“She worries too much sometimes.”
“Probably, but even I can’t fault her for that sometimes.” He leans back and closes his eyes. “Though last time you got sick, she just about chased me out of town with a rolling pin. Something about not being ‘responsible’ enough to help take care of you or something. Really couldn’t tell because I was too busy running for my life.”
I blink and cast him an amused glance. “She really chased you with a rolling pin?”
“Yep. All the way down Witherwood Lane and out into the snowfield. It was not my finest hour in Rondo.”
“No.” I hold back a snicker trying to picture mild-mannered Sadie chasing someone like Matthew. “I imagine not. But still, I bet that was something to see.”
“Oh, it was,” he smiles. “But I would very much like not to repeat that day anytime soon.”
“Well, with any luck, you won’t have to.” I tug on the blanket. “I’ve no intention of catching a cold anytime soon.”
“Good.”
I slouch down with a content sigh. Quiet nights like this make up for the lousy days spent as a rustler and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
It’s not long before my eyes grow too heavy to keep watching the fire and the next thing I know, a gentle hand shakes my shoulder.
“Hey, sleepyhead, time to wake up.” Matthew keeps his voice to a whisper. “We have to take the harvest to the storehouse.”
A low groan escapes me, every muscle protesting as I reach up and rub my eyes. The blanket slithers to the floor. Morning. Dull gray light filters through the frosted windows and heavy drapes. I sit up, stretching my arms and lean my back against the moth-eaten couch, not even bothering to brush my tangled hair away from my eyes.
“All right, all right. I’m up.” I force myself to my feet and go wash up for the morning. By the time I’m finished, Matthew is at the kitchen table, smiling that impish smile of his and hands me a crust of stale bread.
“Tracker already left to talk to Jericho for the morning. We’ll put the harvest in and then we have the whole day to spend together until tonight’s sermon.”
I blink, feeling the smile tug at my lips. It’s Sunday, and Sundays in this house belong to God, Matthew, and me. We usually deliver the harvest, and then spend the day hanging out together. Sometimes we take his sketchbook down to the gully or go fishing, but we usually end up down at the barn with the animals or tending the hothouses. Either way, it’s a welcome change from being shot at on a raid.
I make quick work of the bread and follow him into the cold. Flurries drift down from the ridges but I pay them little mind. The truck door squeaks and closes behind me, and Matthew jumps up behind the wheel.
“There’s not much this week, so this shouldn’t take too long.” He puts the truck in gear. Chains dig into the snow, carrying the vehicle at a slow crawl onto the almost invisible street and deeper into Rondo. We pass the little white church that marks the fringe of the village and creep along the quiet Witherwood Lane.
Up ahead, the street widens, the dilapidated Victorian-styled buildings the Kingdom built in an attempt to make this place look like a normal town boarded up and casting their shadows across the broken wagon-wheel-shaped square. Three core streets intersect at a towering, tri-tiered fountain cast in ice, the lantern at its top emitting a small flicker to signal that Jericho is up and about this morning.
Matthew scans the street as a few of Rondo’s residents mill about, most on the north side of town where just about everyone lives. It’s really one big community slum, but then again, everyone in the Kingdom considers Rondo to be one overall. No one lives on the storehouse’s southern street twisting downhill toward the rising South Ridge, and only a handful of us call the western Witherwood Lane section home.
The truck creeps through the square; a loud bang rattles us and it grinds to a halt, wheels spinning.
“Damn it,” Matthew growls and looks at me. “You didn’t hear that, okay. Stupid chain must have finally broken on the front wheel. I knew it was getting ready to go. Come on. Let’s go see if we can get it back on. I think I have a clip behind the seat somewhere to hold it in place.”
I slip from the passenger seat and fish around behind it. Fingers poke and prod, eventually finding the small silver clip. I sure hope we only need one. In snow like this, we’re not going anywhere if we can’t fix it.
“Yep. We broke one.” Matthew kneels by the front left tire, broken chain limp in his hands. “Any luck on a clip by chance?”
“I found one. There may be another at the storehouse though.” At least I know we keep a few of them, usually to hold shelves together.
