He shook his head and laid both hands on her shoulders as he rose, easing her back into her seat. “I will get it. Where is it?” The foot looked bad, swollen at least twice the size he was certain it should be. That she'd been walking on it at all was a marvel.
She didn't answer him right away, instead looking down at her foot again. She wanted to stand so she could get the blood flowing faster but instead found herself transfixed by the sight of the darkly bruised ankle area. It seemed to her that even as she watched it, it was ballooning out even more, no longer looking like it could even be part of her body. If it weren't for the wild race of pins and needles coursing through the foot and lower half of her leg, she wasn't sure she'd believe it was.
With a sigh of resignation, still watching the ankle with fascination, she pointed toward the stairway. “On the wall opposite the stairs. There's a medkit. Punch in 0-7-20.”
She'd wait 'til he'd gone to fetch the Freeze-It to get up and get busy with what she had to do. It seemed easier than wasting time arguing with him. She was sure once he saw she could walk, he'd relent.
Miguel left her in the chair, his mind a-whirl. He was wasting time here with this woman when he should have been scouting the area looking for a likely extraction point. But, he supposed, holing up for a couple of hours shouldn't matter. The IFPG, the Integrated Federation of Planetary Governments, the people he worked for; they'd send a team when they felt the danger to their pilot was at its lowest.
Reaching the kit fastened to the wall like a pop-out safe, he tapped the sequence she'd given him and hurried the rectangular door open to begin digging through the supplies. The woefully inadequate supplies. Frowning, he removed the only two packets of Freeze-It inside and then glanced back over what was left. A couple of med vials, a small wound stabilizer and a few swatches of gauze. How long was that supposed to get her by?
In the kitchen, Lyrianne waited until Miguel was out of sight to gingerly get to her feet. Using the large island counter to support most of her weight, she opened the stasis cabinet, pulled out a prepared packet of stew, enough to feed her for a week, and popped it into the Happy Chef for Farley.
As the autochef was humming cheerily, she reached into the cold cabinet beside the sink, hopping on one foot, to get a bottle of Fizzy Ade to go with the stew. What she pulled out instead was one of the last bottles of her father's moonshine. She contemplated - for a brief moment of insanity – giving it to Farley then shook her head firmly. That would not be a good idea.
Instead of returning it to the fridge unit, she stopped, lifted it back up then released the stopper. She took three long pulls of the clear liquid inside. It was deceptively innocent looking considering its potency. Her eyes were watering and her throat and stomach burned. She was no drinker but she was hoping it would provide her with enough of a pleasantly buzzed numbness to get her through everything else she had to do before she could start coddling herself. After getting the sparkling fruit juice she'd intended to grab in the first place, she leaned against the counter, staring at the homemade skull and cross-bones label, a sad smile on her lips.
“Do not look so sad,” Miguel said from the doorway, returning with the two small packets she'd requested. “It is not a good look for you, eh?” He smiled and joined her across the room, turning to lean against the counter. His arm touched her shoulder and he handed her the packets held between two fingers.
“You should not be standing,” he lightly scolded, his eyes following hers to the warning label. He cocked a brow and gestured at it with his chin where a nice dark bruise had formed. “That does not look so good to drink. No wonder you look unhappy.”
With a slightly unfocused glance at him she smiled crookedly then shook her head. She turned the bottle around to reveal another label. This one was a drawing of a grinning, horned man-like creature. One hand was on a naked hip, the other was down between the legs, obscuring what it was holding.
“It's called Devil's Piss. Apparently it's very good to drink since Papa made a pretty good side business out of selling it.” She traced the expertly rendered drawing. “He's a pretty talented artist...“ She grinned at Miguel as she revealed who'd made the label then looked back at the bottle. “It's his secret recipe and this is part of the last batch there'll ever be.” She set the bottle down on the counter to accept the packets he held, coughing lightly. “First time I've tasted it. It's not bad once you get past the burn.”
