The Time-Traveling Outlaw Read online

  The shock of realizing he’d traveled over a hundred and fifty years through time sank in. He looked up at the woman, only now seeing her clearly for the first time.

  She was wearing work boots under a denim skirt, along with a rough cotton blouse. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a long ponytail. And she was beautiful, with bright hazel eyes and a button nose. She looked like—

  “Natalie?” he said. “It can’t be.”

  She started to say something else, but he wasn’t listening to her. He was focused on the sound of approaching hoofbeats.

  Logan turned his head to look up the road, where three riders approached.

  3: Sally

  Sally watched Logan as he rode beside her on the dead man’s horse. He was bloody from the fight, still wearing her blanket around his waist, still naked from the waist up. The bloodied bandanna was wrapped tight around his right hand, holding the horse’s reins. He looked strangely at ease.

  “Logan?” she asked.

  He turned his head.

  “Just before I met you,” she said, “there was a strange light by the road, almost like lightning. Did you see it?”

  “No,” he said.

  Well, okay then. She didn’t ask a follow-up, and he didn’t offer any. She had so many other questions, though. But he had just saved her life, and she reckoned the questions could wait.

  They rode in silence until they reached a pair of twisted mesquite trees that had grown together. There was no proper road to her land, and no marker. Those were things she and William meant to do together.

  She turned Maisy off the left side of the road, and Logan turned as well, falling in beside her. Approaching her home made her happy and sad at the same time, but these days mostly sad, filled with thoughts of what could have been mixed with fears of losing the place.

  The world was hard. She could deal with that. She didn’t mind the struggle or hard work. But the world also seemed increasingly ugly and cruel. Out here, the powerful could do what they wanted with little or no oversight. Out here, the sheriff wasn’t the law. The government wasn’t the law. Powerful men like Camden Sturgess were the law. They did what they wanted and they got what they wanted. And she was afraid that soon enough he would get this land. Then she didn’t know what she would do.

  Until then, it was still hers. As they approached, she saw the small house and the barn off to the left. The sun was starting to set, basking the whole scene and soft orange light. She felt the heaviness set into her chest, tears starting to well in her eyes. But she forced them back. She had to be strong. There was no time for all that.

  She looked at Logan again. She found herself doing a lot of that since he first appeared on the road. Sitting astride the horse like that, wearing her blanket like a kilt, he should have looked silly. But he didn’t. He looked perfectly natural, like some kind of ancient warrior returning home after a battle in a faraway land.

  Maybe this strange man coming into her life was some kind of sign. Maybe he would stay, help turn things around. But she knew better than to get her hopes up, to fantasize like a little girl. He had surely saved her life, and she would mend his hand, cook him a hot meal, and put him up in the barn loft for the night. But if he left in the morning, that was his right, and she couldn’t expect any more from him than that.

  They rode together down to the barn, and pulled up to stop.

  “Do you mind unhitching Maisy from the wagon and putting the horses up in the barn?” she asked. “I can go in the house and start some supper. Do you like fried chicken?”

  Logan seemed lost in thought, but when he realized she was talking to him he gave his head a little shake and turned to look at her. Every time their eyes met she felt a little shiver down her spine.

  “Oh,” he said, looking from one horse to another. “Sure. I can do that, I think.”

  He certainly was a strange man, she thought. The little strangeness never hurt anybody, and he was certainly fine to look upon.

  “Well then,” she said, climbing down from the wagon, “just come in the house when you’re ready.”

  She had killed and plucked the chicken that afternoon before heading into town, and she retrieved it from the hook where it hung near the door before heading inside.

  The wagon would need to be unloaded, but she could take care of that later. She was hungry, and she didn’t know if Logan was, but she was eager to cook for him. She fancied herself a reasonably fine cook, and William had always said her fried chicken was the best he’d ever tasted.

  She got the stove lit and put the cast-iron skillet atop, scooping in a hefty dollop of lard. She chopped the chicken, then set to making a pan of cornbread to go along with it.

  Sally looked out the window as she cooked, marking Logan’s progress. He had seemed to know how to ride a horse well enough, but watching him now, he didn’t seem to know much about unhitching or unsaddling them.

  She wasn’t so sure about the theory that he’d been waylaid on the road anymore. He didn’t look hurt when she’d come across him, just disoriented. And he hadn’t said a word about being robbed. She would ask him about it later, after he had some food in his belly.

  She got the cornbread baking and the chicken frying, the comforting smells of food filling the house. The sun had dipped nearly all the way down, so she lit a lantern and placed it on the sturdy wooden table. She lit a few candles spaced around the house as well.

  The front door opened. “Smells great,” he said.

  She turned and smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Sorry about the horses,” he said. “It’s uh, been a long time since I owned one.”

  So you just walked here from wherever it is you came? She wanted to ask him that, but bit her tongue. Dinner was almost ready, but the dirty bandana around his hand was soaked through with blood. A drop hit the wooden floor as he stood there.

