by Katie French
He looks around, in mock consideration. “Auntie doesn’t count?”
I shake my head.
He runs a hand down his five o’clock shadow. “Does Doc?”
“Stop,” I say, throwing a boot at him. “You know Doc prefers to be male.”
“Right,” he says, drawing out the word. “Male. Got it.”
When I’m dressed in just my chest binding and underwear, I step gingerly over the rocks and begin to wade in the water, my filthy clothes in my hand. The cool water tripping over my feet and shins feels damn good. When I’m hip deep, I turn and look back at Clay. “You comin’ in?”
He hunkers, watching me. “Just enjoyin’ the show.”
I shake my head and begin scrubbing the dirty clothes and then my body. We don’t have soap, but a good handful of mud from the bottom does the lion’s share of getting me clean. I crouch down and dip my shoulders in, then my head, letting the water rush over me and the silence swallow me up. Eyes closed as the water washes me clean, I try to think of nothing—no worry, no pain.
It’s a losing battle.
When I push my feet into the silt and stand, water dripping from my body and hair, Clay’s still there on the bank, waiting for me. I was without him for so long, sometimes I still can’t believe he’s here. His memory is still full of holes, but he knows me. He knows Ethan and Auntie. He doesn’t remember how we met or the first time we made love, but we’re making new memories. Lots.
“Come in,” I say, splashing toward the shore.
He looks at me and then his dry clothes. “You’re just tryin’ to see me naked.”
“Maybe,” I say, splashing again. “It’ll cool you down.”
He stands up, slowly taking off his shirt and then unbuckling the belted gun holster around his hips. No one takes better care of his guns than Clay, so when he sets them gingerly on his frayed T-shirt and then adjusts them so they’re out of the direct sun, I’m not surprised. Nine nights out of ten I find him taking those revolvers apart and putting them back together again, rubbing them until they shine. I have Mo; he has his guns. But then we still have each other.
His pants fall to his ankles displaying boxer briefs from his days with Nessa at Kirtland. He walks into the river and toward me. The river parts around his strong thighs, one scarred deeply from his bullet wound and then Rayburn’s cauterization. I’ve got my own scars. A bullet wound in my calf, more cuts than I can say, and the new pink scar where that bastard cut me.
Where he took away our baby and any chance I could ever be a mother.
I touch it now, and it’s like it’s fresh, brand new.
Clay slips through the water toward me and takes me in his arms. I wrap mine around his strong back, letting my wet body cool his. When he’s close like this, the heat between us can’t be denied. His lips find the side of my neck, kissing the tender skin there. A yearning stirs in my chest as I run my hands down his back, taking in the scent of him. With one hand he grips the ring he gave me resting on the chain around my neck. And then he’s taking my chin in his hand and lifting my face to meet his. When his lips touch mine, I pull him close so there is nothing between us, just skin on skin, hands and fingers, mouth and tongue. We could kiss a thousand times, a million, and this passion I feel right now, exploding through my body, would never diminish. I want him like I want nothing else in this world.
When he stops kissing me, we are both breathless. He chuckles. “You clean up mighty fine.”
I push wet hair out of my eyes and look up at him. “I know we haven’t had much alone time since Mo.”
He runs his fingers down my back. “We’re alone now.”
I look up, realizing that even though we’re out in the open, there isn’t another soul to see. “Aren’t you worried someone will come by?”
He takes me in his arms, lifting me up until he’s carrying me toward the shore. When he lays me in the soft sand, he gazes down at me like he could worship every inch of my body. “Riley, in this moment, just this one moment right here, I ain’t worried ’bout a thing.”
Clay
I watch her sleep in my arms, knowin’ she needs the rest. Knowin’ she’ll be pissed as hell when she realizes I let her doze. I brush her short dark hair out of her eyes, tracin’ the curve of her eyebrow down to her ear. She stirs and murmurs somethin’ sweet. It takes all my will not to press my mouth to hers and begin again what we were just doin’. I can’t get enough of her, touchin’ her, seein’ her, talkin’ to her. We were apart for so long. I wanna make up for lost time.