Miguel’s eyes studied her. Any other time he'd have laughed at the credible name and graphic drawing but right then he felt only sympathy. It seemed there was no denying her father would soon pass away, leaving her alone with neighbors like Fat Farley for company. He was no stranger to loss and knew no words he could provide would ease her suffering so he didn't try. Instead he reached behind her and took the bottle by the neck. Looking at the explicit image without really seeing it, the pilot brought the opening to his mouth and tipped his head back. The brew was like a volcano spitting down his throat and he sucked air in through his teeth.
“Damn,” he wheezed. “S'got a kick, don't it?”
Lyrianne nodded and then giggled as her head movement caused the room to spin and tip slightly before righting itself. “Yeah, I'd say so.” She fanned a hand in front of her face then unbuttoned her coverall by two more buttons. Her bare middle was now revealed to the belly button, as was the luxury of her silk undergarment. She didn't really think of what she was doing beyond trying to cool off. “Really warms up the insides, too.” The two packets of Freeze-It went into one of her leg pockets. She'd apply them just before she went upstairs.
She set the now hot stew on a tray with a packet of bread, adding a large mixing bowl to empty the stew into, a big spoon, and a napkin. “Could you take the tray down for me?”
She began fixing a tray for her father as she continued. “Oh, and a word of warning... Don't let Farley get started talking about his family - Everyone one of them is named Farley except his mother, by the way.” She snorted at the absurdity of the Scruff family. “There's Red Farley, Sissy Farley, Tiny Farley, Sweet Farley, and, of course, their father, Black Farley. Don't ask. I think it's some sort of family tradition thing.”
Placing a soup packet into the Happy Chef, she then moved over to the old fashioned wood burning stove to put the kettle of water on to boil. That done, she leaned her back against the counter, her hands braced on the surface as she faced Miguel again. “Anyway, he tends to get very emotional and needy when talking about any of them except his father, so escape quickly if he brings them up.”
The pilot was staring at her incredulously, the tray in his hands but not because he wanted it to be. Clearing his throat, Miguel provided her half a smile before she turned back to her food preparation and he added the bottle of Devil’s Piss to the tray. He hadn’t recognized the unlabeled fruit juice on the counter and he was too preoccupied to give it consideration as he backed out of the kitchen to do as he’d been asked.
His sister joked he was well-trained and there must have been something to it, because what he really wanted to do was dump the heavy platter on the floor and scoop this strange woman up to make off with her, where no amount of duty or distraction could save her.
Chapter 7
Miguel was careful on the steep stairs down into the cellar where only a single bare bulb hung for light. The bulb itself was dusty, dulling the illumination, and a feeling of nerves crept up the pilot's back. He still had his pistol and wasn't afraid to drop Farley's dinner if he had to use it.
“Fat man!” he called out, ducking his head as he came to the bottom of the stairwell. “I am sure you are hungry, yes?”
“I'm over here, pretty boy. And, yeah, I'm hungry.” The deep voice boomed out from the shadowy corner near the back of the open space where the bed had been set up. Farley plodded over to the table and scraped back a sturdy metal chair with a single unfriendly glare directed at Miguel. The big man's face and hands were slathered with an ointment he'd found in the bathroo
m, giving him an oily sheen that seemed to emphasize his roundness.
His bulk obscured the chair as he sat down and planted his beefy hands on the table top. “Where's Lyrianne? She said she'd be bringin' my dinner. I thought she was gonna eat with me.”
His scowl underwent a nearly undetectable change as he seemed to concentrate for a moment before leaning forward, looking relieved. He appeared to be unaffected by the silent but deadly emanations he'd just released.
Miguel's dark eyes narrowed and he dropped the tray several inches above the little table, letting its contents clatter and scatter. “Lyrianne is busy,” the pilot near growled. “If there is nothing else?”
“Hey!” Farley righted everything, none of which was yet opened so it was still safe. That was good, he thought, but he didn't much appreciate the little man's attitude. “Ain't you got no manners?”
He glared at Miguel again as he ripped the stew pack open and dumped the contents into the big bowl. Picking up the spoon, he waved it at Miguel. “Yeah, matter of fact there is somethin' else. You stay away from my girl, you hear?” He jammed a spoonful of the gravy and meat mixture into his mouth then began chewing noisily.
