The Breeders Series: The Complete Box Set

by Katie French

  I look over at Clay, driving into the gray dawn. He didn’t scold me for letting the bender go, though I know he thinks it put us in a tight spot. I study his profile for a moment. His jaw is clenched like it always is when we’re on the road, vulnerable to any number of dangers. His cowboy hat’s thumbed back on his head, showing one damp brown curl that laps over his forehead. It’s all I can do right now not to reach over Ethan and slip my fingers around that curl, then trail my hand down the rolling hills of his face.

  He looks over, sensing me watching, and meets my eyes. The hardness in his face recedes and he offers me a tight smile.

  “You okay?” he asks, maneuvering past a bad patch of sand blown over the highway.

  I nod. “I’ll be better when we find a place to settle down for the day.”

  “Me, too.” He squints at something in the distance, his jaw clenching again.

  I reach over, careful not to disturb my sleeping brother, and place my hand on his neck. “You want me to drive?”

  He shakes his head, smiling again. “I got this, pretty lady. We’ll only go another half hour or so ’fore we stop. Not sure how much gas we got in this baby since the gas gauge is busted. Next place that looks good, we’ll stop and call it a day.”

  “Think we’ll make it to town in this truck?” There was one half-full can of fuel in the truck bed, but it’s gone now.

  He frowns and runs his knuckles through the stubble on his cheek. “Maybe. We can’t be more’n forty or fifty miles outside city limits.”

  “I thought this road looked familiar.” I stare out the window at the scrubland and lump forms in my throat. Home. Mama’s death still feels fresh as a new stab wound, and thinking of home drums up more pain that I was ready for. Staring out the open window so Clay won’t see my tears, memories trickle through the dam I’ve built. Mama running toward the crevasse, the determination on her burned face as she leapt to save her son.

  “Riley.”

  I blink out of my sorrow and turn to Clay.

  “Look,” he says, pointing.

  I follow his finger out toward a shape forming in front of us. It’s a house, a white ranch with a windmill and a barn out back. I gasp when I realize what I’m looking at. It’s our house. Arn’s and Mama’s and mine. Or at least it was our house before the sheriff came, before we left with Clay to save Mama and Auntie.

  “Should we?” he asks, nodding to the farm house. “I mean, will it hurt too bad?”

  I swallow hard. “You’re going back to your home. Only fair that I should swing by mine.” The words come out too fast. Do I mean that? Can I stand to see it again? “Besides, the windmill’s still turning. Means fresh water and we’re almost out.”

  His brow furrows. He’s worried about me. I like when he’s worried about me. Still my grief, my fear of what memories await inside this place, sit so heavy on my chest it’s hard to draw breath.

  “You sure?”

  I stare at the farmhouse growing bigger on the horizon. “I haven’t been sure about anything since we left.”

  We cut the headlights and drive up real quiet, guns at the ready. I shake Ethan awake. He sits groggy but wide-eyed in the truck cab as Clay and I slip out, guns drawn. If we’re gonna sleep here tonight, we need to make sure the coast is clear. That means walking every room and the barn to make sure no vagabonds are waiting to strangle us in our sleep. So, together, Clay and I tread around my family’s farm house and approach the open back door.

  As I walk up to the sagging back porch, my anxiety rises up along with memories of my childhood. Images flood my head—me racing down the porch with Ethan in my arms the night of the sheriff’s attack, the time I stood on this porch and cussed Clay out for trying to help when Ethan had been bit by a coyote. Older memories too like Auntie braiding my hair as I sat at her feet right there on the porch step, or weeding with Mama in the garden which is now just a dry patch of land to our right. Memories submerged me. How could that life be gone? It was only yesterday.

  Clay and I step up the porch steps, weapons at the ready. He’s got the dead man’s shotgun and I have his hunting knife. Would be nice if we had two loaded guns, but beggars can’t be choosers. It’s unlikely anyone’s got bullets, so we have the advantage. Still, that thought doesn’t dampen the harsh thrumming of my heart as we take our places on either side of the open door, press our shoulders to the wood siding, and listen.

  Clay’s eyes meet mine and he raises an eyebrow to ask if I’m ready to go in. Everything inside me screams no. No, I’m not ready to stalk into my childhood home and search it for people who want to kill me. How will I stay clear and focused when all I’m already searching for the face of my Mama in every corner?