The memories aren’t all back, but they’re comin’ in spurts—her racin’ down a hospital hallway with me as bullets whiz past like angry hornets, us in some dark tunnel runnin’ for our lives. We’ve been to hell and back again, and it’s a shitty feelin’ knowin’ I ain’t got all the pieces. But I got her. We’ll rebuild what has been dismantled.
The joy of bein’ back with her is shadowed with sorrow as I watch her with Mo. What I ain’t sayin’, what nobody is sayin’ is that this creature—whatever the hell you call a half-human, half-animal experiment—this kid ain’t her baby. And worse, it ain’t well. I see it in the sunken set of its cheeks, the yellowin’ of its eyes.
The little critter’s dyin’, and when it goes, it’s bound to take Riley down with it.
She loves the hell outta that thing in a way I can’t understand. Sure, Mo’s cute. She scrabbles around in the dirt, eatin’ bugs and climbin’ up walls like a monkey. Mo loves the hell outta Riley too, clingin’ on her like I seen chimps in books do with their mothers. I reckon Mo knows how Riley saved her from Corra and her experiments. It’s solidified their bond. Like glue, those two. Hell, sometimes I even get jealous.
I love that Riley cares about her family, that she cares about this poor lost creature. I won’t begrudge her that. But I won’t wake her up when I can hold her here for a few minutes in the shade of this tree, her half-naked body draped on mine, a delicious heat.
When I hear footsteps poundin’ this way, I know my time is up. Sittin’ up, I pull my shirt over my head just in time to see Ethan’s mop appear over the rise. He runs down at a clip.
“Clay, Mo’s awake!” he yells as he skirts around the scrawny bushes along the riverbank and comes right for us.
Riley sits up groggily. “What? Mo?”
Ethan skids to a stop, pantin’. “Awake. Calling for you. Well, yelling, ‘Mo, mo,’ but we all know what she means.”
Riley’s out of my arms, scramblin’ for her clothes. Ethan, nine and embarrassed, looks away as his sister yanks on threadbare pants and a T-shirt. Shovin’ her feet into boots, she starts to chug up the incline toward home.
I stand up, catchin’ a beam of late-afternoon sun in the eyes. “Want me to come?”
She looks back as she jogs up the rise. “Take Ethan hunting. We’re almost out of food.”
I’d love nothin’ more than to go huntin’ with Ethan, but I don’t like the panic in her voice. “You sure you don’t need me?”
“I’m fine,” she calls just before she runs out of sight.
I look over at Ethan, and he gives me his lopsided smile. “She’s okay, right?” I ask.
“She’s always been okay before.”
He’s right. Hard as nails and twice as sharp. Still, I worry what all this turmoil has done to her. She’s had nothing but heartache and misery since I met her.
Though ain’t we all?
Ethan tugs my sleeve to get my attention. When I look down at him, he squints up at me. “You go away again? In your head?”
I clap him on the back. “Nah. Just thinkin’.”
He stares at me as if evaluatin’ what I’m sayin’. “You used to do that. Go away in your head a lot. You know, before.”
“Back when we was at the windmill?”
Ethan nods. “It used to scare me.”
“Well, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” I swallow past the lump in my throat and ruffle his hair. “You goin’ shootin’ with me?”
His face lights up. “Will Riley let me?”
I wink, flashin’ my revolvers. “My guns. My decision.”
He stares down at my irons in awe. “Think she’ll be mad at us?”
I draw one out of the holster and hand it to him grip first. “I got my ways of makin’ it up to her.”
Ethan doesn’t respond, taking the gun reverently in his hand. He’s cautious, keeping his fingers far from the trigger and the barrel aimed at the scrub grass. “We don’t have enough bullets.”
“I can teach you without bullets for now. Then when we get more, I’ll do it up proper.”
He screws his mouth up as if he doesn’t quite believe me.
“Hey, my pa went through a two-year dry spell where we had hardly enough bullets to keep us all fed. But he never let me skip a day of practice. ‘A lazy gunslinger is a dead gunslinger.’” I mimic Pa’s gravelly voice, pokin’ a playful finger into Ethan’s chest.
Ethan smirks. “Do you miss him?”
I stare. “Who?”
“Your pa.”