A sound half like a bark and half a guffaw, the Fed pilot put a hand on his stomach as if he meant to contain the laughter; or maybe just stop himself from throwing up over the slobbering and snuffling going on. The man really was a pig at his trough.
“You are disgusting,” Miguel said, curling his lip in distaste. “Because I feel so bad for your morbidity, I will not tell you how absurd your threat. Sweet mother, can you not smell yourself?”
“Smell what? And, it ain't a threat, it's a promise. I seen you pawin' her under that tree. From what I could tell, you was probably plowin' her field, too.” He waved his spoon at Miguel, scowling darkly. “You ain't gonna do that again. She's mine. I don't give a frog's fart for any contract you got. Hear me?” He stuffed two slices of the bread, dipped in the stew's juices, into his mouth and grinned, spilling the half chewed mess out and down the front of his coveralls.
The fat man's crass assumption made the pilot's stomach tense and he sneered in disgust. “Fat man, you best watch what filth you spew because if you do not, I will pull out your tongue and make you eat it. Now let us part on less violent terms, eh? I would not like to upset my,” here he grinned villainously, “wife.”
“We'll see.” Fat Farley took a noisy swig from the large bottle then set it down hard. “She ain't yer wife 'til that paper's signed and she said it weren't.” He smiled, vicious and crafty, then leaned forward, making the table groan under the weight of his arms. “But, yer right. I don't like to upset my Lyrie neither so I'll fergive you since you softened her up fer me. Don't much care fer breakin' in virgins, anyway. Just don't you touch her again. Understand, pretty boy?”
Miguel's hand shot out and caught the farmer's collar, twisting sharply to cut off the fat man's air. He jerked once, hard, letting the linen cut unforgivingly into the back of Farley's sweaty neck. The pilot's bicep strained beneath the borrowed shirt he was holding the farmer so tightly, and he brought his face in close to the abominable colonial.
“If you ever touch her, fat man, there will be no second chance for you, yeah?” He twisted sharply and watched the beady piggy eyes bulge. “If you think you can take me, try it now, or sit down and shut your face and do not trouble me again.”
When Miguel let go, so did Farley's bladder but he stayed seated, dragging in raspy breaths through his abused throat. He'd underestimated the other man and his strength, which was reinforced when he got a vague image of a strong arm flattening him once before. Nobody before had ever challenged him when he threatened them; not that he had to do it often. He sure as hell wasn't prepared for someone who called his bluff.
“Get out of here.” He wheezed the words out then coughed some more before picking up his spoon again, ignoring the dampness in his trousers. “I want Lyrianne,” his eyes narrowed though he refused to meet the other man's unrelenting stare, “your wife, to bring me my next meal. Not you. Or I leave and go to the authorities myself to report you fer assaultin' me and destroyin' my salvage claim.” He shoveled another large spoonful of stew into his mouth.
Miguel turned to leave the fat man to his gruel and his stink, waiting until he got to the top of the stairs before rubbing his hand off on his pants in disgust.
********
Lyrianne, unaware of the problems in the basement, had gone upstairs with the tray for her father. He was awake and she set the tray down then helped him to a sitting position. She'd remembered to rebutton her coveralls though he wouldn't have been able to see it if she'd left it open. He looked at her through cloudy eyes, blinking as slowly as his thoughts were moving. His mind was, for the moment, as clear as his eyes were not. “Lyrianne? Has Mister Ayers come, yet? I thought I heard you talking to someone.”
Pulling the chair over, Lyrianne busied herself with checking the temperature of the soup, which was still too hot. The same with the herbal tea she'd prepared for him. Taking the napkin, she tucked it into his nightshirt then leaned forward and kissed his gaunt cheek. She didn't want to lie to him anymore. But she was having a terrible time trying to make herself tell him the truth.
She picked up his hand, so thin and weak in hers, and placed it against her cheek. It was cold and she bit her lip. She closed her eyes then opened them again. “Papa. I need to tell you something.” God, she thought, please. I can't do it. I can't.
