Wanted: Dead or Undead (Zombie West) (19 page)

She dragged herself inside the tiny shelter and drew the
lantern in behind her. Without the blaring wind beating down on her, she turned
the flame higher and pressed her hands to the glass.
Warm them. Warm them.

Her teeth knocked against one another and her body shook. A
fire would be impossible to build and maintain, so she didn't even try. The
lantern would have to create the impression of warmth to see her through the
long, cold night.

She took the quilt out of the knapsack, wrapped it around
her shoulders, and tucked it beneath her to provide a barrier against the hard,
frozen earth. Her body pleaded with her to close her eyes and give in to sleep,
but she kept telling herself it would be over soon. At some point, every storm
ended.

She just needed to hold on until
then.

"I'm goin' after her." Trace adjusted the saddle
on his horse and cinched it into place. He gently rubbed the stallion's neck,
knowing full well he would put both of their lives in danger, but he couldn't
think of an alternative.

"You're going to get yourself killed," Wen argued.
"The storm's at its worst right now, and who knows when it'll let up.
Besides, you don't even know which way she's headed."

"She's heading north," Trace announced with
certainty. He continued to prepare his horse, wasting no more time than was
needed. "She's trying to get away from me, and she's goin' after her
brother and John Gatherum. I can almost guarantee it."

"Trace." Wen placed his hand on the horse's back.
"I can't let you go. I can't let you do this."

"You don't have a choice." Trace tied two bedrolls
into place behind the saddle. "She's on foot, Wen. She can't have gone
very far. I'll find her. I have to. I have to set things right."

"What if you can't?"

Trace's hand hovered momentarily over the saddlebags—a
visual crack in his resolve. He pushed past the doubt and weaved the leather
straps through the buckles. "I need you to open the gates and let me
through." He took the reins and led the weary horse out of the stable.
"I'll find her. And once I do, I'll bring her back." He looked at
Wen. "Unless you'd rather I didn't."

"Damn it, Trace." Wen let out a frustrated breath.
"Of course I want you both here. We're family and I need you here with the
kids, Ira, Caroline—I can't do this on my own. You have to come back, or we
ain't gonna make it. So you promise me you will."

Trace put his hand on Wen's shoulder and nodded. "You
have my word."

"Then you go get her. Go find her and bring her
back."

***

The storm hit him in the face, quick and painful. Each
intake of breath stung his lungs as he bent his head against the blizzard. His
horse did the same as ice crystals clung to its puffing nostrils. The animal
struggled to keep its balance, stumbling more than once, and Trace knew they couldn't
continue like that for long. The horse could fall, trapping him beneath the
one-ton animal, killing them both.

He dismounted, held the reins in his
gloved hands, and led the exhausted beast forward one agonizing lurch at a
time.

With each step forward, the wind threatened to blow him back
two. The storm refused to let up, and Trace could hardly see where he stepped.
Finding Red under these conditions would be nearly impossible. She might be
four feet to the right or four feet to the left, and he'd pass her by without
even knowing it.

He called out her name, but the
blaring wind and vicious howling engulfed the sound of his voice. It didn't
stop him from cupping his hands around his mouth and yelling for her over and
over, until his throat stung from the bitter cold and he became hoarse. Her
name was nothing more than a whisper on his lips, but he refused to give up.

"Elisabeth!"

***

"Elisabeth." Trace's breath warmed her ear, her
cheek. "Don't fall asleep."

His body pressed against her, and his arms and legs snaked
around her own, shielding her from the fierce cold that caused her body to
tremor. He brushed the snow from her face and hugged her to his chest.

"Don't sleep," he whispered again. "Not
tonight."

"Okay." Her voice cracked, barely audible. He lay
beside her in the makeshift structure. Nothing about it made sense, but in her
delirium, she didn't care. Red clung to him regardless. If death wanted to play
tricks, she'd gladly participate.

He felt real, and nothing else mattered. In this place between
reality and fantasy, she forgot about his blatant lies and trickery.

"It's almost over," he said. "It's almost
done."

The night. The storm. Her death. Which did he mean?

Death and sleep took turns pressing down on her. Each time
she nearly succumbed, he shook her back to consciousness.

