The Bone Roses

by Kathryn Lee Martin

  Here we go. He’s going to yell at me.

  “Last night,” he pauses, as though weighing his words carefully and sets the egg whisk on the table with a delicate click, “what did Colton tell you before he left the house?”

  “That he owed me a favor.” I eye the egg whisk with shame. Not the smartest weapon in the world. “For saving his life.”

  “I figured as much,” Tracker sighs. His fingers tense against the coffee cup’s pale surface and relax. “Rags, I’m going to ask you to do something for me. It’s time we move against Henrick.”

  He doesn’t look me in the eyes, brow furrowed deep in thought. “I want you to take Nigel and leave Rondo.”

  I blink. Excitement tinges every muscle at finally being allowed in this fight against Henny.

  “Ride until you find Henrick’s base. When you find it, I want you to estimate how many soldiers are there and bring the information back to me.”

  The light stress in his words makes me nervous. I get the feeling that whatever I bring back is critical to something beyond Henny, Colton, and even Rondo this time.

  “I want you to take Fieldson with you.”

  “Huh?” Now I really do give him a stupid look. He wants me to take an enemy with me. Has he lost his freaking mind? Then again, I shouldn’t talk. I refused to kill the guy in the first place.

  “I won’t be going with you.” His words are blunt. “I have urgent business with Jericho this morning regarding some new information he needs to know about—Fieldson will be able to help you find his base.”

  His eyes narrow, harboring an underlying wrath. “And Rags. If under any circumstances the young man accompanying you says or does anything to try to convince you to go with him anyplace but the bare boundaries of Henrick’s base, you are to shoot to kill. Do we have an understanding?”

  I nod.

  “Good. I’ve packed your rustling satchel already. Sadie brought you some flatbread she made yesterday for breakfast. Eat and then get going. And don’t forget that Addison’s goats need to be milked tonight.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I clutch the rifle and navigate the snowfield, following a makeshift road weaving around the fallen warehouse walls. My rifle doesn’t have the range Henny’s does but holding it offers small, fragile comfort and right now I’ll take whatever I can get.

  Colton saunters behind me, grass-green eyes intently studying every move.

  Intently isn’t the right word and he doesn’t study; he roves with them like I’m rare game he’s privileged to hunt.

  Matthew never looked at me like that. His looks were always respectful; I was his family, nothing more.

  “Do you mind?” I growl when I notice him admiring my ass.

  A lopsided grin crosses his face like he’s surprised he got caught. “Heh, sorry, you remind me of someone I know.”

  Right. I can only imagine how many blue-eyed women he’s “met” in his travels.

  “It’s the rifle.”

  “What about it?” I bet it’s about the “rifle.”

  Up ahead, the snowdrifts curl against the sagging chain-link, forming the narrow corridor to the twin millows’ fork.

  “It’s just, well, you don’t ever see a woman carrying one—least of all a Damascus.”

  “Get used to it.”

  “Aye now, I never said it was a bad thing, just wasn’t what I was expecting.”

  “Oh? And just what were you expecting?” Laces? Leather? A broom? My eyes cut to him. It’s not like he hasn’t seen me carry this rifle before.

  “Honestly?” He rubs the back of his head, ruffling his shaggy ginger hair. “Some low-caliber pea shooter or a bow at best.”

  “From a guy seen carrying a crossbow in Hydra, that’s a little hypocritical.”

  “Hey now, don’t insult my crossbow. I’m quite fond of it. Just wasn’t expecting a rifle, least of all his, is all.”

  “Let me make something very clear to you, Mr. Fieldson.” I drive him back a half step with a pointed glare. “We rustlers play by a very different set of rules here. This isn’t the Kingdom and I’m not just some helpless little girl. I’m the real deal.”

  He blinks. “Sheesh, I’ll say. I take it you’ve got some skill to back that weapon up then.”

  “Why don’t you run to that farm out there and find out.”

  “No sense making a pretty little lady waste a bullet.”

  “Who said I’d be wasting it?”

  “Ouch, you’re a cold one, Frost Flea.”

