evil?”
“Yes.”
Amy pressed her lips to the gleaming disk. “Then be careful that you never lose it.”
“I will,” Luiz said. He grinned suddenly and rolled up into a sitting position. “And I’ll be careful not to lose you as well. Which means we’d better be getting back to Orilla before they start to wonder.” He took the medallion from her, leaned down, and kissed her. Her arms went around his neck.
“Yes. I promised we’d be home by sundown,” she said.
“Then we’d better get our pants on.”
Laughing, they hurried back down the trail to put on their clothes. Soon they were dressed, but Amy asked Luiz to give her a minute to brush out her tangled hair. She rummaged around in her reticule for her hairbrush, became frustrated when she couldn’t find it, sat down on her heels and poured out the reticule’s contents.
“Here you are,” she said aloud, and snatched up the gold-backed hairbrush.
“Want me to do it?” Luiz asked, and crouched down facing her.
“No. It won’t take a minute, but thanks.” She drew the brush vigorously through her hair. “You can gather up the stuff I poured out if you want to help.”
Smiling, he nodded, and went about placing the spilled contents back inside the small purse. His eyes fell on a small item that made the smile leave his face.
A ticket. A blood-red ticket with black numbers.
Luiz picked up the ticket, blinked, and read the numbers on it: 6 6 5 6.
His hand began to shake slightly. “Amy, what is this?” He held it up to her.
Hairbrush posed in midstroke, she glanced at the ticket. “What? Oh, that. It’s my railroad baggage ticket from the day I came home from New Orleans.” She went back to brushing her hair.
Luiz, feeling as if he were suddenly suffocating, gripped the ticket with its damning numbers tightly in his palm. Unsteadily he rose to his feet. A sudden breeze rustled the leaves of the cottonwoods and the setting sun plummeted below the distant hills. A sudden chill seemed to slice through the heat of the late afternoon.
An inexplicable fear gripped Luiz. The foreboding dream. The half-remembered warning. The quartet of numbers. 6,6,5,6. Now he knew. Amy had come home on June 6, 1856. 6,6,5,6. Amy was the danger.
His danger.
“No!” Luiz choked out. He reached down and yanked Amy to her feet, kissing her with all the love and fear in his wildly beating heart.
“Tonatiuh, what is it?” she asked anxiously when at last he tore his lips from hers.
He shook his dark head, pressed her close, and Amy felt the trembling of his tall, spare body against her.
His doubts became her own and she gripped his shirt front, closed her eyes tightly, and said, “You’re not sorry we made love, are you?”
“No, sweetheart,” he said, fighting to regain his composure. “And I never want you to be sorry either.”
She pulled back to look at him. “Why would I be?”
He stared into her trusting blue eyes. Loving her as he did, he carefully concealed his growing apprehension.
“No reason,” he said, and grinned at her. His hand slipped down over the curve of her bottom and he gave it a playful little slap. Then he laughed and added, “But we’ll both be sorry if we don’t get home.”
The crumpled red ticket with the bold black numbers dropped from his open fingers, fluttered to the ground, and blew away.
That same evening after dinner, Baron Sullivan found his brother Lucas on the west patio. Alone in the moonlight, Lucas sprawled lazily on a padded settee, his long legs stretched out before him. His booted feet rested atop the low adobe fence that bordered the patio. On his face was a half smile. In his hand was a tumbler of Kentucky bourbon.
Lucas was well on his way to becoming drunk.
Baron sighed and joined his brother. Taking the tumbler of whiskey from Lucas, he set it aside.
“We need to talk, Lucas.”
“Can’t we talk while I drink?” was Lucas’s reply.
“No.” Baron dropped down onto the settee. “I
“Yes.”
Amy pressed her lips to the gleaming disk. “Then be careful that you never lose it.”
“I will,” Luiz said. He grinned suddenly and rolled up into a sitting position. “And I’ll be careful not to lose you as well. Which means we’d better be getting back to Orilla before they start to wonder.” He took the medallion from her, leaned down, and kissed her. Her arms went around his neck.
“Yes. I promised we’d be home by sundown,” she said.
“Then we’d better get our pants on.”
Laughing, they hurried back down the trail to put on their clothes. Soon they were dressed, but Amy asked Luiz to give her a minute to brush out her tangled hair. She rummaged around in her reticule for her hairbrush, became frustrated when she couldn’t find it, sat down on her heels and poured out the reticule’s contents.
“Here you are,” she said aloud, and snatched up the gold-backed hairbrush.
“Want me to do it?” Luiz asked, and crouched down facing her.
“No. It won’t take a minute, but thanks.” She drew the brush vigorously through her hair. “You can gather up the stuff I poured out if you want to help.”
Smiling, he nodded, and went about placing the spilled contents back inside the small purse. His eyes fell on a small item that made the smile leave his face.
A ticket. A blood-red ticket with black numbers.
Luiz picked up the ticket, blinked, and read the numbers on it: 6 6 5 6.
His hand began to shake slightly. “Amy, what is this?” He held it up to her.
Hairbrush posed in midstroke, she glanced at the ticket. “What? Oh, that. It’s my railroad baggage ticket from the day I came home from New Orleans.” She went back to brushing her hair.
Luiz, feeling as if he were suddenly suffocating, gripped the ticket with its damning numbers tightly in his palm. Unsteadily he rose to his feet. A sudden breeze rustled the leaves of the cottonwoods and the setting sun plummeted below the distant hills. A sudden chill seemed to slice through the heat of the late afternoon.
An inexplicable fear gripped Luiz. The foreboding dream. The half-remembered warning. The quartet of numbers. 6,6,5,6. Now he knew. Amy had come home on June 6, 1856. 6,6,5,6. Amy was the danger.
His danger.
“No!” Luiz choked out. He reached down and yanked Amy to her feet, kissing her with all the love and fear in his wildly beating heart.
“Tonatiuh, what is it?” she asked anxiously when at last he tore his lips from hers.
He shook his dark head, pressed her close, and Amy felt the trembling of his tall, spare body against her.
His doubts became her own and she gripped his shirt front, closed her eyes tightly, and said, “You’re not sorry we made love, are you?”
“No, sweetheart,” he said, fighting to regain his composure. “And I never want you to be sorry either.”
She pulled back to look at him. “Why would I be?”
He stared into her trusting blue eyes. Loving her as he did, he carefully concealed his growing apprehension.
“No reason,” he said, and grinned at her. His hand slipped down over the curve of her bottom and he gave it a playful little slap. Then he laughed and added, “But we’ll both be sorry if we don’t get home.”
The crumpled red ticket with the bold black numbers dropped from his open fingers, fluttered to the ground, and blew away.
That same evening after dinner, Baron Sullivan found his brother Lucas on the west patio. Alone in the moonlight, Lucas sprawled lazily on a padded settee, his long legs stretched out before him. His booted feet rested atop the low adobe fence that bordered the patio. On his face was a half smile. In his hand was a tumbler of Kentucky bourbon.
Lucas was well on his way to becoming drunk.
Baron sighed and joined his brother. Taking the tumbler of whiskey from Lucas, he set it aside.
“We need to talk, Lucas.”
“Can’t we talk while I drink?” was Lucas’s reply.
“No.” Baron dropped down onto the settee. “I
Similar Books
