“Tracker?” I sit taller as the big white mare turns on her haunches and begins plodding through the deep snow.
“Do not ask questions about this, Rags.” Warning coats his words. “We’ll take the long way home to be safe.”
A low groan escapes me and I curl my fingers around the frayed-rope reins. Nigel lowers his head with a heavy mule sigh that mimics my own groan. He hates that trail just as much as I do, and with the thick gray storm clouds looming overhead, it’ll take three times as long to get home and out of the cold.
Tracker turns one eye in my direction, trying to hide a small smile despite the seriousness of the situation. “If we get back to Rondo before nightfall this time, I’ll let you and Nigel jump the broken fence at Addison’s farm for a little while.”
“You mean it?” My blue eyes widen. Usually he hates it when we jump that fence because it’s so tall. “No lecture about it afterward?”
“No lecture.”
My heels brush Nigel’s sides. He picks up the pace behind the big white mare, following her deeper into the forest while Tracker and I keep an eye out for anyone following us.
Countless miles filled with snow-laden pines, drifting fields, and a wide, partially frozen river forged by the post-Yellowstone winter eventually lead us to our stalking grounds deep in the ridges sheltering Rondo. We approach from the South Ridge, having switched to the old Kingdom roads once safely across the river. As the settlement finally comes into view, I let my shoulders slouch, half in gratefulness to be home, and half in dread.
Thick wood smoke rises high into the air from the sleepy little village tucked into the artificial, uneven valley the Kingdom dug to build the settlement here. Three larger ridges tower over it, dwarfing the South Ridge. A dented, corroded sign marks Rondo’s entrance at the slope’s bottom, its letters partially scratched away. It clings to sagging chain-link that still holds the tiny gold loops for the Kingdom’s elaborate banners from a time before Rondo was selected to suffer “for the good of the people” when it refused to bow and worship Hyperion.
Unlike Hydra, which is a flat, “sophisticated” settlement, Rondo is about as friendly on foot as an angry mother bear. Not far beyond where the South Ridge slopes down to greet the sagging chain-link entrance, the narrow, snow-covered road grades upward and twists around several dilapidated buildings before finally leveling out in a wagon-wheel-shaped town square.
We opt not to go through town and instead skirt the South Ridge’s top, keeping close to the pines so that our small excuse for a militia doesn’t assume we’re threats and fire upon us. They know better at this point but that still doesn’t offer much comfort considering it’s happened before.
On my right, the ridge continues to slope into an uneven, half-mile-long snowfield where the shells of broken down and abandoned warehouses sit. No man’s land and cursed territory to everyone in Rondo, but I don’t mind them—less wind on the way back to town.
It’s not long before old farmer Addison’s weathered barn and the domed roofs of the hothouses become visible through the falling snow and fading daylight. Nigel pricks his ears up and does a little mule prance at the prospect of food. I give him free rein and let him choose the path down to the snowfield.
Tracker dismounts and walks over to us at the barn’s sliding door, placing a gloved hand on Nigel’s neck. “Don’t stay out too late. We have to discuss our next raid.”
I sigh. After what I saw today in that square, I never want to go on another raid again, and now with this Henny person in the area . . . I flinch, who says we won’t be next? A light shiver breaks across my skin at the thought of what those people went through. Still, I offer a soft nod to Tracker. “Yes, sir.”
“I know this worries you, but don’t let what happened in Hydra get to you. You’re stronger than the ones they caught.” He pauses. “And don’t let Henny into your thoughts either. I’ll take care of him, not you. You did well today considering all that happened.” He takes my wolfskin satchel and leads Tamblin into the barn, leaving me sitting astride the mule with my thoughts.
Nigel shakes the snow from his long ears and cranes his neck back, nosing my foot with his cream-colored muzzle. A smile tugs at my lips and I eye the corroded pipe fence where I’m told old farmer Addison used to keep his livestock in the early days of the ash fall, a time before Rondo even existed.
Four feet tall, seven feet wide—an old section that’s managed to survive this long.