He nods and holds out his hand for the clip. “I think we can limp it down there. Help me hold this in place so I can hook it.”
My thin fingers hold the chain and help weave it back around the tire’s surface while he fumbles with the clip and tries to find the best place to secure it.
A high-pitched whistle parts the frigid morning air. Every muscle tenses. The hairs across the back of my neck stand on end, and the switchblade in my hand clicks, sweeping through the air in one fluid movement. Rawhide and steel tangle as I burrow my deer-hide boots into the ice and snow at the same time Matthew jumps to his feet, right hand at his side as if reaching for an invisible pistol in an automatic motion.
The oily, frayed rope pulls taut around my wrist, stopped only by the sleek switchblade and brute strength from pulling me off-balance.
“Well, well, well,” a sharp voice sneers from the fountain. “If it isn’t the blue-eyed witch-child of Witherwood Lane. Seems you’ve been busy lately.”
Cat-like gray eyes that sit too close together meet my furious blue ones from behind a pair of cockeyed glasses belonging to none other than Hunter Mayfaire Lawrence. The mousy man rests one hand on his hip and holds the end of the lasso with the other. Tufted, greasy brown hair clings to his rosy flesh, making him look like a diseased Hydra cat.
I bare my teeth. The last thing I want today is to deal with Rondo’s self-proclaimed excuse for a sheriff. “Leave me alone, Hunter. I’ve done nothing to you today.”
Snow clings to his threadbare green jacket and the faded maroon trousers stained dark with grease and grime. He flashes a menacing grin like he’s just caught something worthwhile.
“Is that so? Well, let’s see here.” Keeping the lasso taut, he reaches into his jacket pocket with a grubby hand and pulls out a crumbled paper. With a cocky flick of the wrist, he lets it fall open, revealing one of the flyers from Hydra. “It would seem this increased bounty here says otherwise.”
Where in the hell did he manage to get that? More importantly, how in the hell did he get it? We never brought those home with us.
“Hunter . . . Don’t.” Matthew stands taller, his hazel eyes fixed on the man by the fountain. Several Rondonian citizens move closer behind him, their hostile brown eyes holding accusation and judgment.
“Stay out of this, boy,” Hunter warns and holds the flyer up with a smirk. “Let’s see. Oh, now this is interesting: If caught, return to the Kingdom as soon as possible. Dead or alive. No questions asked. Seems like the Kingdom’s willing to pay quite a pretty kik now for a rare blue-eyed witch-child. More than enough to put this place back on the ration route and back in Hyperion’s good graces.”
My grip on the switchblade tightens. Several more citizens step closer to the fountain, eyes on me, forming a small half circle behind Hunter.
“Back off, Hunter,” Matthew growls. “You know that’s impossible.”
“Is it?” A bored look and the sheriff adjusts his glasses, still clutching the flyer. “After all, the ration trains stopped when this animal and her cursed blue eyes wandered into town, bringing her enchantments and witchery with her! She belongs back in chains like the other demons, boy; back in Hell with her master. She’s even got one of his Crops numbers, like all good demonic slaves do.”
My eyes flash at the words and a growl rumbles in my thro
at. How dare he bring up the number on my left arm—a reminder of my life before Rondo.
“They stopped because we wouldn’t bow and worship Hyperion as a god and you know it.” Matthew clenches his fists. “That happened a year before she even showed up. So back off and let her alone.”
“Wow, she must be screwing you good, Brisby. Takes some powerful enchantment for the preacher’s son to turn and side with a known witch.”
Matthew’s eyebrows twitch as he bares his teeth, pointing a finger at the mousy yet plump man by the fountain. “That was uncalled for and this is your only warning, Hunter. Back off before I make you.”
“She’s probably carrying your bastard offspring at this point, which will make burning her at the stake before turning over her charred corpse to the Kingdom even more rewarding.”
“You son of a bitch—” Matthew rushes at Hunter, fist raised and anger in his eyes.