  “Don’t mind that,” she said. “Here, sit down.” She pulled up a chair by the table. He looked at it for a second, then sat.

  Sally knelt down and gently took his wounded hand in both of hers. “Let’s have a look,” she said.

  She untied the bandana and unwrapped his hand. He let out a little hiss, the first expression of pain, or anything really, that she had heard him make. She winced a little herself. The gash was deep, right down the back of his hand between his middle two fingers. The flesh was exposed, fresh blood oozing out.

  “We’re gonna need to sew that up," she said. "Just hold on a second.”

  She retrieved her sewing box from the chest by the bed and returned to him. A spool of thick black thread looked like it would do just fine, so she threaded a needle.

  “Oh, what am I thinking?” she said, putting the needle down and opening the cabinet behind her. Sally stood up with a bottle of amber liquid, pulling the cork out. She leaned back down and poured a little on the wound.

  Logan hissed louder this time, but didn’t flinch. She set the bottle on the table beside him.

  “Drink as much of that as you like,” she said. “Just let me finish up dinner and we’ll get to work.” She got up and took the chicken and cornbread from the heat. This was going to take a little while.

  Logan began taking heavy swigs from the bottle. “What is this?” he asked. “Whiskey?”

  She turned to him and smiled. “Near enough,” she said. “There’s a man named O’Leary two counties over that makes it. It’s cheaper than real whisky and works just as well.”

  He grinned and took another drink.

  He took to his hand being sewn up awfully well. Now that she was close to him, close enough to smell the musk of his body, she could see it more clearly. This wasn’t his first time being wounded.

  A long scar ran under his left rib cage, and two puckered circular wounds that might have been from gunshots sat just above his right collarbone.

  “Where did you say you were from?” she asked, hoping the liquor had loosened his tongue a little.

  “I don’t think I did,” he
said. “Not sure you’d believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me,” she said, running the needle through his skin on either side of the wound, drawing it up and pulling it taut.

  He looked her in the eye for a long moment, as if he were trying to decide something. “Virginia,” he finally said.

  “Now why would I find that hard to believe?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, looking away and taking another drink.

  When she finished up, a zig-zag of black trailed across the back of his hand. A little blood continued to seep out, but all in all it was a pretty good job. She took the bottle from him and poured a little more on the wound before wrapping it with fresh cotton and securing it with a pin.

  She handed the bottle back. “There we are,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

  He looked down at the bandage, then back up at her. “Thank you.”

  She got up to fix him a plate, playfully slapping him on the knee. “Don’t mention it,” she said. “It’s the least I could do.” She meant for the gesture to be innocent, to diffuse the tension that she was feeling. But he put out his good hand to grab hers before she could turn away.

  “No, I mean it,” he said, a sadness in those beautiful blue eyes. “It’s been a long time since anybody showed me any kindness.”

  She felt herself blush at his touch and the sincerity of his words. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to control herself if she just stood there with him holding her hand like that.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, softening her voice. Then she slowly drew her hand back and moved to the stove. She was flustered as she put together his plate, and when she was nervous, she talked.

  “We’ll get you out of that blanket after dinner,” she said, then realized how that sounded. “I mean, I still have most of William’s clothes. I couldn’t throw them out, and they should fit you just fine.”

  She set two plates of food down on the table, one in front of him. She looked at his broad, muscular chest. “Maybe some of his clothes might be a little small, but we’ll find something that fits.”

  He didn’t appear to be listening again. He was focused on the food. He picked up a leg and tore into it with vigor, barely chewing before he swallowed and took another bite. She was glad he liked it, but even for the frontier, his table manners left a little to be desired. He must have been starving.

  He picked up the hunk of cornbread and took a huge bite. “This is amazing,” he said, his mouth full.

  “I’m uh, glad you like it,” she said, picking up a piece of chicken for herself and taking a bite.

  “Sorry,” he said, taking another bite of chicken. “Been a long time since I had a home-cooked meal.”

  Sally didn’t eat much. After a few bites, she slid her plate towards him.

  “I don’t mean to eat all your—”

  “It’s fine,” she said. “Really.” She got up and went into the other room to find the cedar chest where she’d stored William’s old clothes.

  She found a pair of trousers and a chambray work shirt that had been a little big on William. She held them to her face. There was the smell of cedar, but there was also still the smell of her husband. She felt guilty for all the improper thoughts she’d had about Logan, from the moment she’d seen him. But it was hard being a woman, out here all alone, enemies closing in from every direction.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered into the shirt. “That’s a flimsy excuse, isn’t it, dear?” Then as she knelt before the chest, her dead husband’s clothes in her hands, she buried her face in them and began to cry.

  “Everything okay?” Logan said from the other room.

  She tried to pull herself together, to be strong. But she was tired of trying to be strong. She wiped her eyes and sniffed, clearing her throat.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll be there in a minute.” She stood up with the clothes and laid them out on the bed, along with a brown leather belt. His boots were still under the bed, and his hat still hung from a nail by the door. She just hadn’t been able to bring herself to throw them away or burn them.

