The Bone Roses

by Kathryn Lee Martin

  Must be that old calming trick Matthew said he picked up in Edmonda. They have songs and dances for everything, he said. Life before Yellowstone especially.

  People from all over the world, what was left of them when things got cold and the food ran out anyway, immigrated to the only functioning port in the Kingdom for a “better” life, bringing their culture, he said. They went to the precious few open ranches that still supposedly exist to raise livestock and crops for the “good of the Kingdom.” Many set up shop at Edmonda’s heart, immortalizing the Laborer’s Star’s existence.

  He never told me how he picked up the singing trick, or why his Laborer’s Star wasn’t on his right hand like it should’ve been, but he never moved half as elegantly as Colton. I’ve never seen anyone move that gracefully.

  “Aye. ’Tis not polite to eavesdrop unless you’ve got a verse to add.” He breaks his song but not the dance.

  My brush hurries over Nigel’s white-splashed shoulder, my face flushed and I pretend I wasn’t watching. He can’t sing like Matthew could worth a damn anyway.

  “Shy one you are.” He pretends to study the worn, deep-seated western saddle beside Tamblin’s stall where he knows I can see him.

  I toss Nigel’s brush at the plastic bucket. It makes a horrible cracking noise as it strikes the rim and bounces backward, landing on the ground.

  “Really hope your aim is better than that, Frost Flea. Henny can make that shot blindfolded.”

  I seize my smaller, less elaborate blanket-like excuse for a saddle on the rack above Tracker’s.

  “Also try not to flinch next time you miss.” Colton picks up Tracker’s saddle and the mare’s leather bridle. “Henny is all over those little weaknesses.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I drape the saddle over Nigel’s back harder than normal. The mule swivels an ear back in warning. I reach under his belly, seize the linen girth, and thread it through a slit between the small wooden pole that adds weight to the saddle and the leather. With a sharp pull, it draws tight, securing the saddle in place.

  “Just helping you out. After all, you need it.” He easily swings the large western saddle onto Tamblin’s back.

  “I don’t need your help.” I tighten Nigel’s rope bridle too fast. His rump crashes against a stall support, hooves almost trampling my rustling satchel before I can wrestle him back under control.

  “You’re wrong on that. Otherwise I’d be lying in a snowdrift with a bullet between my eyes. I know how this game works, Frost Flea. I have information you need. You have something I want. And we’ll play each other’s games to get it.”

  “So, what exactly do you want?”

  “Good, we’re actually going to bargain now. Smart choice. It really depends on what you think Rondo is worth overall.”

  I reach down, pick up the satchel, and tie it to a leather thong on Nigel’s saddle. “Right now, it’s worth the lives of a luresman and the current second-in-command.”

  “That’s a little steep.”

  “If you had any idea what we go through in Rondo, you’d see I’m being cheap.”

  He doesn’t ever worry if Frank’s team can mine enough coal to keep the hothouses running. I doubt he’s ever faced starvation when a few crops failed and there was no game to hunt in a famine season. Or watched people writhing in agony, dying from minor infections in the street because there was no medicine. He doesn’t have to gamble his life in places like Hydra just to buy one more day of survival.

  Matthew didn’t die in his arms—Henny isn’t storming his territory. He doesn’t have a death match on his hands because there are no safe places to go.

  “This place really means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” He studies my eyes and for a moment, I catch a haunted, regretful look in his own.

  “Everything in my life worth fighting for lives here.” I collect the rifle and lead Nigel to the door, pausing to put out the lantern’s flame. “And with or without your help, I will fight for them.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Ten yards from the barn and the pipe gate Nigel and I jumped, the embankment rises almost completely vertical with rocks jutting from the frozen earth. Some have ragged edges. A few are splintered and flat. There is a soft-pink tint mixed into their icy crusts where many unfortunate creatures didn’t see the lethal drop.

  Nigel tenses. His hot breath counters the cold as he raises his head and lifts his hooves higher.

  I keep my heels down, knees gripping his narrow sides. My fingers clutch his sparse excuse for a mane, anchoring me to his back as his powerful hindquarters drive him forward at a light brush from my heels.