“Ready boy?” I feel the mule tense, legs moving with excitement as his ears snap forward, one turned back at me for instructions. The switchblade returns to my pocket; both hands grip the reins. Leaning forward, my heels brush his sides in a simple command.
He surges forward; slender legs cover the ground in sweeping strides. Snow flies around us. My fingers tense, twitching and working with my heels, inching him sideways and aiming for the fence.
Both his forelegs leave the ground, hindquarters propelling him upward. I feel myself lifted from the blanket saddle, suspended in the air as the wind whips through my long hair and tangles the fringes on my clothing in the exhilarating flying sensation. Falling follows—the ground rushing up, a soft, yet powerful bounce throwing me back as his legs dig deep into the snow and he stretches into a strong gallop like the proud white mare he was spawned from.
An excited whoop tears from my throat as I drop the reins and pat his neck, letting him run freely through the snowdrifts. Towering ice hills race by. I stretch my arms out, my fingers brushing the smooth, encased rocks as Nigel gallops closer to them and loops back around for another go at the fence.
Grasping his short mane with both hands, I urge him on. He clears the fence in another smooth, flying leap and lopes several strides. Leaning back, I feel him slow to a jog, tossing his head with a hint of pride and swinging his long ears back and forth.
Soft clapping fills the air, making me sit straighter and look to the barn.
“Didn’t think you’d go at that gate without reins this time,” Matthias Brisby, or “Matthew” as he prefers to be called by his closest friends, leans against the barn wall with a grin, his Southeastern Territory drawl curling around the air. “He really trusts you.”
Soft warmth floods my cheeks. I turn my eyes to look at the ground, hiding a sheepish smile, one hand on Nigel’s mane as the mule slows to a walk and plods around in a circle to cool down while Matthew watches. He’s what a lot of girls would call “handsome” in this town. Tall, rugged, the kind of boy who Sadie often jokes would make someone a fine husband someday.
She’s probably not wrong on that either. Seventeen years old as of last week, he’s one of the hardest-working people I know in this town, especially on Addison’s farmstead. And for the three years I’ve called Rondo “home” he’s been anything but a stranger around our farmhouse, taking it upon himself to bring me under his protective wings and do his best to shield me from the people in this town who would rather see me hanged than walking among them. Not that we’ve ever done anything though. Tracker would kill him if we did and we’re not like that, despite what people tend to think when they see us together.
His footsteps cover the snowy ground as the tall young man reaches up and takes the reins, walking alongside us and looking up at me with an impish twinkle in his gentle hazel eyes. A sharp grin follows and he’s up on the mule’s back behind me, one arm wrapped around my midsection. The sweet hay aroma lingers around his body, toned by hard labor on the farmstead. Dry yellow pieces still cling to his faded blue, flannel shirt and the patched leather jacket dusted with goat hair. Light sweat coats his pale, oval face and makes his shaggy raven hair stand on end as he looks over my shoulder.
“You have this ‘things didn’t go well in Hydra’ look about you. Something happen?”
“It’s nothing, Matthew.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing.” The grin fades. He keeps his words gentle and pulls me closer to him as if to shield me from the cruel world around us. I let him, feelin
g the warmth against my back.
Nigel flicks an ear toward us and cranes his neck back with this protective-mule look about him. I gently stretch a leg forward, guiding his muzzle away with the toe of my deer-hide boot.
“They skinned three people alive today.” I stare at the drifting snow, trying to bury the cheers of that crowd beneath it. “Rustlers. Just like Tracker and me. Had he not grabbed me, the K. C. would have chased me right into that square to join them.”
Matthew flinches, his grip tightening on me. “God almighty. I’m sorry, Rags. I didn’t think it would get to that point.”
“The crowd watched. They were cheering these people’s deaths, Matthew.” A sharp burning assaults my eyes. “Cheering. Three people were skinned alive, and they were happy about this.”
He lets go of Nigel’s reins and pulls me into a full embrace. Hot tears drip down my wind-burnt cheeks as the trembling continues. Only Nigel’s plodding through the snow fills the air for several long moments.