  Sally came back into the main room, where Logan sat slumped in the chair, licking his thumb clean. He smiled at her, a rogue’s smile, charming with a hint of no-good behind it.

  “That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” he said. He burped, then laughed nervously. “My bad.”

  His bad? She sort of understood what he meant, but what a strange way to say it. She thought maybe the homemade whisky was starting to sink in.

  “Well, I’ve laid out some clothes for you in the other room,” she said. “You can get dressed whenever you’re ready. Then I can show you to the loft in the barn.”

  He patted his muscular belly, then got up. Smiling, he walked into the bedroom. Sally returned to the kitchen table and began to clear away the dishes. As she did, she watched the shadows of him against the wall through the open door.

  She saw him remove the blanket, and caught the shadowy outline of his manhood once more. That made a heat rise up in her chest, and despite her guilt, she couldn’t bring herself to look away.

  His shadow pulled on the pants, looping the belt through, then put on the shirt. He sat down on the bed to pull on the boots, seeming to struggle to get them on. Finally he appeared in the doorway, looking like an honest-to-God cowboy.

  He lifted the hat from the nail and held it out in front of him. She must have had a strange look on her face, because he asked:

  “Are you sure this is okay?”

  She took a moment to answer. She didn’t really know quite what to feel anymore. A strange, handsome man was standing at the threshold of her bedroom, wearing her dead husband’s clothes.

  “It’s fine,” she said, clearing her throat and moving to put away the last of the dishes. “Are you ready to go?”

  Logan raised the hat to his head and put it on, then straightened it. Once he did that the picture was complete. He didn’t remind her of her husband at all anymore. He was completely his own person, a man who looked like he completely belonged, in this place, in those clothes, in this time.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  She wiped her hands on her apron, not because of the crumbs of food from cleaning up, but because they’d suddenly gotten very sweaty.

  “All right then,” she said. “Follow me.”

  She picked up the lantern from the table and opened the front door, hearing the sounds of his boots on the wooden floor as he followed.

  Outside, the air was still warm, but the night had taken a good bit of the heat out of it. A nearly-full moon hung in the sky, shining down was almost enough light that they almost didn’t need the lantern. They walked together from the house to the barn, and Sally pulled the latch and swung the barn door open, the hinges squealing.

  She held up the lantern to see the supplies stacked neatly just inside the barn. “Oh,” she said. “I nearly forgot about these.” Which was strange given all the trouble she’d gone through to get them. But it had been a hectic day, and Logan's presence was more than just a small distraction.

  “No problem,” he said. “I just stacked them there. Hope that’s okay.”

  “It’s fine,” she said. “Thank you.”

  The inside of the barn smelled of hay and horses, not the most wonderful scents in the world, but somehow comforting. She led him to the far end of the barn, where a short ladder led up to another level, with a small, neat bed and a little table with a lantern.

  “Would you like me to light that?” She said, nodding at the lantern up above.

  “No, that’s okay,” he said. “I’ll just be going straight to bed. It’s been a long day.”

  She let out a nervous laugh. “You can say that again.”

  He put his hand on a rung, then turned back to her. “Well, I guess this is good night.” He seemed to be waiting for something, and to Sally it seemed as if he was thinking about leaning in, giving her a kiss. She never wanted anything as badly, as far as she could
remember. But maybe he felt strange wearing her husband’s clothes, eating in his kitchen, and sleeping in his barn. She thought she saw a twinge of guilt and doubt in those icy blue eyes, and maybe that was just as well. If he was going to move on, a kiss would just confuse things, make them harder. For all she knew, he’d be gone when she woke up in the morning. Still, she was grateful that she had met him, that he had been on the road today when Sturgess’s men had come.

  As if reading part of her thoughts, he said: “They’ll be back, you know.”

  She nodded. “I do.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll be able to help you,” he said. “But I intend to try.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Sally asked.

  “In my experience, a man like the one who sent those others today doesn’t get talked out of anything, and he doesn’t stop until he gets what he wants.”

  “That’s been my experience as well.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Sturgess.”

  Logan’s eyes widened. It was a good thing his hand was on the rung, because suddenly he looked like he needed the support. He fell back a step as if she had hit him in the center of his chest, his knees buckling slightly.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  “Why, I thought everybody knew that name around these parts. It’s Camden Sturgess.”

  All the blood seem to have drained out of his face. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence,” he whispered. “I…good night, Sally.”

  She felt warmth from him saying her name, but before she could reply he scrambled up the ladder, leaving her alone in the pool of light cast by the lantern in her hand.

  She walked back to the barn door, one of the horses whinnying softly from one of the stalls. Before closing the door completely, she whispered back into the gap: “Good night.”

  4: Logan

  He climbed up into the dark loft, his arms shaking. She’d said the name twice, but he still didn’t believe it.

  Sturgess.