  He weaves up and around the lethal rocks, gathering his legs a few feet from the top. The cold wind pulls my hair back. The ground drops out from below us and in a short-lived moment, we soar over the embankment top before strong legs land with a smooth bounce and lope several strides. It’s not quite the pipe gate, but still counts.

  Colton whoops, standing in the stirrups, reins curled around his fingers, moving with the horse instead of against her as the mare thunders past. Ice and snow fly up in a wild, sliding stop. He spins her to face us. The reins rest across his thigh as he sits deep in the saddle, snow and ice freckling his ginger hair.

  I can’t stop staring. The way he sits on that horse isn’t the same “stick up his ass” way Henny or even Tracker does.

  Loose reins. Mischievous grass-green eyes. A cocky smile . . .

  I blink and for a brief moment I see Matthew sitting there. Tall and rugged in the saddle, the picture of the ideal cowboy. When I blink again, he’s gone, replaced by some ginger-haired foreigner who calls himself Colton.

  “Nice little backwoods mirror trick you have there.” Colton draws the mare alongside us and looks down at me. “Invisible from this side, almost impossible to climb back up if you survive the fall. That’ll cause problems for Henny.”

  “No, it won’t.” I cue Nigel into a jog and turn at a needleless pine to start up a slope webbed under gnarled millow roots.

  “Sure it will.” He steers Tamblin after us. “Certainly caused enough trouble for me when I just about fell down it.”

  “And yet, the hothouses weren’t destroyed even though you K. C. had full control of them while we were trapped in our homes.” We pass between two rusted poles that held stripped chain-link years ago. “I’d say we’re needed alive or you intend to poison us all.”

  “Okay, look. Hyperion is doing things on his terms. You Rondonians screwed up a good thing when you refused to bow down and kiss his ass like the other settlements. That’s why you were booted off the ration route. Which isn’t my fault. Hyperion likes to get his own way and because Rondo won’t humor him, it’s going to be purified of anyone who doesn’t follow him, which, I hate to say it, Frost Flea, is going to be you if we don’t get this settled quickly. I’m trying to help you.”

  I draw a long breath. “I’m not scared.”

  “Say that again in a few days when he has you and your ‘family’ tied up in the square.” Colton shakes his head. “And Henny is going right down the line, executing them one by one, forcing you to watch while the entire Kingdom listens. And then, gets to you, but you don’t get to die right away. No. You’re a rustler. You’ll be brutally tortured until Hyperion says you get to die, not one second before.”

  I try not to shiver. Just like those rustlers they caught in Hydra and skinned alive.

  No. I shake my head. Not like them. We won’t die that way. We . . . No, I won’t let it happen. My heels brush Nigel’s sides, extending the mule’s jog faster and trying to rein in the panic riding shotgun to Colton’s words. I’ll fight Henny. I’ll fight the whole Kingdom if I must. They took Matthew, but they won’t take the rest of my family.

  “It’s a cruel fact, Frost Flea. You’ve got yourself two death sentences to serve out already, and a slew of other charges against you that will easily net a third and fourth. I’d be pissing myself if I was in your boots right now.”
r />   “Nice to know I’m enough of a threat to warrant a ridiculous definition of overkill.”

  He frowns. “This isn’t a good thing.”

  “I never said it was. But if Hyperion feels that threatened by me then I’m totally gonna give him a reason to be scared.”

  Mentally, I’m terrified. I saw what happens to rustlers who get caught. The cheers of that crowd will haunt me until my dying day. So much blood. So many agonized screams. And the fact that I came so close to joining them that day.

  “He’s not scared of you and I wouldn’t push your luck. He’s not someone to underestimate.”

  “Neither am I.” I try not to let the fear show. “He wants a fight, he’ll damn well get one. But if you think it’ll be a quick, easy Kingdom victory, you’re dead wrong.”

  “Whatever you say . . .”

  “Fine, don’t believe me. This isn’t your problem anyway.” I stand in the stirrups as Nigel shifts to a lope.