  “They don’t have a bounty on me for nothing.” I slip from a warehouse wall’s safety and cover the open distance fast.

  Colton follows and slides his back against another crumbled wall. Resting his weight on his left elbow, he turns halfway toward me. His captivating grass-green eyes find my icy-blue ones.

  “Cold and cute.” He grins. “Give any thought to my offer by any chance?”

  “While a few choice jabs at the chief village asshole’s pride are a great start, and keeping my family from being shot goes a long way, that doesn’t exactly help me right now.” I turn away hoping he didn’t notice me staring.

  “All right,” he draws the word out, his accent almost alluring the more he speaks. “You’re obviously a bright young lady, and this is clearly your home, but, tell me, is it worth dying for.”

  My grip tightens on the rifle. “It’s not like we get a choice, Mr. Fieldson.”

  “It’s Colton.” He continues looking at me. “My name is Colton.” He saunters a half step closer. “And you’re wrong. Everyone gets a choice.”

  “Guess again.” I step away. A Kingdom-bred predator lurks in that accent and I’ll be damned if he haunts me like Henny does.

  “Rondo made the wrong one. And it’ll get what’s coming to it. But you don’t need me to tell you that.” He places both hands on his hips and looks at the chain-link fence. “So, did you start eavesdropping before Lionel pulled the gun on me or when he slammed me against the wall?”

  I point the rifle at him.

  “Aye, so you did hear.” Amusement weaves through his accent. “You’re a lot like him, you know . . . just the way you hold that rifle. You even look at me like he does when I catch him reading my personal mail. It’s not sexy when Henny does it though.”

  My pulse quickens and I grind my teeth together, one finger hovering against the trigger.

  “Relax, it’s a compliment,” he says. “Wow, Lionel really does have you trained like a dog.”

  “I’m not a dog.”

  “You don’t see it though,” he says, undeterred by my outburst. “You can’t see it because it’s all you’ve been taught. All you know. All he wanted you to know.” He looks away, disgusted by something. “He’s no better than Hyperion sometimes.”

  Colton staggers, wooden stock slamming against his upper shoulder. The force carries him sideways, his feet scrambling and sliding against the ice before he can get a hand up to counter the blow.

  I stand over him, rifle aimed at his forehead, trying not to tremble.

  “Unholy hell you’re a strong one.”

  “I should kill you right now, you lying son of a bitch.”

  “Don’t shoot.” Colton flinches, one hand holding him in a semi-sitting position, the other raised. “I upset you and I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? Yeah right.” Comparing Tracker to Hyperion sounded pretty deliberate.

  “Let me explain myself.”

  “No.” My finger grazes the platinum trigger, stopping short of pulling it when he looks up at me; that same fear Tracker caused in his eyes.

  “I know his secrets.”

  A quick look at his eyes tells me he’s not lying. “You have thirty seconds.”

  I shouldn’t even give him that.

  “What you overheard is true. Here.” He removes the leather glove from his right hand, exposing a small pale skin patch shaped like a running hare just like Tracker’s. “I am Kingdom Corps. However, I’m not here to hurt you
or Rondo. I’m here to make a deal, preferably without that fancy thunder stick aimed at my face.”

  “And I’m here to defend my family. Start talking.”

  “This is the problem with—wait.” He arches an eyebrow. “You’re actually considering yesterday’s offer?”

  “Hell no.” I don’t move the rifle. “But I might if you prove to be worth the time.”

  Tracker would scold me if he heard it. We don’t make “deals” with the enemy. Never have. It’s not a rustler’s nature to have outside sources that can stab you in the back.

  “Aye, you’re an aggressive, clever one. Lionel didn’t teach you that.”

  “No,” my eyes narrow, “I learned that from a preacher.”

  “You don’t say.” Colton raises an eyebrow. “But clever won’t save you from Hyperion. Henny is like an avalanche even without Hyperion’s playthings. Once he starts something, you can’t stop him and old gods and goddesses help anyone caught in his path. There is nothing you can do against him.”

  “There’s always something we can do.”

  “You really believe that, don’t you?” That sinister edge slinks into his tone.

