Of Men And Angels. Victoria Bylin

can have the blanket.”

      “I’m not cold.” She pulled the baby closer and scooted against a rock.

      Jake dropped the blanket over her shoulders, but she shrugged it off. He glared at her. She was making things more difficult than they had to be. “You’re either stupid or a liar. Which is it?”

      “I’m too polite for my own good.”

      “Then you’re both.”

      She grinned at him, and he saw both truth and humor in her eyes. “Actually, I’m neither, but you’re still wet and I’m dry enough to be comfortable by the fire.”

      He left the blanket lying in the dirt. For a man who didn’t have a considerate bone in his body, he was acting like a fool. He should have taken the blanket, gotten his whiskey from the saddlebag and concentrated on forgetting the past two days, but this woman made him irritable.

      “You like to argue, don’t you?” he finally said.

      “It’s a family trait.” Her eyes darkened. “How soon before we get to Grand Junction?”

      “A day or so.”

      “I’m already a month later than I wanted to be.”

      “What’s waiting for you?”

      “Family,” she said. “My parents. I haven’t seen them in five years.”

      The baby was quiet, and Alex was on the verge of sleep. In less than a minute her head rolled forward and her breathing blended into the deep rhythms of the night. He spread the slicker on the ground and urged her down so that she was on her side with Charlie cradled in her arms, then he covered them both with the blanket.

      As for himself, he had other ways to keep warm. Crouching by his gear, he pulled the whiskey flask out of the saddlebag. It was half-empty, but it was enough to help him sleep.

      Behind him, the angel rustled beneath the blanket. Smoke from the fire wafted to his nose. Lowering the flask, he turned to make sure she hadn’t rolled too close to the coals. Still curled around the baby, she was staring at him as if he’d grown two heads. A nightmarish fear beamed in her eyes. No matter how thirsty he was, she looked like she needed it more.

      “Do you want a swallow? It’ll help you sleep.”

      “No, thank you.” She closed her eyes and blew out a lungful of air. He could almost see her measuring her next breath, taking it in, and forcing the fear out with it, until she went back to sleep.

      The flask dangled in his hand as he breathed in the night air and its peculiar mix of smoke and emptiness. The baby cooed at her side, and a familiar stone shifted in his gut. He would have given ten years of his life, hell, all twenty-five years, just for five minutes of that kind of peace.

      The flask grew warm from the heat of his hands. He had never cared for the taste of stale whiskey, and the dregs had been cooking for two days now. He heard the angel sigh in her sleep, saw her feet twitch, imagined her dreams of a fiery red desert and a baby being born.

      And then he had thoughts of his own, of the crimes he’d committed, of Lettie, and his brother Gabe, of the last night in Flat Rock. He had been close to vomiting for two days now, and he knew if he took even a swallow of the warm liquor his guts would spill at his feet. He’d shame himself in front of her, and she’d be on her feet in a heartbeat, holding his head while he puked up his guts.

      He couldn’t bear the thought of the angel hearing him vomit, so he put the whiskey back in his saddlebag and walked into the darkness. Stopping at a boulder silhouetted by the moon, he rolled a cigarette, slipped it between his lips and struck a match.

      The tip glowed and faded, an orange flower blooming in the darkness, too bright to be real and too beautiful to last.

      Chapter Three

      She was dreaming of cicadas chanting on a summer night, but the rattle in her ears wasn’t quite right. It stopped and started while cicadas made a noise that never ended. The crickets got louder as the night lengthened and they always sounded far away. This rattle was too close to be a dream, then she heard the click of a rifle, the baby’s sudden wail and a man’s low voice.

      “Hold still, Alex, real still.”

      Something slithered over her feet. Her eyelids flew open and she saw Jake Malone’s dirty boots planted three feet away from her face.

      “Don’t move, honey.”

      Dear God, how could she hold still with a rattler rippling over her feet? The baby was wailing now. Only the bundling kept him from thrashing and attracting the snake. His red face was next to hers, but she didn’t dare move. The rattling stopped, and the silence was more frightening than the hiss of its tail.

      “He might leave, so stay still. He’s looking kind of bored right now.”

      Was that supposed to make her feel better?

      “I can’t shoot him from this angle so I’m going to move behind you. This fella is as good as dead. He’ll make a nice band for the hat I’m going to buy for you.”

      Her legs were shaking, and her jaw throbbed. Tears squeezed out of her eyes, and she looked down without moving her head. The snake studied the baby with its slitted eyes. Its flat head swiveled, and she wondered if snakes could hear, and if the baby’s wails would make it strike.

      Fresh terror pulsed through her. She would die, the baby would die, or Jake Malone would save them both.

      “He’ll be tasty for breakfast once I nail him,” the outlaw said.

      The man was out of his mind.

      “They taste like chicken.”

      Her stomach lurched. Hot tears streaked her face.

      Sssss…Sssss…Sssss…

      Jake’s shadow touched the coils. “I’m going to shoot on three.”

      He raised the rifle and took a step. “One…”

      The baby kicked inside the bunting.

      “Two…”

      The snake’s fangs glistened in the sun.

      “Three.”

      The rifle blasted hot metal. The snake lunged for its prey, and Alex flung herself in front of the baby. Razor-sharp fangs sliced through her arm. Blood and bits of the snake spattered her face and hands.

      “Oh, God! Oh, God!”

      Charlie’s mouth was moving, but she couldn’t hear him cry. Her sleeve was in shreds and covered with blood. She struggled to her knees. The snake was a bloody rope at her side, and Jake Malone was in front of her, pulling on her arm, ripping at the red cotton sticking to her skin.

      He was talking, but she couldn’t hear him. She wanted to tell him everything would all right, that the snake was dead, but she couldn’t force the words out of her throat. She could barely breathe, and when he ripped the sleeve up to her elbow, she saw two red gashes where the rattler’s fangs had ripped her skin.

      “Alex? Can you hear me?”

      He was shouting, but she could barely make out the words. Not trusting her voice, she nodded to him.

      He had a knife in his hand. It was short, with the sharpest silver blade she had ever seen, and his eyes were glued to her forearm where the red streaks were oozing blood. The knife shifted in his fingers.

      “No!”

      She tried to pull her arm away, but he had a firm grip on her elbow. The blade sliced into her flesh just above the two gashes, and a second later he was sucking the blood. He spat one mouthful on the ground, then two more. With a jerk of his hand, he tore the rest of the sleeve, made a tourniquet and twisted it just above the bite.

      Wiping