I’m faster, whipping the rope back and freeing the switchblade. Hunter stumbles. The blade slips into my pocket. The flyer drifts to the ground, trampled under my boots as I grab his threadbare jacket collar and drive a gloved fist into his jaw. His glasses fall into the fountain and skitter across the ice.
“Heathen.”
“Demon.” Shouts ring out from the crowd.
He staggers sideways, my foot catching his knee, driving him against the lowest stone tier as a distinctive shout rings out amid the outraged crowd.
“Rags, stop.” A strong, gloved hand seizes my wrist, one arm sweeping under my ribs and hauling me back. I snarl and snap, clawing at the son-of-a-bitch sheriff who brought this upon himself.
Tracker growls and pulls me several steps back, tightening his grip. “I said enough.”
Hunter wipes blood from his nose and pushes himself away from the fountain with a low groan. I look over to see Matthew standing several feet away. He’s not alone, though. A short, wiry middle-aged man wearing a long black overcoat stands between him and Hunter, snow collecting in his unkempt, wavy copper hair.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” Father Jericho’s light Midland Territory drawl pierces the settlement square. His strange light-brown eyes dart from me to Hunter and then to Matthew.
Silence falls across the gathered crowd. Several back away because whereas Hunter may be the resident sheriff with all but a few of the villagers on his side, Jericho serves as Rondo’s official leader and the last known preacher in the world. No one is going to challenge the one man who can make sure you end up in Hell.
“This heathen attacked me.” Hunter winces and points an accusing finger at me, blood dripping onto the snow. “That’s treason and punishable by death.”
“He started it,” I snarl and point to the rope. “Bastard tried to lasso me for no good reason. Like an animal.”
Jericho frowns, attention on Hunter. “Is this true?”
“The lying witch attacked me.” He holds up his hand, showing off the blood for everyone to see.
“Did she provoke you first?” The preacher’s stern gaze remains on him.
Hunter hesitates for a split second. “I was attacked out in the open in front of witnesses.”
Several of his supporters nod but advance no closer.
“This is bullshit,” Matthew snaps. “The chain on the truck’s front wheel broke and she was helping me repair it. Never once did Rags say or do anything to Hunter until he provoked her, and myself to—”
“Matthew, enough.” Jericho offers a warning look. “Go take the harvest to the storehouse.”
“But—”
Another look of almost sympathetic warning that they’ll discuss this later from the preacher makes him look down at the ground.
“Yes, sir.” He turns and begins walking back to the truck.
“You go with him, Rags.” The words make Tracker raise an eyebrow but he does not question Jericho, only nods with a stern look at me.
“We will have words about this later.” The heavy warning makes me cower and walk a little faster after Matthew. Tracker is scary when he’s angry.
“You’re letting her get away with this?” Hunter’s mouth drops open in disbelief. “She committed treason and tried to kill me— in our own town!”
“Lawrence, be quiet. Both of them, as well as yourself, will be questioned and be disciplined according to what is considered fair. I suggest you go and write down exactly what happened and then bring it to the church so that we may discuss this matter further once Frank returns from the coal mines.”
The words give way to chains rattling as Matthew slams the clip into place and reaches up, taking hold of the truck door and wrenching it open harder than usual.
“Come on, Rags. Let’s get out of here.” He climbs up behind the wheel and turns the key. The truck rumbles to life. I pull the passenger-side door closed behind me, shaking with anger as the pickup continues its trek through the square and downhill toward the storehouse.
Chapter Four
“Hell, he pisses me off.” Dust erupts from the pallet as Matthew slams a burlap sack filled with grain on the stack with the others. “He had no right to say any of those things.”
“He thinks he does. Hunter hates me.” My calloused hands twist the gnarled rawhide rope across my knee, letting it fall to the dusty, uneven plywood floor where my goatskin gloves landed when I threw them shortly after Matthew pitched his against a wall. “And saw opportunity.”
“Opportunity or not, it’s not fair. Rondo’s lousy situation is not your fault and nothing gives him the right to accuse you of things you haven’t even done.”
Another twist in the rope. “The whole damn town hates me because of him, Matthew. Every single one of them. You saw the way they looked at me. Hell, they even agreed with him that I started it.”