“Monsters.” His words ease into the silence but he doesn’t let go. “Just a bunch of barbaric monsters. You know I wish I could tell you it will get better—”
“But it won’t.” The words cut with a bitter edge. “It never does. Not when you’re a rustler.”
“Someday it will though.” Guarded hope hides in the words. “The Kingdom will have a new ruler who isn’t cruel like Hyperion and you won’t have to do this anymore.”
I tilt my head back and try to force a smile through the tears. “If by some impossible miracle I ever live that long, I’ll have to outrun the K. C. with a cane.”
He snorts. “Then they better watch out because you’ll be the one, gray-haired, blue-eyed little old lady no one is going to mess with.” I glare back at him, but don’t disagree.
“What’s that look for? You have some serious strength behind your swing. Know what? I’ll even make you a proper stick. After all, I have plenty of time to work on it since you just turned sixteen and all. I figure, should have something done before you’re in your sixties and settled down with a family by then.”
I offer him a teasing glance, trying not to smile. “Knowing you, it’ll be a hell of a stick.”
“Of course it will be.” He smirks and ruffles my unkempt hair. “I have to take care of you somehow.”
“You do enough as it is.” I close my eyes. “Teaching me how to train Nigel. Sharing what precious little food you have with Tracker and me when you can spare some. Dealing with things like this. It’s not fair that you do so much for us.”
“Hey now. None of that.” His gaze softens. “You and Tracker gamble your lives to keep this settlement going. If anything, I’m not doing enough.”
“Just being here helps, Matthew.” And it’s the truth. Without his gentle presence, I’d have probably lost what little remains of my sanity a long time ago. He was and still is one of the precious few here not to judge me when I was found wandering in the snow near Rondo three years ago, confused and wearing the shackles the slave master put on me.
His grip slackens and he slides off the mule’s back. Brushing accumulating snow from his blue jeans and leather jacket, he stops. A few seconds later, he offers up a teasing smile and stretches both gloved hands up around my waist.
With one swift motion, he lifts me from the mule’s back. I try to hold back a surprised squeak at the sudden motion. He’s faster though, setting me on my feet. In an instant, his fingers jab at my midsection, tickling me as if I’m a small child.
“Damn it, Matthew!” I try to hold back the encroaching laugher and fail. “Stop it.”
I swat at his hands, only seeming to make it worse. The impish grin doesn’t fade as he doubles his efforts. After what feels like a small eternity, he finally stops, both of us laughing as the snow continues to fall around us. I wipe the tears from my eyes and rest a hand on Nigel’s saddle.
“At least I made you laugh,” he smirks. “How about we get something to eat and get out of the cold? I still have some of that homemade tea left from a while ago too. Might as well enjoy the night before we have this week’s sad little harvest to take to the storehouse tomorrow morning and Tracker steals you away to discuss your next raid.”
Warmth battles the cold across my cheeks. A soft smile pulls at my lips and I try to push the surfacing thoughts of discussing our next raid with Tracker to the back of my mind in favor of spending some time with Matthew. “I’d like that a lot—”
Nigel’s cream-colored muzzle plops down between us, nostrils drawing in long, impatient breaths as the mule’s brown eyes fix on us.
Matthew laughs and pats Nigel on the neck. “Okay, okay, we’ll get you taken care of first.”
He tosses the rope reins to me and tugs on the mule’s frayed bridle, the two of us leading him to the barn. At the doorway, I feel the distinct feeling of cross hairs on me and freeze. Nigel halts, craning his neck to look at the dark forest beyond the farmstead. A loud, assertive snort rattles his nostrils.
“What’s wrong?” Matthew looks where the mule does. “Something out there?”
“I’m not sure.” I struggle to see the shape blended in with the intimidating shadows. For a brief moment, I think I see the silhouette of a black horse, but the more I squint the more the darkness wins. A shiver creeps through me and I take a step backward, grabbing Nigel’s reins and urging him into the barn’s safety, where Matthew’s lantern flickers on its hook and casts a small circle of dying light. “L-let’s get him taken care of and then go home.”