“Why? You miss yourn?”
He nods, his head down and hair in his eyes.
Carefully, I take the gun and slide it into my holster. Then I grip his shoulder with my good hand. “We all got holes in our heart, Ethan. But they keep on pumpin’ just the same.”
He doesn’t say anythin’, his too-big boots scuffin’ the dirt.
God, the hurt his boy carries. I know what that weight feels like, pullin’ on my shoulders. Least for me, I can’t remember half of the bad that’s been done to me.
“Chin up, gunslinger,” I say, givin’ him a little shake. “There’s a hare in that field with your name on it.”
He walks with me to where the river stretches like a long brown snake off into the distance. I talk about game trails and trackin’. I show him how to load and reload the revolver, how to take it apart to clean it, how to aim with both eyes open. We check two traps and find one sprung by a lizard. I make quick work of the bugger, Ethan tryin’ hard not to avert his eyes. He’s still not up for the killin’ but doesn’t look away anymore. I’m not sure I ever want him to lose his warm center.
By the time the sun is kissin’ the dirt, he’s smilin’ and lopin’ on ahead, chasin’ bugs and chatterin’ about what Doc’s cookin’ up for supper.
It makes me feel good that he feels good. I live for this kid and the others at the camp. They’re my family now just as much as Pa ever was.
I only wish Cole was here.
We’re hot and tired as we trudge back up to the compound. But the promise of a meal keeps us chuggin’. We walk up through the rubble with the last of the daylight. When we get into camp, there’s a fire glowin’ in a barrel at the center of our courtyard, but I don’t smell grub. I don’t see anybody neither.
Ethan stops beside me, listenin’. “Clay?” His voice wavers with the thinnest skin of fear.
Puttin’ my hand out to keep him back, I draw the gun on my good side. “Stay back.” My heart starts to pound. If anything happened to them . . .
A head pops out of our hovel hole. Riley.
“Christ,” I say, breathin’ a sigh of relief. “You really know how to scare a pers—”
“Clay!” she shouts in a panic. “Come quick. It’s Mo.”
Riley
She’s dying.
Or at least that’s what it looks like. My baby. My Mo lies motionless and pale on her pallet. She isn’t shaking anymore, but she won’t eat, won’t respond.
On my knees by her mattress, I push her dreadlocked hair away from her sweaty forehead. I’m helpless, useless.
Doc and Auntie watch me from the corner of our hovel. They’ve been whispering, worried about Mo, worried about me. Clay and Ethan wait outside, having no real way to help, and it’s not like our little dirt house is big enough for all of us. I hear the clanging of a pot and smell something begin to cook, but I know I won’t be eating. I keep my eyes fixed on Mo. Maybe she’ll snap out of it.
“Riley,” Doc says cautiously, taking a step toward me in the small dim dirt hole. “We think it’s best if you prepare yourself.”
“For what?” I murmur, running my thumb over her soft cheek.
Auntie steps forward this time. “The little one is gonna die, puddin’ and there’s nothin’ to be done about it.”
“Bell,” Doc says, shocked like he’s never heard Auntie’s bluntness before.
When I look up, both are staring at me cautiously.
“She’s not going to die.”
They exchange glances. Doc is the one to answer first. “Riley, I’ve exhausted all my medical knowledge. The problem is we don’t have the supplies. She needs insulin, and we don’t have any. She’s going into shock. Soon, it will become very painful for her.” He drops his eyes. “If it hasn’t already.”
These words catch me in the gut like a two-by-four. She’s in pain.
A tear slides down my face, and I angrily flick it away. “We have nothing here? Nothing that can help her?”
Doc shakes his head. “We can give her fluids, but I don’t have anything with sugar in it. There’s no town for miles, no gas to fuel the truck even if there was one.”
“What about the solar car?”
“You know as well as I do it died months ago. No parts to fix it.”
“What about horses? Could she live through a ride on horseback?”
Doc’s jaw drops. “What are you saying?”
I squeeze my fists on my thighs and stare down at Mo. “What I’m saying is, that tribe of Riders we saw a few days ago had plenty of horses, and they might have some sugar too, or something else that could help her.”