  I nod and follow Clay into the tense darkness, my knife ready.

  We creep down the hallway, doing our best to tread light. Still, the aging boards creak under our feet. If anyone’s inside it won’t take much to alert them. Clay stalks through the hall and into my old room with the shotgun raised. I can barely breathe as I follow him inside.

  The chipped wooden bed frames are still in place, but the mattresses, blankets and even our little dresser are long gone. A few large muddy boot prints mark up the floor, but the mud is old and flaky. Hopefully, the prints are months old. Still, I hate seeing them. Someone came in here and took our sheets, stole our mattresses. I hate seeing the room stripped naked. The memory I have of our room, warm and happy, will be replaced with this husk. With shaking breaths, I nod for Clay to follow me out. Then I turn and stalk toward the living room.

  The living room was in poor shape when we left it—nearly blown to bits by the sheriff and his men the night he killed Arn and stole Auntie and Mama—so seeing it doesn’t hurt as badly. The bullet-riddled walls have seen storms and animal invaders since we were here, and the floor is carpeted with sand and debris. Any furniture we had—the couch, Auntie’s Victrola—is gone. Still, my heart seizes up when I spot the picture frame with my hand-drawn family in pieces on the floor. I walk over, pick up my picture, and dust off the dirt. There we are, the stick figure family I drew as a child. I trace my fingers over Mama’s scrawled face and then Arn’s. A sob stutters in my chest and the tears come. The urge to cry is so powerful I stumble into the wall, dropping my knife.

  I can’t do this. I can’t go on in a world where they’re dead.

  Clay strides to me, his face awash in sadness. Then suddenly he stops and swivels to the window, the look of a buck sensing a hunter. Something’s wrong.

  Outside, Ethan cries out.

  Dear God.

  Clay’s running before I can register what’s happened. The next beat, I’m after him, sprinting for my life. For Ethan’s life. Please God don’t let anyone hurt him.

  We barrel through the broken screen door and thud down the porch steps. Ahead, the truck sits off to the side in a patch of dirt, the rusty paint job turning red in the last rays of dawn. My eyes snap to the figure tugging open the driver’s side door. A man. A man is climbing into the truck cab after my little brother.

  Panicked, I scream. “Leave him alone!”

  The man, halfway into the truck cab, turns. The right side of his face is carved up like a sliced ham. One eye is missing, as are half the teeth on one side. His long hair is a straggly mess, and he’s skin and bones. Starving men do desperate things. I realize this as he pulls up a crossbow and aims it at my head.

  I jerk right as the bolt releases with a sharp thwack. The air next to my ear parts as the bolt zips past, inches from my skull. I stumble and fall, rolling into the dirt. Pain flares in my shin and blood blooms in my mouth. I roll to a stop, flip over, and am up on my feet as quick as I can.

  A shot cracks the air to my left. Clay. The man’s chest explodes as the bullet hits him, blood and tissue flying like a human firework, splattering the truck, the ground. The man topples into the dust, not a twitch to be seen. Just like that the threat is snuffed out. Clay stands with the shotgun set into his shoulder, his eyes sighting do
wn the barrel. Once he sees the man isn’t moving, he turns to me.

  “You okay?” he asks, reaching for me. His eyes travel over my body, looking for injury.

  I nod and pull him forward. “Ethan.”

  We run to the truck cab. Stepping over the dead man is awful, but I’m so worried about my brother I manage to avoid looking at the splattered pieces. Yanking open the door, I haul myself into the cab.

  “Ethan?”

  My brother sits with his back to the passenger’s side door with Clay’s knife clutched in his fist. His eyes are wide and his hands tremble, but he’s alive.

  “You okay, bud?” I ask, crawling across the bench seat toward him.

  His eyes drag up to my face and slowly he nods. He points through the open driver’s side door to where the body now rests in the dirt. “That guy said he was gonna eat me.”

  “He ain’t eating nobody,” I say, resting a hand on Ethan’s hair. I stroke his fine brown locks and offer a smile. “You knew we were coming for you, right?”

  He nods again, this time a little more surely. “You always come.”