"Don't sleep."

She fluttered awake, disoriented, and then the cold settled
in and she remembered her hopeless situation. Of all the ways to die, she
preferred this one—wrapped in his arms, falling asleep never to wake again.
She'd been dragged to hell numerous times, but this time she felt calm and at
peace. No fear.

It was perfect.

"Let me go," she whispered. "Just let me
go."

"Don't sleep."

"I'm too tired."

"It's almost over. It's almost done."

"Let me go."

"Not tonight."

The same words, repeated over and over without variation.
She'd argue for release, and he'd say the same phrases again and again, his
tone unchanging.

Red knew then he wasn't really there. He'd never been there,
and as her mind rolled over the reality of it, his arms fell away and the
length of his body disappeared. In its place, the sound of the howling wind
increased. It filled her ears for persistent hours on end—humming and blowing
that began to sound like a beautiful lullaby, as she drifted in and out of
consciousness. Numbness crept over her limbs and sleep drew her eyelids down.

***

Red blinked her eyes, breaking the fine line of frost and
sleep that sealed them. She stared up at the sky, mesmerized by the sudden
change in the weather and the fact a new day welcomed her. The cold remained,
but the meanness of the storm had vanished and been replaced by the peek-a-boo
of blue sky and sunshine that trickled in through the gaps in the branches
above her.

The sun shifted ever so slightly overhead and blinded her as
its light danced across her face. She rolled her head to the side and lifted
her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, not quite ready to leave the snow
shelter and face another day of frigid weather and the long journey ahead.
Another hour of rest wouldn't change anything. Besides, she needed a moment for
her frozen body to get used to the idea of getting up and moving. So far, her
limbs refused to budge.

As her hand moved across her vision, she flew to a sitting
position, ignoring the physical protests of her body, and stared at the tiny
gold band encircling the ring finger of her left hand. Transfixed by its
presence, she found it hard to breathe. Why—how—was the tiny band on her
finger? She raised her hand and turned her wrist first to the right, then to
the left, to see if her mind continued to play tricks, but the band reflected
the light, illuminating its existence.

Impossible.

She blinked, running the tips of her fingers over the tiny
piece of metal. Smooth. Cool. Real.

The sound of crackling wood and the faint smell of smoke
rose to meet her other senses. She found it impossible to comprehend the sight
of the cigar band, the sound of the fire, and the smell of burning wood.

She pushed back the blankets.
Blankets?
First her
quilt, and then two blankets she hadn't brought with her. She lifted the edge
of the rough material to her nose, closed her eyes, and breathed in the scent
she recognized all too well. A sob threatened to burst through her ribcage, but
she held it back and choked it down. She released her grip on the blanket and
scrambled on hands and knees to the opening of her rudimentary shelter.

A small fire sent plumes of lazy smoke into the clearing
sky. Her fingers begged for the heat, but she couldn't move.

He looked up at her and smiled. "I was just about to
wake you."

Red fell onto her backside, stunned. Her breath caught in
her throat as he approached her and pressed a cup of warm liquid into her
hands. She took it without question while her brain fought to catch up with her
actions.

"Here, drink this. It'll help warm you up."

She just stared wide-eyed at Trace, incapable of anything
more.

He wrapped his hands around hers and helped guide the cup to
her lips. "Be careful, it's hot."

She hardly felt the coffee slide down her throat, her
attention focused solely on him.
How? Why?

She made to speak, but he pushed the cup to her lips once
again. "Keep drinking. It's too darn cold not to." He draped the
blankets across her shoulders and over her lap, tucking her in. "Feelin'
any warmer?"

She narrowed her eyes, still focused on the unbelievable
fact of his presence, and ignored his question. "You shouldn't be
here."

Trace didn't answer right away, but made her sip from the
mug a third time. "You're right, I shouldn't. Neither should you. But
we're both here, aren't we?"

"No." She shoved the mug at him. "I don't
want you here."

He stared into her eyes with a relentless expression.

Red refused to back down, and held
the intense stare.

"I figured you wouldn't." He lifted her left hand
to indicate the band. "But that's not how this marriage thing works. You
make promises. Then you stick with one another for the long haul."

