your attitude,” he said, shaking his head. He slung the excess soup off the bowl and onto the ground. Some splattered on my boots, but I barely noticed.

“I've tried to be cordial and accommodatin',” Blue said over his shoulder to Judd, “but she's just got it in for me, and that's all there is to it.”

“You ain't the only one,” Cask mumbled into his bowl, his mouth full.

Judd gave me a look that said be nice. Blue refilled my bowl and stuck it out to me, his eyes fixed on something – anything – off to my right. Why wouldn't he look at me?

I didn't take the soup. Instead, I half-stumbled my way over to sit on a log beside Cask, unable to fully feel or control my limbs. Cask eyed me suspiciously and pulled his saddlebags closer to his side. I dug my elbows into my knees and tried to steady my breathing. I stared at my boots. There were bits of leaves and sticks and dirt stuck to the splattered soup. I let my coat hang open like a blanket over my shoulders. The cold November air made its way inside to ruffle my shirt. It tangled in my long hair.

I was numb to the core.

If this was descending – seeing Blue each time I traveled back to the past – then I didn't want to do it anymore. It was enough to drive anyone insane. It was a knife prick to the bone. A reminder of our night together, the one that no longer existed. Would I experience the torture every time? Again and again and again? It felt like seeing a fresh bruise each morning on Audrey's pearl-white skin. Or seeing Mom's red eyes at the dinner table, knowing she'd been crying again, but never knowing why. Always wondering if it was me – if I was the cause of her misery.

I watched Blue lower himself to the ground beside Judd, his back propped against the flat side of a rock. He looked up at me, his eyes finding mine. Firelight played on his sun-dark skin. The flames flickered and flashed at the corners of his blue, narrowed eyes. He had never directed such a distasteful expression my way.

He didn't like me in this past life. In fact, I was pretty sure he hated my guts. I tried to tell myself it was Shooter Delany he didn't like, but that didn't help. Shooter Delany was me, after all.

It made me feel sick to see him look at me like that. So sincerely bothered by me. As Jack Baker, at least he was agreeable and sympathetic, even if he was a ghost sent to haunt me. Now what was he? Still a figment of my imagination? What would Porter say when I told him I saw the same Nick again? Would he tell me I was still grieving?

I placed my clammy hands on my knees to steady their trembling. I wasn't grieving for Blue anymore. No, I was past that. Now I was livid. And I wanted answers.

I deserved answers.

I dared to look at him again. He was still watching me, but his expression had changed. Instead of distaste, he looked like he was in deep, tormented thought. There was a struggle going on inside him. It bent his shoulders. It fisted his hands.

Was it Shooter Delaney who tormented him? Or Alex Wayfare? How was I going to get him alone to find out?

Judd glanced back and forth between Blue and I, his forehead puckered. Then he set his finished bowl aside and heaved himself up on his towering legs. “Mind if I have a word?” he asked me.

My legs were still wobbly, but I followed him as he strode tall into the woods toward his horse. Darkness slid over us. He rummaged in his saddlebags, then pinched a tiny, hand-rolled cigarette between his lips. He struck a match and cupped his hands around it as it lit. He pulled in a few puffs, then snuffed the match with a wave of his hand and dropped it to the ground. He took a deep drag and blew a long tunnel of smoke out the side of his mouth. “You wanna tell me what's goin' on?”

“What do you mean?”

“With Heath. Why are you givin' him such a hard time this week?”

Heath? Was that Blue's name in 1876? “I wasn't aware I was.”

Judd quirked an eyebrow. He didn't believe me. And I wasn't about to argue. Keep the conversations short.

“I'm sorry. I'll lay off of him if that's what you want.”

Judd blew another tunnel of smoke over my head, his lips curved into a smile. “Yes. Thank you.”

“Is that all?” I glanced over my shoulder at Cask. He was laughing about something with Yates and William. His saddlebags rested against his calf. Blue watched Judd and I out of the corner of his eye.

“I guess so,” said Judd. He flicked the finished nub of his cigarette to the ground and smashed it with his boot. “I'm tuckered. Headin' to bed. You comin'?”

My eyes snapped back to him. “What? With you?”

“Well, yes. Unless you want to sleep out here with the horses.” He chuckled to himself.

“I…” I glanced at the tents by the fire. Only three. Of course we'd all be doubling up. How had I missed that? “I still haven't eaten. I think I'll sit up for a while yet.”

“Suit yourself.” He moved closer to me, and his hands found my hips. He smelled like tobacco and chicken soup. “I ain't forgotten, you know.”

I tipped my chin down. I didn't want to give him any invitation to kiss me, if that was his intention, although I could tell my host body wouldn't have minded. “Forgotten what?”

“The house on the hill.”

I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. So I pretended. “Oh?”

“Cask said that chest is worth at least eight thousand dollars. Once we get our share, I'm gonna fulfill that promise I made. We'll leave all this behind. Head to California. Just you and me.” He moved in closer. His breath mingled with my hair. “We'll buy a piece a' land. And men'll come from all over and pay us to pan our creeks.” I could hear the smile in his voice.

It made my heart ache.

Judd would never make it to California. By this time next month, he'd be caught by the Pinkertons outside Mobile, Alabama. A few weeks after that, he would die in his jail cell, cold and alone, from pneumonia.

And I couldn't warn him of it. I couldn't say a word. I had to stand there beneath his hopeful smile and keep still.