  My smile deepens. “That’s right. I’ll always come.”

  He looks out the window. “But I could’ve taken that bastard.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “You coulda, huh?”

  He nods, showing me the hunting knife. “I remembered all you taught me. I saw him coming up the walk. I didn’t yell ‘cause I thought I could maybe deal with him myself. But he was bigger than I thought. And the crossbow.” He leans over and looks down at the mangled body bleeding into the dust. “If he hadn’t had the crossbow, I coulda killed him.”

  “Listen, Ethan”—I say, feeling cold despite the baking heat outside—“I know you’re nine now and working on being a man, but you’re still a kid. You shouldn’t be taking on men like that by yourself.” I take the knife from his hand. “Next time you see someone coming, holler. You got no idea what these people can do. He could’ve had a gun.”

  Ethan frowns. “Clay says I need to learn to defend myself. How’m I gonna do that if I never get the chance to fight?”

  I glance at Clay, who’s been listening all this time. Suddenly he’s real interested in the dead man’s pockets. I blow out a breath. “You don’t need to go looking for a fight. Fights seem to come to us.”

  Ethan says nothing. I grab his shoulder. “Look at me.” He glances up and then back at his knees. “Look at me, Ethan. Do you think Mama would be happy if something happened to you?”

  He sniffs. “Mama’s dead.”

  It’s like a punch. I suck in my cheeks. “She died saving your life. Don’t throw it away pretending to be a man.”

  Ethan stares up at me with tear-filled eyes. “You’re acting just like dad when you wanted to go into town. He didn’t want you to learn how to fight, but look what happened.”

  “I was sixteen.”

  Ethan stares into my face, his eyes hollow and his chin trembling. “Doesn’t matter when someone’s trying to kill you.”

  I take a breath, but he turns, opens the passenger door, and slips out before I can stop him.

  “Ethan!” I call as he runs over the yard and up the porch.

  A hand on my arm stops me from going after him. Clay slides into the truck beside me.

  “I’m not his Mama,” I say. “I can’t do this.”

  Clay puts his arm around my shoulder. “Ri, there’s nothing you cannot do.”

  I sigh and lean my head into his shoulder. “If only that were true.”

  That day we sleep inside my parents’ farm house. Ethan holes himself up in Mama and Arn’s room upstairs. Through the cracks in the floor, I hear him crying. Maybe stopping here was a bad idea. Clay and I decide to let him have the house for a little while and take refuge in the barn. It’s cooler there and the animal smell has faded.

  Before we settle down, I poke around Arn’s workbench and find a few of the tools no one wanted. The broken chair’s still upturned on the workbench, waiting to be fixed. I touch his rags and his stool, worn smooth by him sliding on and off all those times.

  “Hard to face the past, ain’t it?”

  I turn and Clay’s standing beside Arn’s shelves, peering into them. All the useful stuff’s gone, but Clay touches the few items that remain—a broken saw handle, a rusty screw driver, an empty glass jar.

  “I met Arn only once, but he seemed like a right decent fella.” Clay sets the glass jar down and looks at me. “What was he like?”

  “Arn?” I ask, running a finger along the rough wood of the desk. “Quiet. Hardworking. Good at fixin’ stuff. You know, like most men out here.” I swallow over a giant lump in my throat.

  “He wasn’t like most men,” Clay says, leaning against the work bench. “He hid three women under the noses of the Breeders and my pa. Had guts.” Clay thumps his fist against the desk, one corner of his mouth lifting. Then he goes quiet. “I ever tell you how he died?”

  I lower my eyes to the dirt and slowly shake my head. “Do I wanna hear?”

  Clay rubs a hand along his neck and sighs. “I don’t have to if you don’t want.”

  I take in a deep breath. “Tell.”

  Clay nods, running a hand down my arm. “When I got back from lockin’ you and Ethan in the cellar, they’d already overtaken your parents. Had ’em pinned down behind your kitchen table. My pa called out, sayin’ if they came out easy, no one would be hurt. But Arn seemed too smart for all that noise. He walked your ma and Auntie out, and just when he was about to hand ’em over, he lunged at my pa. Almost got ’im with a knife. My pa was so shocked he stumbled down the porch and fell on his ass.” Clay shakes his head. “That’s when he told his boys to shoot Arn.”

