Kit laughed. "Oh, it was easy to get in. Getting out again proved a rather interesting test of wit and skill."
And that was how he dismissed one of the most dangerous, nearly lethal adventures he'd ever encountered. His involuntary fight in the Circus Maximus was legend the world over.
"well," Margo muttered, "I, uh, guess I'd better get on with my own practice and let you take over the class, Ann."
The diminutive firearms instructor nodded gracious thanks for helping break the class the way a horsebreaker might soften up and civilize a particularly unruly horse.
Kit said very softly, "We'll wait on the benches until you're finished."
She nodded, holding in another sigh. Another bleeding test ...
But this time she put up no arguments, no protests, no childish tantrums. She simply put on her safety.
Ann, called out, "Line's going hot!" so everyone else donned safety gear-including Kit and Malcolm-and got busy finishing the other two boxes of .44-40's, scoring well in toward the center of the black despite her nervousness; then she switched to the heavier Centennial and did herself proud with three boxes of almost perfect nines and tens. She did throw a couple of rounds here and there from sweating palms and aching arms and eyes that burned and wouldn't focus properly, but even though she was out of practice, her scores were good and she knew it.
"Well?" she asked as she handed over the targets.
The two most important people in her life put their heads together, poring over the targets, marking each shot outside the nine ring. Finally they looked up again.
"Well, frankly," Kit began, "you could use some more practice and work on your upper arm strength, but pretty damned good for a first try after several dry months."
Margo let go her tense fear and abruptly felt like she was floating on fizzy bubbles that tickled her all the way to the ceiling.
"Hey," Malcolm called, "come down out of the clouds, will you?"
She sighed inwardly and allowed the wonderful fizzing bubbles to waft her gently toward the floor. She blinked and found herself staring into Malcolm's eyes. "Yeah?" she asked softly.
He didn't say a word. He just kissed her until those dratted, wonderful fizzing bubbles came back. When she came up for breath, she was actually dizzy.
"Wow! Where'd you learn to do that?"
Malcolm touched her cheek. "From a certain redheaded imp I know. She's very, um, motivational."
Margo blushed to her toes. Malcolm only smiled.
"Shall I, um, put everything away so we can get the heck out of here?"
"Y-e-s," Kit drawled, devilment in his eyes, "I think that would be appropriate. We'll stuff down some dinner, then if it's possible, I think I'd like to pry you away from Malcolm for a while, so it's just you and me, okay?"
"Yeah," was all she could manage.
They helped her clean the rifles, just to speed up the process, then she put away all her gear and locked up the gear room, returning the keys carefully where they belonged. That done, Margo Smith hooked arms through both Malcolms and Kit's. They left the range aware of the still-awestruck gazes that followed them.
Once outside, beyond the soundproof glass, they all started laughing like complete idiots. But it was a healing laughter, as well, washing away awkwardness and lonely pain and leaving only the new closeness and the utterly reaffirmed love Margo felt for both of these men. It was a love she felt she didn't deserve, but was by God going to try to deserve.
"Last one to the elevator's a goose's egg!" Margo called, sprinting off like a gazelle.
Not at all surprisingly, Kit arrived just behind her, his hand covering hers just as she punched the elevator button. Malcolm wheezed up a moment later.
"Out of shape," Kit chided.
"Hah! Blame that on your insatiable granddaughter."
Kit just laughed and winked at Margo, who flushed red as a beet. But she was still laughing. The elevator carried them and their hilarity upward in efficient silence, until the doors opened again and their laughter spilled out onto the Commons. They headed for the Epicurean Delight and a dinner that would certainly be a momentous occasion.
At least, it would if Kenneth "Kit" Carson had anything to say about it!
CHAPTER TWELVE
Marcus was on duty in the Down Time Bar & Grill when he strolled in, casual and cool as a general surveying newly levied troops on the Campus Martius. A glass slipped from nerveless fingers and shattered on the floor behind the bar. He glanced Marcus' way, noted him briefly with a flick of disinterested gaze, then took a seat near the back as though Marcus didn't exist.
Fear and anger both ripped through him, piercing as the shockwaves of an unstable gate. The years he'd spent on TT-86 had changed him more than he'd realized, had eased the harshness of certain memories with the fair treatment he'd received here, where men like Kit Carson and Skeeter Jackson saw him as a man, not a possession. He'd come to realize over the years that he was free, that no one had the right to call him slave, but in that single, blinding instant when his onetime master's eyes had slid dismissively away from his, the memory of his slavery had crashed down around him like a cage of steel bars.
Marcus stood rooted to the floor, unable to believe he had actually forgotten that terrifying, familiar, casual dismissal of his very humanity. What it felt like in his soul to be reminded
"Hey, Marcus, clean up that mess!"
The manager, frowning at him.
Hands shaking uncontrollably, Marcus knelt and swept up broken shards of the bar glass. When the job was done and the pieces dumped into the trash bin, Marcus washed and dried hands that refused to hold steady. He drew a deep breath for courage. He didn't want to cross that short distance of space, but knew it had to be done. He still owed a terrible sum of money to this man whose name he'd never actually known, merely calling him Domus, same as any other slave would address a master. He recalled all too clearly the cold humor in the man's eyes when he'd first laid eyes on Marcus in that stinking slave pen.
He left the relative safety of the space behind the bar and approached the dim table near the back. His glance flicked up again, studied Marcus with brutal appraisal, a herdsman judging the health of prize stock. Marcus' insides flinched.
"Your order?" he whispered, all voice control gone.
His one-time master had not changed much during the intervening years. A little leaner, a little greyer. But the eyes were the same, dark and glittering and triumphant.
"Beer. Whiskey chaser."
Marcus brought the drinks as ordered, trying desperately to still the jittering of glassware on his small, round tray. Quick eyes noted the dance and smiled.
"Very good," he purred. "That will be all."
Marcus bowed and departed. He felt the dark touch of the man's gaze on him through the next hour, watching him work as he served drinks, collected bar tabs and tips, made up sandwiches and snacks for the ebb and flow of customers, and prayed to all the gods to get him through this ordeal. Why has he come? pounded behind his eyelids. Why has he not spoken to me again? I have the gold to repay the debt of my purchase price. I have it ...
And above all other questions, again and again, Why does he not speak? He just sits and watches. The man finally finished his beer and left money on the table, departing without a backward glance. Marcus had to brace himself against the bar to keep his feet.
"Marcus?"
He jumped so badly he nearly went to the floor. The manager braced him with a hasty arm.
"You feeling okay? You look sick."
I am sick! Marcus wanted to cry out. "I-do not feel well, I am sorry..."
"Hey, you got plenty of sick time coming. Go on home and take some aspirin, get some rest. I'll call Molly, she could use some overtime pay. If you don't feel better by tomorrow, call Medical."