bellies that held the saddles on—his mother called them "cinches," he remembered.
"Momma," he said again, shaking her head gently. He closed his eyes. "Millie, Annie! Get up— time to get up!" he shouted. Annie sat bolt upright, stared around her and then at him.
"How is Mommie?" she said.
"She'll be okay," he said. "Wake up Millie and have her make something to eat.
You know where it is—the food. Millie can reach the bags."
He looked back to his mother. The sunlight was just hitting her face and he watched her eyelids moving. "Momma!"
Sarah Rourke opened her eyes. "Ohh," she started, her voice sounding hoarse to him.
"Annie—get Momma some water."
Sarah Rourke stared at him—Michael couldn't tell if she was all right or not.
"Momma—are you going to be okay?"
He saw her moving her right hand toward him and he bent toward her, felt her hand—cold—against his cheek. "Momma!"
"Shh," Sarah said, the corners of her mouth raising faintly in a smile. "I'll be all right—just give me a hug and don't ask me to get up for a while— okay?"
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rourke stepped away from the low yellow camp-fire and sat back against the rock face, staring out across the desert as the sun—orange against a gray sky—winked up over the horizon to the east. He hunched his shoulders in his leather jacket, both hands wrapped around a white-flecked black metal mug of steaming coffee.
He glanced at Rubenstein when the younger man spoke, "Now this is more like it—life on the trail, I mean. Food, coffee, water. Hey—" and Rubenstein leaned back against the far end of the rocks.
"Simple things can mean a lot," Rourke observed, staring then at the woman, still sleeping when last he'd looked, lying on a ground cloth between them. Her eyelids were starting to flutter, then opened and she started to sit up, then fell back.
"Give yourself a few minutes," Rourke said slowly to her.
"What's that I smell?" she said, her voice hoarse.
"Coffee—want some? It's yours, anyway," Rourke told her.
She sat up again, this time moving more slowly, leaning back on her elbow. "Who are you?" she asked, her voice still not quite right-sounding to Rourke.
"My name is John Rourke—he's Paul Rubenstein." and Rourke gestured over her. She turned and Rubenstein smiled and gave her a little salute.
"What the hell are you doing drinking my coffee?"
"Pleasant, aren't we?" Rourke said. "You were dying, we saved your life. I went back and found your jeep, buried your boyfriend or husband a few miles back beyond that, hauled up the gasoline, the water, the food, some of your stuff.
Then so we didn't have to leave you alone and could make sure your fever didn't come up, we slept in shifts the rest of the night watching you. I figure that earns me a cup of coffee, some gas and some food and water. Got any objections?"
"You got any cigarettes?" Natalia said. "And some coffee?"
"Here," Rourke said, tossing a half-empty pack of cigarettes to her. "I guess these are yours—found 'em at the jeep." She started to reach out her left arm for the cigarettes and winced.
"You were shot in the forearm," Rourke commented, then looked back to his coffee, sipping at it.
"Anybody got a light?"
Rourke reached into his jeans and pulled out his Zippo, leaning across to her and working the wheel, the blue-yellow flame leaping up and flickering in the wind. The girl looked at him across it, their eyes meeting, then she bent her head, brushing the hair back. The tip of the cigarette lighted orange for a moment, then a cloud of gray smoke issued from her mouth and nostrils as she cocked her head back, staring up at the sky.
"I agree—but I'd already noticed you're beautiful," Rourke said deliberately.
She turned and looked at him, laughing, saying, "I think I know you from somewhere—I mean that should be your line, but I really do. That bandage is very professional."
Rubenstein said, "John's a doctor—among other things."
Rourke glanced across at Rubenstein, saying nothing, then looked at the girl. "I had the same feeling when I first saw you by the road, that I know you from somewhere."
"What happened?"
"I was hoping you could tell me. Paul and I just spotted your body by the side of the road, saw you were hurt and tried to help."
"Did I talk—I mean how did you know where to find the jeep?"
"You didn't say much," Rourke said, adding, "Don't worry. You mumbled something about a jeep and something about Sam Chambers. If I remember, before the war he was still down here in Texas—just been appointed secretary of communications to the president."
"The war?" Natalia said.
"Don't you know about the war?" Rubenstein said, leaning toward her.
"What war?" Natalia said.
"Tell her about the war," Rourke said, lighting one of the last of his cigars.
"Looks like it's going to rain today."
Chapter Twenty-Three
"God, it's so green here," Samuel Chambers said, sitting on the small stone bench and looking at the profusion of camelias.
"East Texas by the Louisiana border here is green like this most of the time.
But I think it's time for the meeting to start now—Mr. President."
Chambers looked at the man, saying quickly, "Don't call me that yet, George. I'm secretary of communications, and that's it."
"But you're the only surviving man in the line of succession, sir—you are the president."
"I was up in Tyler last year in October for the Rose Festival—this just might be the prettiest part of the State of Texas—here, north of here and down south to the Gulf."
"Sir!"
"I'm coming, George—stop and smell the flowers, right?" Chambers stood up and reached into his shirt pocket, snatching a Pall Mall. He stared at the cigarette a moment, then said to his young executive assistant. "I wonder how I'll get these now—with the war?"
"I'm sure we can find enough to last a long time for you, sir," the young man Chambers had called George said reassuringly, walking toward Chambers and standing at his side as he passed, almost as if to keep the man from taking another tour of the garden.
Chambers turned as he reached the double french doors leading back from the walled garden to the library inside the nearly century-old stone house. He stared back into the garden, saying to George without looking at him, "I'm about to make history, George. When I walk into that room, if I reject the call to the presidency or if I accept it. And if I accept it, what will I be president of?
It's a wasteland out there beyond this garden—much of it is, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Pretty much of the whole West Coast is gone, New York was blown off the map.
What am I going to be offered the presidency of—a sore that isn't smart enough to know that it can't heal?"
Chapter Twenty-Four
"Who are they, John?" Rourke heard Rubenstein asking. Rourke didn't answer, staring up the road at the stricken faces of the men, women and children struggling slowly toward them. As the women's faces showed recognition of Rourke, Rubenstein and the girl bending over their cycles, Rourke watched the women hug the children closer to them, some of the men starting to raise sticks or axes as if for defense. "Who are they?" Rubenstein asked again.
Rourke turned and started to answer, but then the woman's alto, choked-sounding as she spoke, came from behind him on the Harley's long seat. "They're refugees from some town up ahead—it's written all over their faces, Paul."
"I do know you from somewhere," Rourke said to her.
"And I know you—I wonder what will happen when we remember from where, John?"