  “That’s an awful story,” I say, rubbing a hand over my mouth.

  “What I meant to say was, Arn never stopped fightin’. Until the last.”

  I say nothing, just stare at Arn’s workbench and try to remember—he had deep-blue eyes that winked out of his tan face like a sliver of sky peeking through clouds. And he loved my Mama. Loved her fiercely. I hope they’re together somewhere, Arn and Mama.

  “He wasn’t your pa, though, right?”

  How have we never talked about this? “Nuh-uh,” I say, shaking my head. “He was Ethan’s daddy, but I’m a Breeder’s baby. No daddy for me.”

  Clay goes back to peering into stacks of yellowing how-to manuals. “Everybody’s got a daddy, even if yours left a deposit and went on his merry way.”

  I stop, my hands on the dusty wood of Arn’s desk. It’s strange, but I never really stopped to think about having a father before. Most of the time I pictured doctors concocting me out of some goop and hatching me in a petri dish, but I know that’s not the case.

  “You think one of the men at the hospital provided the…stuff that made me happen?” I ask, squeezing my hands together.

  Clay nods. “Somebody had to. Most likely candidate would be a doctor or one of the staff. I doubt they take deposits from outsiders.”

  I run my hands over my arms. This line of talk is twisting my insides. All this time I pictured myself made up of only my mama. And yet, Clay’s right. There has to be a man who makes up the other half of me. The idea spawns countless other thoughts—what he looked like, what he was interested in—until my head’s spinning.

  Clay comes over and takes me in his arms. I press my face to the worn softness of his button-down shirt. “Don’t waste your time wondering about a father you may or may not have,” he whispers into the crook of my neck. “It don’t change who you are.”

  I nod, and his lips find the soft places along my collar, turning my worry into want. I tilt my head up toward his and he cups my chin with his hand. He leans in to kiss me and kiss me he does. His mouth moves expertly over mine until my body burns for him. He pulls me closer. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my lips to his throat, to the V of skin peering through the fabric of his shirt. I let my fingers undo the buttons there and touch the smooth, lean m
uscles of his chest. He breathes against my collarbone as his hands lace into my hair and pull my lips back to his. Then he lifts me into his arms and carries me into the fresh hay.

  In the dark and stillness of the barn, we’re together. Together is all I’ve ever wanted.

  At dusk we head back to the house to find Ethan. He’s curled in the corner of my mama and Arn’s old room asleep. Tear streaks trace through the dirt on his peaceful, sleeping face. I squat before him and touch a finger to those trails of tears. The problem is, I still see the baby I carried on my hip. The roundness of his cheeks, the pout in his lips. I probably won’t be able to think of him as a man when he’s twenty, let alone nine.

  Clay squats beside me and looks Ethan over. “He keeps asking me to teach him to shoot, to fist fight,” Clay whispers. “I think he’s seen too many people die. It’s messed with his head.” Clay sighs and drums his finger on his knees. “Wish I coulda kept him from seein’ all he has.”

  I nod. “I wish he could just be a kid, you know.” I lift my eyes to the window and the graying sky. “I had such a happy childhood. My parents sheltered me from most of the bad stuff. I’ve failed at that.”

  Clay shakes his head. “You do what you can. We all do. “Sides, he needs to be tough. It’ll keep him alive.” Then he puts his palm on Ethan’s shoulder and gives it a gentle shake. “Bud, wake up. Time to go.”

  Ethan stirs, his lips twitching. Eyes flutter open. “What’s going on?”

  Clay stands, brushing dirt off his knees. Then he presses his cowboy hat on his head and lifts his chin, all business. “Tonight we drive to town and I take back what was mine.”

  Chapter 3

  Riley

  The road is dark and empty as we drive in tense silence toward town. Even though I barely slept during the day, the raw anxiety about driving back into town squeezes my insides. We need to get Auntie back. After the sheriff was killed, there’s no telling what happened to her. Clay seems to think he’s got plenty of men in town loyal to him and not to the warden, but he’s been gone for a few months. There’s no telling what these men might think of him now. Still, I’ve promised Clay my trust, and he’s assured me he has this handled.