She jerked her hand free and slapped him across the face,
shocking them both. The action stung her frozen fingers, but didn't keep her
from slapping him again.

"I'm not interested in your promises." She kept
her eyes on him and worked her way to her knees. Somewhere behind her in the
makeshift shelter, her pistols waited. "You're nothing but a liar and a
cheat, and if you think I'm gonna just follow you peacefully to the next town,
you better think again."

"Do you really think I came looking for you, in the
worst damn storm I've seen in
all
my life, just to make a profit on your
head? You can't possibly believe that."

"I don't know what to believe anymore." She
searched behind her and her fingers came upon the leather holsters encasing her
guns. "I saw the posters hidden under your bed."

As she waited for him to defend himself and his actions, she
slid her hand comfortably into place around the pistol and drew it forward,
cocked and ready, aimed squarely at his chest.

He simply watched her and said
nothing. He didn't even bother to draw his own gun, or put his hands up in an
act of surrender. It seemed he'd accept the outcome, whatever she chose to do.

"Does Wen know about the posters?" She raised the
gun slightly when he didn't speak. "Does he?"

"Yes," Trace said. "He does."

Her shoulders slumped as the weight of this knowledge bore
down on her. She'd trusted them both. They'd lured her in, befriended her,
pretended to care for her, and she'd foolishly let her guard down—something she
swore she'd never do again. Not after what John had put her through.

Only this time it was worse—she'd
actually fallen in love with the man who deceived her. It would be far more
difficult to put the pieces back together this time. She didn't know if she
could.

"And Caroline? Did you tell her? Was she in on it,
too?"

He shook his head. "I figured she didn't need to
know."

They stared at one another over the barrel of her gun,
neither saying a word. He sat on his haunches, apparently resigned to the fact
she might shoot him. Red didn't understand his behavior, but continued to hold
the gun steady. Uncertainty kept her from actually pulling the trigger and
being done with it.

"I don't want to have to kill you," she said,
breaking the silence. "I really don't. I know how much Wen and the kids
need you. Caroline, too. I think you should go back to them. Just pack up your
things and leave before I change my mind."

"I'm not leaving without you."

She straightened her arms at his response and tipped her
head to the side, eyeing him. "I'm not going anywhere with you. I've made
that perfectly clear."

Trace inched himself closer to her, slow and cautious, while
she kept her pistol trained on him. Her instincts told her to shoot, but her
heart refused to pull the trigger. An internal tug-o-war pressed down upon her
and left her vulnerable, despite the gun in her hand.

He came close enough to touch her, but instead he pressed
his chest into the barrel, throwing her off guard. Point blank range. He held
her captive with his gaze. It was unfair. She knew it and he knew it.

"Please," she whispered. "Just go. Don't do
this."

"I'm not leaving here without you."

"Don't." She shook her head.

"Either you come back with me, or you put a bullet in
me right now."

"I can't let you turn me in—"

"I'm not turning you over to anyone."

"But," she faltered. "What about the
posters?"

He reached forward with his gloved hand and wiped away the
tears that slipped down her cheeks. "You want the truth?"

She nodded as more tears began to well and flow.

Trace ran his thumb over her jaw line before dropping his
arm to the side. He became more serious, and despite the emotional crack in her
facade, she steadied herself and kept the gun pushed against his chest.

"The first time I officially met you wasn't by
accident," he said. "Neither was the second."

She tensed under the weight of his words, though they didn't
surprise her. The desert plains were simply too big to run into the same person
twice by coincidence.

"I tracked you from Sundance with every intention of
handing you over to the next federal marshal I found." He didn't blink,
and neither did Red. "I intended to cash in the reward on your head and
then continue doing what I'd always done—not taking much from the world, and
not adding much to it either. Just existing for the sake of existence. That was
the plan. And honestly, I didn't really think much beyond that." He
shrugged. "Hell, I didn't even know anything beyond that existed."

"You could've done it." The words fell from her
lips uncontained. "Back in that crazy town with the doctor. You and Wen
could've been done with me then. So why didn't you? Why drag this out, lead me
on? More money? Is that it?"

"No—"