He pauses and wipes sweat from his brow, moving closer. “I know, Rags. Not everyone hates you though. You know Frank, Sadie, myself, Addison, and Jericho and Tracker don’t feel that way and will fight for you against them if we have to.”
I glance down at the mangled piece of rope in my calloused hands. Where there should be a simple slipknot are now at least four thick coils twisted and threaded into a rat’s nest. Damn it. Ruined a perfectly good piece of rope. With a low groan, I close my eyes and lean back against the grain stack. “I know, but . . . you shouldn’t have to.”
“But we will.” He places a rough hand over my small one. Pink, scarred flesh mars his right hand from an old burn. His gentle hazel eyes meet my frigid blue ones. “I will anyway. You have my word on that.”
“With God as my witness, I was going to hurt him, Matthew.” The knots tighten under dirty and chipped fingernails. “Right into that fountain until he couldn’t fight back. I . . . It shouldn’t have upset me like that.”
“In this case, it was justified.” He turns over a wooden crate and flops down beside me, his back resting against a pallet stacked three feet high with this and last week’s pitiful harvests. “If Jericho hadn’t been holding me back, I’d have squared Hunter’s jaw up myself or worse. Tracker should have for the comment about us alone.”
“You know Hunter’s not worth his time.”
“Still, it was uncalled for.”
A low grumble. “Yeah. But you know anytime he smells opportunity, his ridiculously stupid witch-hunt gains followers and I’m once again his favorite target. He honestly thinks I have magic powers to enchant people now . . .”
“Hunter’s an asshole who wouldn’t know real magic from a pair of mittens if it did actually exist.” He shakes his head. “And those blue eyes? Well I think they’re beautiful. And no matter what he says or accuses you of, you’re the best damn rustler Rondo’s ever had. Like to see him climb razor-wire fences and go into enemy territory under broad daylight while the K. C. shoots at him sometime.”
The lantern above us dims; a moth flutters in a cobweb connecting it to the ceiling. My eyes roam to the doorway, expecting them to come for me with torches and ropes.
“You re
ally are a blessing to this settlement, Rags.” He stands up and rubs his palms against his blue jeans to remove the dust. “To hell with what others think. Besides, I don’t see Hunter here helping and we all know he somehow weaseled a larger ration than everyone else.”
My eyes narrow. Hunter’s never even set foot in Rondo’s poor excuse for a storehouse, which is really just an old shed someone divided in half with plywood to make it seem bigger. But right now I don’t care—it’s a Hunter-free zone.
“We should leave.” His words make me look up at him.
“What?”
“Leave. I said we should leave this place. You know.” He looks up at the cobweb with tired amusement. “Take Nigel and get the hell out of Rondo. Never look back.”
“You know I can’t, Matthew. Tracker and I have raids to go on. We’re leaving for Fort Angelus tonight since Hunter’s stirring up trouble.” Technically, we were supposed to go over the plan tonight and leave tomorrow morning, but thanks to this incident, he’ll want to leave much sooner to let things cool down a bit.
His shoulders stiffen. “Rags, you can’t.”
“You know I don’t get a choice. We have to go. Rondo’s low on medical supplies and the bottle of rubbing alcohol I grabbed won’t go very far.”
“You can’t go.” His voice remains stern. “You saw what Hyperion’s doing to rustlers if he catches them. Hydra won’t be the only place this is happening. Fort Angelus will be a lot worse if you’re caught. It’s his largest military base in the entire Northeast Territory and he’s got more things to use against you there.”
I shiver at the horrible shouts from that crowd and the blood flowing through Hydra’s square. “We have to go. The K. C. hasn’t caught me yet. This time won’t be any different.”
“I don’t want you to go.”
“I don’t want to either.” My fingers let the rope fall limp across my knees and I look down at them, shivering. “I thought I could do this, but I can’t. I—I just don’t know, Matthew. Tracker says I’ll be fine. That it’s just a lack of confidence, but I’m scared. I don’t want to die like those people did.”
The Bone Roses Page 3