Her father frowned at her. “What is it, baby? Is he not like his picture? He is not rude or... he has not hurt you, has he? I will send him packing with my rifle at his back if he did. Just tell your papa, sweetheart.” She looked up in surprise when his old humor made an appearance as his tone changed. “Problem is, I'm not seeing too well lately. But, just you point me at him. I'll take care of it.”
She smiled and then laughed softly, despite herself. “No, Papa. It's not that...“ She didn't know what to do. She was weak. She couldn't do it. “I think he will be just fine.”
“Well, then, my girl, get him up here to meet me proper like. I can get to know him while I eat. I think my appetite's much better now.” There was a little more strength in his voice, but not much, and she could see he was laboring for breath. It was so unfair.
She shook her head. “He's... he's not...“ She was an awful person. “He's gone out to tend to the cows in the far pasture, I'm afraid, Papa. I'll... I'll bring him in to meet you for breakfast. Okay?”
“No need, I am back early.” Miguel didn’t know what came over him. He’d not found Lyrianne in the kitchen so he’d searched the first floor quickly before starting up the stairs to the second. Her voice carried through an open door where the unmistakable smell of sickness hung. It would have been polite to leave upon seeing her, her back facing the door as she ministered to a very sickly man, little more than a skeleton really, in the midst of a bed that now swallowed him up. Whatever possessed him, he’d dug the hole and now he’d have to step in it.
“I am… most apologetic to have not met with you first. Sir.” Miguel stepped into the room. “Lyrianne said you were resting and I did not wish to disturb you…” He looked to the woman for help. How sad she appeared. He was surprised that her mood could so greatly affect him. “I do not mean to disturb you.”
“Miguel?” Lyrianne was stunned and she twisted around to look at the pilot, unsure what to think.
“Miguel?” Her father tugged on her hand which was still holding his. “Who is Miguel?” He turned his head in the direction of the male voice he'd heard, trying to clear a path through his foggy vision. “I thought your name was Remmie.”
Giving Miguel a smile, gratitude shining in her eyes, Lyrianne patted her father's hand. “It is, Papa, but he prefers to be called Miguel. It's a... it's a nickname that only his family is allowed to call him and he said we, you and I, are family to him, now too.”
“Is that so? Well, good. I like that. Yes, I do.” Her father lay his
head back against the pillow propping him up and held out his thin, shaky hand. “Come, Miguel, offer your new father your hand. Let me welcome you to the family.” His voice was noticeably weaker but his will was still dominating.
Lyrianne was watching Miguel and she mouthed a “thank you” to him as she nodded toward the second chair which sat under the window. She then scooted her chair closer to the side table to make room for him at the bedside.
Doing as the ailing man wished, Miguel dragged the chair over in the space provided and sat on its edge, hesitating only briefly before taking the patriarch’s hand. It was dry, the skin papery thin and insubstantial. It tugged at something inside the pilot and he covered the frail hand with his other. “Is there anything I can do, sir?” Why he felt an obligation to either of them, he could not fathom but he did and it was enough.
“You are doing it, my son, by being here to take care of my girl. She is a handful, but she is a good girl and will be a good wife to you.”
The bony fingers pressed against the strong hand that enveloped it for a moment and then it relaxed. “I'm sorry. I think I must rest a bit.”
“But, Papa,” Lyrianne leaned forward, putting her hands over her father's skeletal arm above the wrist, “you have to eat first.”
His head rolled weakly back and forth and he smiled. “I'm not hungry, baby.” He rolled his head to the side again and stopped when his eyes seemed to fasten on a spot beyond where Lyrianne and Miguel were sitting.
A smile, one that Lyrianne remembered from before he'd fallen so ill, wreathed his face in its own light as he continued to stare. “He came, Genia, just as you said he would. I can go with you now, my love.” His words were hard to hear, but Lyrianne did hear them and she held her breath, releasing it on a sob when she heard his breath leave his body for the last time in a rattling sigh, his eyes closing at the same time.
Catch a Falling Star Page 7