“Rags?” Matthew pauses and looks back into the darkness and then back at me.
“It’s nothing.” I slip Nigel’s rope bridle from his head once he’s in his stall and begin working on the makeshift saddle. “The dark scares me is all.”
He nods and moves to help me with the mule, but I can’t help but notice he keeps one protective hazel eye on the door, almost in warning to whatever is out there watching us.
Chapter Three
Tracker is waiting on our farmhouse’s decaying porch when Matthew puts the rusty pre-Yellowstone Chevy in park and offers me a nervous smile. The truck is ancient, used only for harvest weeks when the animals need rest because getting parts and gas to keep it running is a nightmare. People used to drive everywhere, so I’m told, but when Yellowstone erupted thirty years ago and the snow started to fall, that came to a halt.
Now the only way to get fuel is to siphon it directly from the Kingdom’s military vehicles—a task nothing short of impossible.
I hop down into the snow and close the door behind me, following Matthew across the dark yard and trying to stay in the small ring of light his lantern throws. A dead willow in the front yard rattles its branches at the scolding wind. The wooden swing on the porch of the tiny blue cottage Matthew and our settlement’s leader, Jericho, share bumps against its siding somewhere off to the right of our crumbling farmhouse.
“Sorry it took us so long to get back, sir.” Matthew rubs the back of his head and offers a respectful look to the dark man in the doorway. “Had to tend the animals and make sure everything from this week’s harvest was on the truck.”
Tracker gives him a look, the dull light from the lantern hanging in the kitchen behind him making him look menacing. He doesn’t scold us though and instead nods, stepping back into the kitchen.
“Power is out again,” he says and goes to get a plate for Matthew from the old cherry curio cabinet that stands sentry behind a small pine table. “But I did manage to find a rabbit in one of our traps tonight.”
I nod. Electricity is almost as scarce as food in this town but what little we do have goes straight to the hothouses on farmer Addison’s farmstead first, ensuring it keeps running so we at least have a small chance against complete starvation. It’s the one thing in this town everyone loosely seems to agree on.
Matthew holds the lantern out and looks back to the cottage. “I think I have a few carrots we can add. Be right back.”
Stepping into the small
kitchen’s warmth, I’m thankful for the woodstove in the living room. I shake the snow from my buckskin pants and deer-hide boots. I rub my goatskin gloves together in a pitiful attempt to draw warmth through them.
The cast-iron skillet sizzles, sending the aroma of frying rabbit throughout the house and making my stomach grumble. I move to help Tracker finish setting the table as Matthew returns with a few carrots and a potato.
A half hour later, Tracker sits at the head of the table while Matthew sits on my left. My chair brushes against the wooden molding and chicken-patterned wallpaper covering the wall as we hold hands and bow our heads.
“Thank you, Lord, for this bountiful feast and the comfort of enjoying it as a family. May it keep us strong.” Matthew says the blessing as Tracker and I add our “amens” to it.
Dinner passes in quiet, the small portion of fried rabbit, carrot slices and bits of potato tasting better than I could ever dare imagine. When we have finished and cleared the table, we retreat for the living room.
Giving us some quiet time, Tracker takes his lantern and retreats to the upstairs, no doubt to work on the plans for the next raid.
Matthew offers an encouraging smile and takes up residence on the hardwood floor in front of the woodstove.
I join him, watching the flames flicker through the slits in the metal door. Matthew reaches up onto the couch and grabs a threadbare blanket, draping it around my shoulders. With trembling hands, I pull it close, trying to stave off the cold. Rondo has three weather patterns that I’ve seen in my three years here—snow, sleet, and wind. Rarely, if ever, does it not snow in this town and no matter how much I try to convince myself that I’m used to the cold, I’m only really fooling myself. Matthew knows it too and much as I try to deny it, he always tries his best to do something about it.
“Thank you,” I say as I lean back against the couch.
“Can’t have you catching a cold now, can I?” he teases. “Sadie would not be too happy if you did.”
The Bone Roses Page 2
