by Angela Scott
That was all Trace needed to hear. He cupped her face in his hands and drew her lips to his own. He kept the pressure on her tender lips light, determined to take it slow. But when she slipped her cool hands up the length of his arms and parted her lips, he pushed down on them, needing her more than he needed air. She responded with a desire that matched his own, welcoming his soft exploration. Trace could barely contain himself. He pulled her against his chest and relished the sensation of her warm breath mixing with his own. He wound his hands through her hair, still dripping from the snow, and drew her even closer.
Trace slipped her nightgown off one of her shoulders. He bent down and blew his warm breath over her chilled skin before kissing it. She shivered in response and tipped her head back, allowing a sound of pleasure to travel up her throat. When he reached for the material covering her other shoulder, Red put her hands on his chest and gently pushed him away.
"I don't believe in God," she said, her eyes searching his. "I haven't for quite some time. Not with the world the way it is. God can't possibly exist. He wouldn't have let all this happen."
Trace wasn't following, his mind caught up in other sensations, but he tried to give her his full attention.
"But my parents believed in God," she went on. "They loved Him, devoted their lives to Him."
He nodded, but he didn't understand what God had to do with anything right now.
"If we're going to do this, then we have to do it the right way, somehow." She looked down at the floor before raising her eyes to his. "I'm not like Wen. I'm not like those other women. I want this to mean something."
Trace understood what she asked for, and it was something he thought he'd never be able to give, but as he looked into her innocent, hopeful eyes, he knew what he must do.
"Don't move." He pulled away from her and scanned the room—for what exactly, he wasn't sure. He opened the little drawer in his bed stand and rummaged through the contents, but came up empty. The dresser proved no better, but a small wooden box he found on the corner of the desk provided him with what he needed. It wasn't perfect, but it would do.
He crossed the room and dropped to one knee, holding out the small, golden cigar wrapper in his hand. "Red, let's do this the right way."
She stood in silence. A tear or melted snow from her hair—Trace didn't know which one—slid down her cheek. He took her hand in his to assure her that his words were true. They were perhaps the truest words he'd ever spoken in his nineteen years of existence.
"Elisabeth," she said finally. A smile crept over her lips and filled the room with far more warmth than the pitiful fireplace ever could. "My name is Elisabeth."
Chapter 25 – Snowmen and Swords
Red turned over on the pillow she shared with Trace and watched him sleep, his dark hair wild and unruly, with one bare arm thrown over her stomach. She raised her left hand and stared at the tiny golden piece of metal that encircled her finger. More than a cigar band, it was a promise they would be together for the rest of their lives, however long or short that might be. It felt foreign, yet comforting.
No one had witnessed their commitment—men of the cloth were hard to come by these days—but they'd made promises to one another. She wouldn't take those promises lightly.
Funny, she thought, he doesn't look much like a Trace. She didn't know anyone else by that name, but if she'd harbored a guess as to his name, Trace wouldn't have been in the running. He looked like a Cowboy, and no other name fit. Trace. It seemed so strange.
He'd accepted her name willingly, and whispered Elisabeth over and over, into her ear, along her cheek, and even mumbled it against her stomach. At first, it had been strange to hear her name spoken. No one had called her Elisabeth for so long that the name had simply ceased to exist. It belonged to another person, another time.
She tried to disengage from Trace's arms, but he pulled her closer, snuggling her against his chest and burying his face in her hair.
"Where do ya think you're going?" He kissed her earlobe, his breath warming her neck and traveling down her exposed spine.
"Breakfast," she said. "I should help Caroline get it started."
"Mmm, not yet. It's too early."
She folded back into his arms. He ran his fingers over the puckered wound on her shoulder—one mark among dozens. Red tensed beneath his touch and shifted her weight, but his hand lingered.
"Do you remember this one?"
She hesitated briefly and then nodded.
"Tell me."
"Trace, please." His name trickled over her tongue, tasting foreign. She adjusted the blankets, self-consciousness of her scars.