  “Yes, I do. And if I can’t find a way to beat him, I’ll make one.”

  Easier said than done but right now, I can’t afford for him to gain any ground.

  He breaks eye contact to glance back at Rondo. Smoke still rises from the square. “You willing to bet your life on that belief, Frost Flea?”

  I turn away and begin walking. “I already have.”

  Colton gets to his feet, but doesn’t follow. He just stands there, thinking. “You know you never told me your name, right?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Maybe not for this cloak and dagger stuff we’re dealing with but if I’m going to have a front row seat to the end of your world when Rondo is purified, I’d like to at least be able to tell people what your name was.”

  I stop but don’t face him. “What makes you so sure you’re going to survive to tell anyone?”

  “Check the mark, Frost Flea. My odds are better than yours when Henny roars through here.”

  “Really now? I didn’t know bullets stopped for certain marks. Mine don’t.”

  Colton curls his lip into a wry smirk. Nowhere near as threatening as Henny’s, but still holding that Kingdom-bred arrogance. He buries his hands in his jacket pockets and rocks back onto his heels. “Now I have to know your name.”

  “You’re the spy. If you were any good at it, you’d know my name by now.” After all, it’s not like he hasn’t heard it from Jericho and the others.

  “Luresman. I’m the Kingdom’s luresman, but you’ll learn.” The smirk doesn’t lessen. “I just thought it would be polite to ask you for your name before the Kingdom publically screws you and your precious Rondo over like some twenty-kik whore.”

  “Who says it won’t be the other way around?”

  “You don’t ‘screw’ the Kingdom over.” He removes his hands from his pockets. “That’s not how it works, Frost Flea. It screws you; you let it, end of story. Really thought you would know this by now judging from the state of Rondo as a whole. Impoverished isn’t even the right word for what the Kingdom’s already done to you guys.”

  “Oh yeah?” My eyes narrow. “Then consider any remotely possible deals with me off. Feel free to try your wool-pulling ways with Tracker though. I’m sure he’d love to work with you.”

  “Let’s not be too hasty.” He pales. “I’ve never actually dealt with rustlers before, well, live ones that is, but I’ve always been curious about their underground world. You know, get in their heads and see just what makes them so damn insane so I can make better, smarter deals in the future.”

  “See those clouds up there?” I point to the gray sky. “Those are storm clouds. I could just shoot you now and let you freeze to death when it snows tonight because I’m ‘so damn insane’ as you claim.”

  “But, you won’t.” He digs his boot toe into the ice, calling my bluff. “Or you might. I can’t really tell with those pretty blue eyes. But I’m willing to bet that Henny’s also been looking at them, and that’s sort of a problem for us.”

  “Define ‘us.’”

  “No, no, not you. This is a good thing for you. Problem for us, as in Kingdom us.”

  That catches my attention. “How so?”

  “It’s a boy thing.” He rolls his eyes. “But hey, I’m just the luresman. Not like I control the Kingdom’s information loops or anything.”

  “Okay, you’ve made your point. You know the Kingdom’s business. I wasn’t deaf this morning or yesterday. But if this arrangement is going to even remotely have a chance to happen, you’re going to accept my terms and be useful, or you’re going to find out why Rondo’s never been raided by the other rustlers. What’s it gonna be, Colton?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “Good. Now hurry up. We have a lot of ground to cover. You can tell me about Henny on the way.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The heavy wooden barn door sticks in the ice, and the wheel up top cracks and pops in its metal track as my shoulder crashes against the door.

  Colton watches from a snowdrift.

  On the third ram the wheel screeches free and the door carves a trail alongside the building. Squeaky, shrill eeks and awws pierce the air.

  I close the door behind us and pry thick, curtain-like cobwebs away from the lantern hanging from a wooden support post. Striking a match, it takes a few tries before the tiny flame catches on the wick, spilling precious light around in a flickering ring.

  Nigel hangs his thin head over the closest stall door. His long white-and-sorrel splashed ears twitch as a hoof clacks against the wooden wall.

