Free Mittman, Stephanie by Bridge to Yesterday Page A

shirt.
    Tentatively,
she unclenched her fist and rested the palm of her cold hand against the coarse
hair of Sloan's chest. The heat of his body warmed her hand's chill.
    They
could see nothing in the darkness of the tiny room, hidden in the bowels of the
Indian ruins, all dry and cold and so very empty. Mary Grace had followed Sloan
down the ladder at the last moment, not wanting to be hidden in the dark kiva
any longer than necessary. Hundreds of years ago this had been an Indian sacred
place, used for ceremonies.
    Mary
Grace could swear that the spirits still inhabited the room as she huddled on
the floor listening for human sounds. She heard instead the scurrying of some
small animal and flinched instinctively. Sloan patted her arm gently, pulling
her still closer against him.
    "God,
you're stiff, woman," he said. "I'm just offering you the warmth of
my body."
    He
reached across her to scoop her into him, and she felt his hand touch her naked
legs. At the contact, she jumped away like a frightened jackrabbit, banging her
head against the hard stones behind her and gasping loudly.
    "No
wonder you're cold! What the hell are you doin' with your damn skirts up?"
he asked, tugging at them to no avail and tracing them until he could tell that
they were wrapped snugly around his son.
    "Don't
you know how to talk?" he said through gritted teeth, barely controlling
his temper. "He's my son and I can see to his needs." He took his arm
off her shoulder. Even in the dark she could tell he was removing his shirt. He
tried to pry the baby from her arms, but she refused to let go. The baby was
nearly asleep. Jostling him now could make him cry. Besides, she needed to keep
him pressed tightly against her to keep her pounding heart from breaking
through her chest. With a sigh, he put his shirt over her legs and leaned back
against the cold stones.
    "Thank—"
Mary Grace began, but Sloan quickly put his hand over her mouth. It tasted
fairly salty as she quickly closed her lips and nodded that she understood. He
moved his arm around her and pulled her tightly to him. His body felt
remarkably warm despite the coolness of their hiding place. His other hand
moved at his side. She heard the gun slip quietly out of his holster, metal
against leather, as if it had made that trip a thousand times before.
    Boots
on rock and adobe floors made a hard, cold sound that echoed off the stones
around them. In the room above them, a piece of furniture scraped against the
floor, and footsteps stopped above their heads. Mary Grace inhaled sharply.
Sloan smelled of sweat, the baby's pee, and something undefinable. It was a
sharp, pungent scent not all that unpleasant. Mary Grace burrowed deeper
against him, and his arm tightened around her protectively. The tension in his
body was overwhelming, and Mary Grace knew from the feel of his taut left leg
beside her that if he'd had two good legs he'd have been up on them. Now, it
was suddenly too late.
    "Harlin,
what the hell ya doin'?" Wilson Tate hollered, the words reverberating in
the clay cavern in which Mary Grace and Sloan hid.
    "Look
here," he answered, and they heard a second set of boots cross over their
heads. Once before she had huddled in the dark with a man's arms around her,
waiting for voices to pass them by and leave them alone again. This man sat as
rigidly as the other one had. This one's hand had covered her mouth, touched
her leg, just as the other one's had. She took shallow little gulps of air,
fighting the rising panic within her. In her head, voices rang out from beyond
a closed door: Have you seen Father Dougan? Is anyone in there?
    "I
found me a lady's whatchamacallit, Wilson. Think it's whatshername's?" The
voice belonged to Harlin.
    "All
that stuff looks the same to me. The only difference is the woman in it."
    "Look,
Wilson, it's ripped. Do you suppose Mason's right and it coulda been Westin,
and he got up into her panties? 'Spose they did it right here on this
floor?" He stamped, and