Free Dances Naked by Dani Haviland Page A

him but picked up the soiled bit of tortilla with a couple of bits of cheese and mayonnaise still stuck to it. She carefully pulled the dirt and grassy pieces away from it and nibbled at the morsel, savoring the bite . She stuck the tip of her tongue through her lips , removing a pebble that she had missed. She plopped the rest of the sandwich into her mouth, suddenly afraid that Grant would take the meager meal away from her. “Let’s go,” she said with her cheeks full. “He won’t follow us,” she added then looked over at Marty, telling him with her eyes to stay put if he knew what was good for him.
    Grant looked over at his victim and crowed, “Well, I don’t think he’ll be go ing too far without these boots. ” H e turned his heel and show ed off the purloined footwear to Marty, “or these, either.” Grant took his worn out boots and stuffed them into the saddlebag. “And I think I ought to ride the horse for a bit. You know how new shoes always give me blisters,” then swung up on the horse. He trotted the horse a few yards down the deer path then called back snidely to the stern faced woman-child trying to catch up with him, “And don’t dawdle— we have a long ways to go until sundown.”
    M arty sighed in relief at his close call. He didn’t care about the horse; he was going to let her go anyway. However, the ground was rocky and his feet were as soft as a baby’s. “Shoot, I’d be better off if I could walk on my hands. At least they’re calloused!” He turned over his hands and looked at his palms in frustration. “New Bern?” he asked himself, suddenly changing his focus from the dilemma of his newly attained tenderfoot status. “They won’t be there in a few days; that’s probably 200 miles away. It looks like someone is even more lost than I am.”
    Marty lifted the rock at the base of the tree where he had stashed the map just before taking his nap. “Gee, and I just wanted to make sure it didn’t blow away,” he said to himself, grateful once again at his good fortu ne. “Okay, okay, I get it, Lord, You’ve got my attention. Thanks for saving my bacon, I mean, thanks for saving my life today. And please, please, please, please, get me back to my time and Bibb safely. And , guide those doctors doing the transplant and make sure they put the right parts in the right person and, well, You know what I need and please, just help me to listen to what Y ou want me to do; in Jesus name, Amen. Oh, and would you look out for that girl, Rachel , and her baby, too? Thanks, A men again.”
    Marty spread the map out on the ground. “Okay, Lord, I’m looking at it with You right here next to me.” He grinned as he realized that there really was Divine intervention in his map reading. He had forgotten that he had coded his map by turning the coordinates 180 degrees so that north was south and east was west. “Gotcha! Thanks.”
    Marty stood to start his trek to the trees and was quickly reminded of his other dilemma: no boots. “Crap!” he cursed mildly then looked around. “Well, at least you have the knife,” he told himself. He looked around at his surroundings, trying to find something, anything, that he could use as shoes. He looked down at his pants. Yes, he could fabricate something from strips of the brown denim duck that he had chosen over the homespun wool the re-enactors had suggested. “These are close enough in looks and will wear for years if I need them to,” he told the seamstress. He never thought that he’d have to cut them down for sandals though.
    “Sandals! That’s it.” Marty picked his steps carefully as he walked to the still, shallow area of the creekside. He pushed aside some reeds and yanked a tuft out of the mud. He tried to pull the long leaf apart lengthwise but couldn’t. Yes, they would be suitable. He’d never woven a basket but these grasses seemed tough enough to braid and stitch into soles. He bent to the task, selecting the midsize reeds