“Riley, you cannot take on a tribe of Riders,” Doc exclaims.
“Don’t be stupid,” Auntie chimes in.
The Riders are a group of savage people who worship the Good Mother. They’re ruthless killers, and worse, they use child sacrifice to appease their so-called god. Last year, Ethan and I were almost lost to them until Clay showed up and killed every last one.
“Clay!” I call up the hole, getting up and walking to the ladder.
His shadow appears in the twilight. “Yeah?”
I look up at him, desperate. “How many bullets we got left?”
He thinks for a minute. “’Bout twenty-five. Who you thinkin’ of killin’?”
“Riders,” I say plainly. “That tribe you saw two days ago.”
He squats by the hole, shaking his head. “There were a dozen of ’em. Heavily armed. That’s crazy talk and you know it.”
“You and I could go. We could catch ’em by surprise.”
He furrows his brow. “And if we don’t kill ’em all, and they torture us until we break down and tell ’em where to find Ethan?”
I drop my eyes. He’s right. I can’t put the rest of them in danger.
Scanning the faces around me, I work my brain, digging for other solutions. “Who has insulin?”
Auntie breathes out her nose. “Nessa and the Breeders, but I know you ain’t gonna suggest we waltz in there.”
I don’t answer. “Who else?”
Doc leans against the dirt wall. “Corra.”
I point my finger in Doc’s direction. “Corra still has some. And she doesn’t have an army.”
Doc shakes his head. “But you stole Mo from her, her greatest achievement. You know she’ll want Mo back.”
“Yes,” I say, standing. “She’ll want her back bad enough to fix her, to keep her alive.”
“And experiment on her,” Doc says quietly. “Is that the kind of life you want for Mo?”
I chew my lip, feeling helpless. “I want her alive. I can deal with how to get her away from Corra later.”
“How do we get there?” Doc asks.
“It’s at least thirty miles,” Auntie says. “Can’t hoof that with a sick baby.”
Clay calls down from above. “We need gas? I can get gas.”
I look up at him. “How?”
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Even in the dancing firelight throwing shadows on his face, I can see him smirk. He loves a challenge.
“Leave it to me.”
When we’re done suiting up, it’s full dark, and the half moon hangs over the crumbling remains of our home. Clay and I put on our thickest clothes and load a pack with two water jugs and half the remaining bullets. Clay puts one revolver in his holster and hands the other one to Doc.
“If we don’t come back,” Clay says, handing over his gun like it pains him.
“If you don’t come back, we’re coming looking for you,” Doc says, flicking a glance my way.
I ignore the longing in his eyes that never seems to go away, even now that Clay’s here. “Take care of Mo, please. And Auntie and Ethan.”
“I don’t need taking care of,” Ethan says, popping out of his hovel. He’s wearing his pack just like Clay and I are.
“What are you doing?” I ask, walking over to him.
He looks from me to Clay. “Coming with you.”
I shake my head, glaring at Clay. “Tell me you didn’t say he could come.”
“Why not?” Clay says, striding over to clap Ethan on the shoulder. “It ain’t that serious a mission.”
“Every time we leave this compound it’s a serious mission. Every day of our lives is a serious mission.”
“Then he needs to learn how to take care of himself,” Clay says, giving me a shrug. “’Sides. I already promised him.”
“Clay!”
“Riley, I wanna go.” Ethan holds his pack straps, trying desperately to look taller.
“No way,” I say. “Auntie, back me up.”
She grips the long end of her gray braid and stares at me. “You know who you sound like? Arn.”
“But I was sixteen then. Ethan’s nine.”
“It’ll be safe, Ri,” Clay says, slipping a hand down my back. “We’ve scouted the area. No one’s around.” He picks up the empty plastic jugs he plans to use to carry the gas back to our truck. “Now, we’re burnin’ precious minutes. Let’s go.”
I stare at Ethan, and he just shrugs, walking to catch up with Clay. There’s no time to argue, Mo like she is, and besides, the mission should be fairly simple. Still, I’m not sure we should be putting Ethan at risk like this. Mad at Clay, I hump my pack and follow behind a few paces. The two in front of me walk on like they don’t even notice.