He reached forward, caught her eye, and drew the covers aside. "You're beautiful. You don't need to hide. Not from me." He lowered his head and kissed the healed wound on her shoulder. "Tell me."
"I... it... it was my brother, Peter." She managed to get the words out.
Trace feathered the tips of his fingers over several connecting scars on her lower back, and Red went rigid, her breath becoming more labored. "And these?"
Memories bubbled to the surface: the way her father looked at her before she killed him; the way Peter bit her like a crazed animal; John's cruel medical practices.
She didn't want to go there. "It was so long ago, I...."
She trailed off, hoping he'd just let it be, but he flattened his palm over her scars and pulled her closer. "Tell me."
After Peter had bit her, she'd laid on the damp ground, coming in and out of consciousness. How much time had passed, she never knew. When the fog lifted from her vision and the pain subsided, she went to John Gatherum for help and understanding. The plague destroyed her family—her father, her mother, her brothers. Only John remained, a trusted family friend and the town's physician. He'd delivered her and her brothers, set her broken bones, and stitched up her brothers. She had no reason to doubt him, or be afraid.
Not at first anyway.
He wanted to see the bite. It had started to heal over, so he opened it again with a scalpel and dipped numerous swabs into the festering wound. She tried not to cry. He told her she was a miracle, and that he wanted to study her in order to determine how she survived her brother's bite, and why the wounds had healed so quickly. Somewhere inside her, she wanted to know, too. He said she could help people, and she wanted to. His enthusiasm was contagious.
John promised to take care of her and keep her safe, if she helped him in return. One vial of blood equaled a slice of bread. Two, a glass of water. Six, he'd let her sit on the porch in the sun, though she never felt strong enough to enjoy it, and he didn't let her sit there for long. Nevertheless, she believed in John and didn't mind giving him her blood. He took care of her, and if she could make a difference, it seemed a reasonable price to pay.
One day, he dragged her out into the yard and tied her to an oak tree, despite her protests, pleas, and tearful cries. He climbed onto the roof of the house, sat with his rifle poised on his lap, and waited. It would only be a matter of time before they came.
An hour or two passed by. An eternity.
And they did come—three of them—newly turned, strong, and determined. The walkers filed out of the surrounding woods and crashed through the garden fence, coming for her.
She pushed at the ground with her bare feet and yanked at the ropes that bound her to the tree. The ropes burned into her wrists and waist, drawing blood, but John did nothing to help her. He simply watched as they clawed, bit, and devoured her.
She begged him to shoot the zombies, but he sat silently and watched her misery as the poison flowed through her body.
When it ended, he'd carried her back inside, cleaned her wounds, and drew more blood. She'd woken up on a mattress in the cellar with John hovering over her, apologetic and full of excuses about how he needed to see her effect on the zombies, and their effect on her, firsthand. He told her again what a miracle she was, complimented her bravery, and then asked how she felt.
When she said she
was feeling better, he dragged her outside and did it all over again.
"Trace," Red said, wrapping up her story. "I saw him die. He tied me to the tree and before he could reach the roof, they dragged him down. I saw it. I know I did."
"Maybe he's like you and Rivers?"
"I thought about that, but if it's true, then why is he still looking for me? Why would I matter to him anymore?"
Trace wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight to his chest. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you. I promise. As long as we're together, no one will ever hurt you again."
"He has my brother, Trace."
"No. He doesn't have anyone. He's traveling with your brother. There's a difference. I'm pretty sure he's using your brother to draw you out, and you almost fell for it. Elisabeth, if your brother is anything like you, he'll know how to take care of himself."
She wanted to believe him. Even if the situation wasn't as horrible as she feared, a deep internal ache nagged at her. "How did my brother look? Was he okay?"
"He looked tired. But they all did."
Red slumped against him, the side of her face resting on his heart. "I don't know what to do."