  A second, less enthusiastic hawing responds and a cream-colored muzzle tries to poke over the neighboring stall door. Two fuzzy sorrel ears, hay wisps clinging to them, are all you can see of Addison’s pre-Yellowstone donkey, Jacobus.

  His protesting wakes the whole barn. The small four-member goat herd penned in the far-right corner starts bleating. A few scraggly chickens we grabbed from Hydra’s marketplace cluck from roosts in the rafters. Tracker’s tall, deer-like mare, Tamblin, drapes her dainty head over the stall door across from the boys and offers a welcoming nicker. In the dim light, her snowy hide looks yellow and long gray mane darker than it really is.

  Colton stares at the horse. “I’ll be damned.”

  “What’s wrong?” I set my wolfskin rustling satchel and the rifle beside Nigel’s stall door. “Never saw a horse before?”

  “It’s not that.” He glances at my mule. “That animal however . . .” I see his eyes drift from the mare to the donkey.

  “Is the biggest not-so mystery on the farmstead.” I grab a braided rope halter, slip it over Nigel’s head, and scratch the white, ring-like splash marking around his left eye. “It’s exactly what you think.”

  It happened before I first arrived in Rondo. No one could figure out why Tamblin kept gaining weight despite Tracker exercising her daily on raids. It didn’t take too much brainpower to figure out what really happened though—as the story goes, he went out to feed her one morning and found a baby spotted mule staring at him.

  Nigel is easily the best “accident” ever pawned off to me. He’s leggy and fast like his mother, smart like his father, and depending on the day, the most challenging creature to walk the frozen earth, since I never know if I’m getting the half horse or the half ass part until I put a harness or saddle on him.

  Raiding is in his blood though and the assurance that my “ride” isn’t going to break down fleeing from an outpost while being shot at is worth his orneriness at times. He’s also my best friend and a reminder of the good times spent training him with Matthew’s help.

  “He could not have been happy with that,” I hear Colton whisper.

  “Hell no he wasn’t happy.” I tighten the halter. “Tracker hates this mule. If I didn’t lov
e it so damn much and he didn’t work for his keep, he’d take him to Hydra and pawn him on the black market.”

  “I would too. He’s no Xanthos, that’s for sure.”

  “Xanthos.” I pick up another halter and throw it to him trying not to think about Henny’s beautiful stallion.

  “You know.” He snatches it from the air. “That big, beautiful Friesian Henny rides and dotes over. You really can’t miss how much that animal loves an audience.”

  I turn back to Nigel and scratch his white-splashed cheek. “Don’t compare my mule to his horse.”

  “Just saying.” Colton leans against an oak support pillar and pretends to study the mule. “Want to hedge Rondo’s bets and shatter his focus? Forget the rifle, control the horse.”

  He worries the frayed rope between his fingertips. That could buy Rondo some precious time. I saw how Henny handled that animal in the square. How he seemed to care about it. I’ve never actually stolen a horse before though. Goats and chickens, yes, but a horse? No.

  Colton flips the rope around his fingers and works it over the mare’s delicate head. He leads her over to a horizontal pipe mounted on the barn wall. I look away and try not to think of the memories. That’s where I first met Matthew the day a yearling Nigel climbed halfway onto the Chevy’s hood after being spooked when he dropped a wrench he was using to change an oil filter.

  I expected him to be angry about it, but instead, he laughed and offered to teach me about horses and baby mules. We became friends that day and nothing could tell us otherwise.

  I fish around in an old plastic bucket for Nigel’s frayed brush and slip into the stall. I’d give anything to go back to those days.

  No sooner do the sparse bristles touch the mule’s sorrel-and-white patchwork spotted hide, and Colton begins muttering. His words tangle so deeply in his beautiful accent that I can’t understand them, but they’re soft, gentle, rhythmic and soothing. Like a lullaby.

  I swipe the brush over Nigel’s sorrel rump and peer around the stall door.

  Colton smiles and works a curry comb over the big white mare. Up on her spine. Down under her belly. Across her rump. Back to her withers. His feet glide across the cement. First left. Then right. He circles her, pivots back and starts again. Every movement syncs in perfect time to his “song.”