“Well, don't stay up too late,” he said, giving my hips a squeeze. “We've got a long ride tomorr–”

When he didn't finish his sentence, I looked up. His face was slack, the smile slowly dripping from his jaw. He stared over my head, his muddy eyes vacant and unblinking.

“Judd?” I tugged at his vest. “Are you all right?” Was he having a seizure?

He blinked. Twice. Then he looked down at me like he was surprised to find me standing so close. He took a step back, lifting his hands from my hips. He rubbed the scruff on his chin. “I'm sorry, what were we talking about?”

“You said you were tuckered. You were headin' to bed.”

“Right. Right.” He glanced around at the campsite and the horses, almost as if he didn't recognize his surroundings.

“Are you sure you're all right?” I asked.

“Course I am. Walk with me?”

He offered his arm, and I took it. We walked to my tent, though I seemed to lead him more than he led me.

“Goodnight,” he said, stooping and disappearing through the tent flaps.

“Good… night.”

When I turned around, the guys around the fire were all staring at me. Especially Cask and Blue.

“I don't think he feels too well,” I said, returning to my seat beside Cask.

“Must've been the soup,” Cask said, aiming a grin at Blue. Blue kicked a shower of dirt at Cask, and Cask threw his spoon at him.

“My soup ain't the only thing around here that can sour a stomach,” Blue said, tossing a glare at me. Cask's booming laugh echoed throughout the rocky valley.

I rolled my eyes and stared at the fire. I had to try to keep my mind on my mission. I could deal with the Blue Situation later.

“Well, I think I'll go for a walk,” Cask said, standing and stretching his back. He pulled the brim of his hat down over his already-shadowed eyes. “Don't no one go followin' after me, now.” He rested a palm on the revolver slung at his side. He handed each of us a pointed look. Especially me.

We all got the hint. Except I was the only one fool enough not to take it.

He hefted his saddlebags over his shoulder and started off into the night. He melted away, silent as a shadow, leaving me alone with Blue, William, and Yates, who all continued to stare at me. I had to move fast, or I'd lose sight of the chest for good.

“I think I'll go stretch my legs, too.”

I made a show of heading the opposite way toward the horses, where I'd had my conversation with Judd, and then, when I knew they couldn't see me anymore, I backtracked to follow Cask. I couldn't see him, but I could hear his footfalls. He wasn't exactly trying to be quiet, and I figured he didn't have to be. No one in his gang would dare follow him, unless they wanted tonight to be their last. Or they were out of their right mind.

I guess both of those applied to me.

I fingered the cool steel of the pistol at my hip. It held a full round; I checked before I holstered it. Not that I planned on shooting Cask. I only wanted to see where he hid the chest. I wasn't even going to move it like I moved the Raphael. If the chest had never been found in Base Life, then it was most likely still resting in the same hiding place. All I had to do was tell Porter where to find it. My gun was only a backup – in case I wasn't very good at trailing someone silently in the dark.

Thankfully, the moon gave off enough light for me to pick my way through the trees. I stepped gingerly over fallen limbs and gnarled roots, taking care to avoid loose rocks and sticks that might snap. I thought I was doing well, but after a few minutes, Cask's footsteps stopped. I froze in my tracks, then slowly dissolved into the shadow of a tree to my left.

I waited. And listened.

I heard faint rustling, as though Cask were rummaging through his bags. Then came the squeak of a hinge. The strike of a match.

Fire.

The spark caught my attention out of the corner of my left eye. Cask was over a hundred feet away, hunched down, half his face lit by the tiny matchstick flame. He lifted a lantern out of his bag and fed the wick inside, snuffing the match afterward. The lantern bathed him in a sphere of amber light. He repositioned the saddlebags over his shoulder and resumed his walk, the lantern held out in front of him.

I let the distance between Cask and I lengthen. Now that I had something to follow besides footsteps – that lantern light would pierce through the trees for miles – I could let in some space between us. Enough for a decent sound buffer.

As I watched Cask's lantern bob hypnotically up ahead, my mind found its way back to Blue. I turned the events of the night over and over in my hands, examining each facet. What was his problem with Shooter Delaney? With me? He was infuriating as Heath, this guy who glared at me and jabbed me with his words. He was infuriating as Jack Baker, being kind and helpful, then driving off into the horizon like he didn't care about me at all. Like our friendship never existed.

Which was the truth. I'd erased it all.

Was that why he didn't remember me? Had I erased it from his memory? Or was it because we were in 1876, and our meeting in 1927 hadn't happened yet? But then, wouldn't he have recognized me in 1961?

None of it made sense.

I clenched my teeth and fists. I couldn't wrap my head around it all. I wasn't used to not having an answer. Normally, no matter what the problem, I could find a fix. I'd have all the right tools to choose from. But in this situation, I had nothing. All I knew was that he couldn't be the same person from Chicago. He couldn't look exactly like the same person. It was impossible. Insanely and undeniably impossible.

And yet… here I was. Living. Breathing. Possible. A time-traveling, pistol-wielding, Corvette-driving, gang-fighting, outlaw from the future.

That proved anything was possible, didn't it?

A twig snapped somewhere off to my right. I went rigid, my muscles seized, my breath clutched tightly in a ball. I slowly, slowly, turned my head to the side. I squinted at the black forest shapes all around me for what felt like forever, scanning left to right. My breath was the color of moonlight.

Another twig snapped. Behind me this time. My heartbeat moved to my ears. My breath came in quick, shallow bursts.