He kissed her worried brow. "I know. For now, just stay with me. I think your brother would want you to be safe."
She closed her eyes, and tried to enjoy the rise and fall of his chest. Of course Davis would want this for her. He'd insist on it.
Even so, she couldn't help worrying about his safety with John Gatherum as a traveling companion. Coincidence hadn't thrown the two of them together; she'd be a fool to believe it occurred by happenstance. But for now, she had to believe she'd made the right choice by staying with Trace.
She just couldn't bring herself to believe anything less.
***
Snow crunched beneath Red's feet and her breath hung in the crisp morning air. She pulled Trace's jacket tighter around her shoulders. The sun barely peeked over the horizon, rising slowly along with the makeshift group inside the fort, who struggled to climb from their warm beds. She couldn't blame them. Until the fires roared with new life, the coffee pot brewed near completion, and breakfast sizzled in the pans, crawling out from under the warm covers to face the frigid morning seemed pointless.
Go on and sleep. I'm awake enough for all of us.
She entered the empty kitchen and found Lasso curled up on the floor next to the fireplace. She stayed near the open door, a bit nervous from her previous encounter with the animal, and watched the sleeping dog. It didn't take long before his nose twitched, his ears stood erect, and his eyes opened to assess the situation.
At the sight of her, he scrambled onto all fours, and a grumble of disdain worked its way up from the pit of his belly to rattle against his closed jaws. He didn't like her anymore, and she didn't understand why. A three-week absence shouldn't have caused that much hatred in the once loving dog.
"Hey, Lasso," she said. "It's a'right. I'm not gonna hurt ya."
He lowered his head, his dark gaze steady on her.
She looked around the room for some sort of treat to toss his way as a gesture of peace, but nothing stood readily available. Caroline appeared to be a meticulous cleaner. Damn her.
"Okay," she said, giving up. "I don't know what to do here, but I have to start cooking breakfast, so shoo. Go on now. Outside with ya."
She stepped to the side, pressed herself against the wall, and waited, but the mutt wouldn't budge. "Seriously, I don't have time for these games. Go on now."
He didn't bare his teeth, but the grumbling in his throat continued to grow.
She'd had enough. Maybe she couldn't regain his friendship, but she would earn his respect. She tipped her head to the side, eyed the dog, and allowed a deep moan of her own to crawl up her throat and rumble across the room.
Chills ran up her arms as she began to feel strangely warm, almost too warm beneath Trace's jacket. Heat swarmed her body and lapped her face—she even tasted fire on her tongue. For a passing moment, the room spun in slow circles, and she clung to a wooden cabinet at her side to steady herself.
The dog cowered and began to whimper, which made her feel worse than if the dog had chosen to come at her. She hadn't meant to scare him. What's wrong with me?
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She opened a cabinet door and found some stale bread wrapped in a cloth. With trembling fingers, she tossed it to Lasso. "Please, take it."
The dog sniffed it as if it were tainted and refused the gift. He slunk past with his eyes fixed on her, and skirted around Caroline just as she entered the kitchen.
"What's his problem?" Caroline removed the wrap from around her shoulders, shook off the excess snow, and hung it on the back of a chair.
"I don't know," Red lied, and turned to remove a bowl from the cabinet, needing a moment to compose herself before facing her friend.
"So," Caroline said with happy mischief in her voice, "Wen told me he saw you slip into Cowboy's room last night. Does that mean what I think it does?"
Red pushed away thoughts of her encounter with the dog, and glanced at Caroline. "Yes. No! I mean, it's more than just that."
"More?" Caroline giggled and her eyes widened as she caught sight of the little band encircling Red's finger. "Oh, Red!" She clapped her hands together before throwing her arms around Red. "I'm so happy for you."
Wen stepped into the room, stomped the snow off his boots, and then stopped mid-action when he caught sight of the two girls hugging. "What's going on?"
"Look!" Caroline grabbed Red's hand and raised it for Wen to see.
"Um, okay," he said. "I don't get it."
Caroline rolled her eyes. "Cowboy asked Red to marry him."
"And you said yes to a guy who gave you a cigar band?"
Caroline took a step toward him, and Wen put up his hands in defense. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding." He smiled and winked at Red. "It's about time you two got together. All that hemming and hawing sure got on my nerves."
***
Red watched the kids build several snowmen of various sizes and shapes all around the courtyard. Trace and Wen helped lift the large snow heads into place once the kids had the two larger body parts stacked on top of each other. Then the kids made more, as though it were a game.
It had stopped snowing several days before, but it was still below freezing outside, and she worried about Rivers' and Fisher's fingers and toes, not to mention their hatless heads. Old enough to know better, Trace and Wen could freeze their limbs off, if they wanted, but the kids needed guidance.
"Rivers, Fisher!" she called through the open kitchen door. "Come here, you two!"
They reluctantly left their latest half-built snowman behind and came to see what she wanted. Red ushered them inside and led them over to the fireplace so she could assess their little bodies.
"Oh, you're frozen!" She rubbed each of their pink cheeks and numb hands in turn. "You need hats and gloves." She had no idea if any existed within the fort walls, but she'd rustle around and find something useful.
"I feel fine," Rivers said. "Fisher does, too."
Fisher nodded and smiled even as tiny ice crystals clung to his eyelashes.
"Why are you two making so many snowmen out there, anyway? Wasn't one enough?"
"Wen's going to teach us all how to cut the heads off zombies!" Rivers' excitement took Red by surprise.
"What?"
"He said we all need to know how to cut off zombie heads. It's easier than shooting them, and faster too. Plus you never need to reload. He said if we build the snowmen, he'll show us how to lop off their heads with one swipe of a sword!"
They plan to arm the kids?
Red poured each of them a mug of coffee, scooped in a few spoonfuls of sugar, and sat them on the hearth.
"Stay here," she said. "Hold onto those mugs to warm your fingers. I'll be right back."
Before she slipped out, she topped off Ira's mug as well, and tucked the blanket in around his legs. "How're you doing? You need
anything?"
Even though he couldn't answer back, Red filled the silence enough for both of them. She'd even worked out a bit of the "sign language" he used to communicate, but mostly he just nodded or shook his head to indicate his preferences. This time was no different—he shook his head and attempted to smile.
"Okay," she said. "I'm going to see what those boys are up to." What were they thinking?
Red shoved her hands into her coat pockets and walked across the yard to where Trace and Wen stood admiring their latest piece of work, packing snow in around the snowman's head. Their smiles faded as she approached, and they slouched over like two boys in trouble.
"You're gonna let them play with swords?" She folded her arms across her chest.
"No, of course not," Wen said. "No one's playin' nothin'. This is serious business, and I told them that. Why? Did they go an' tattle on me or somethin'?"
"Are you tryin' to shift blame onto two little kids?"
"We didn't do anything wrong here." Wen matched Red's folded arms by crossing his own, but when Red narrowed her eyes and took a step toward him, he dropped his arms to his sides.
"What's going on?" Caroline walked up with a basket of clothing balanced on her hip. "What'd they do now?"
"Jeez, why do you always assume we did something?" Trace threw his hands in the air. "We're doin' a good thing here. The kids need to know how to protect themselves."
Red turned to Caroline. "They want to teach the kids to chop off heads."
"Well, when you say it like that—" Trace began, but Red shot him a silencing look.
Caroline jutted out her hip and released her breath. "You're kidding, right?"
"No one was gonna get hurt," Wen insisted. "They promised they'd be careful—"
"They're only six and ten." Caroline shook her dark hair and readjusted the basket. "They'll end up chopping off their own hands, or someone else's. They're too young for that kind of thing."
"Then how do we reassure them?" Trace asked. "They're scared and want to know how to protect themselves. We thought a sword was much safer than handing them a gun."