  “It can be if you’ll let me help you.” Colton flinches, his breath a curt hiss. “You’re going the wrong way.”

  Nigel slides to a halt, throwing his head back as I spin the mule to face Colton.

  He casually rides by, pointing south toward the gully. “That way.”

  I try to hold back the embarrassment and frustrated tears threatening to unleash themselves on the ginger-haired foreigner as I cue the mule to the front, riding in silence.

  Thick maple-like trees poke through the snow like discarded matchsticks. Their distinct, flimsy willow branches shift and creak to welcome me like an old friend out on a hunting trip.

  The tangled roots stretch out to blanket the ground. It’s hard to ignore them. Not only do they thrive here but when they bloom in late summer, the entire Western Ridge and half the South Ridge weep cerulean tears.

  My left hand parts the branches, letting them slide over my gloved fingers and fall behind me. A healthy coating of ice from last night’s storm makes them less pliable and a few smaller offshoots break and fall to the ground. Even so, it creates a temporary curtain between Colton and me.

  Nigel’s hooves move at a slow jog, finding invisible grooves just wide enough to step through like he’s done countless times before. Tamblin follows at a walk. Every few steps I hear a clunk as a delicate hoof strikes a root. It’s not a soft sound, more than enough to catch my attention and make me look back to see why the big white mare is having issues.

  Colton holds the reins above her neck, fingers twitching like Sadie is giving him knitting lessons. His brow furrows in concentration.

  Tamblin’s ears flatten and her nostrils flare. This part of the forest is an unspoken hell for the tall, white horse, but I’ve never seen her this uncomfortable with anyone on her back.

  Something white flashes in the space between his gloves and her gray mane.

  Now what. The white mark vanishes as he and the horse pass the tree.

  I give Nigel’s reins a light tug.

  As they draw closer, I see it again, on a different tree. About a foot and a half above the ground. At first it looks like a natural gash like young winter bucks were rubbing antlers against the flakey bark.

  I swat another few branches away and pretend to look down where Nigel steps.

  On the trees to my right as well are ragged gashes like someone took an axe to the trunk but hesitated at the last possible second and grazed it. Some trees don’t have them at all but when I count more than ten with, all heading south of Rondo it’s clear these are manmade.

  Tamblin strikes another root. That’s the seventh time she’s done that since skirting the forest. I know the old mare can be god-awful lazy sometimes but even when I was learning on her and spent more time untangling reins than actually steering, she didn’t hit them more than four times in a single trip through.

  I listen, picking out a familiar three-beat pattern that I’ve only ever heard used at the outposts and Fort Angelus.

  K. C. Code. Specifically, the kind that usually accompanies gunshots and alarms. Oh, he’s good.

  Nigel pricks his long ears forward, sensing the heightened alarm. I loosen the reins.

  A robin starts to sing between strikes.

  Game on, Colton.

  The sound wraps around the millows. I close my eyes and listen to the airy tone of a bird that went extinct more than two years ago rise and fall. Two of them. Each chirps back and forth, holding a conversation with the little ginger-haired traitor.

  They shift from deep whistles to rich, twittering shrieks.

  I feel their faceless eyes pass over me. In my mind, I try to picture them, carefully navigating the roots for the perfect strike position. They test each one for strength and stability. Their thick combat boots grapple against the ice, rifles at the ready. Fingers just itching to pull the triggers, they stalk closer.

  Of course, there would be soldiers out here. They never left. But they need to learn to move a lot quieter than they do in this territory.

  I rest Nigel’s reins against his withers and open my eyes. His left ear swivels back but he doesn’t break stride.

  Good boy. Just like Matthew taught us a while ago. My right foot slips from its stirrup. I fidget in the saddle. Left hand flat on Nigel’s unkempt sorrel mane just beyond his withers, my right makes a convincing grab at the braided stirrup leather while my toe feels for the wooden stirrup. All I manage to do is bump the offending saddle part against the mule’s elbow.

  That’s all it has to do.

  Nigel rounds his back as his narrow head lowers. His whisk-broom tail swishes. Both long ears angle forward, muscles quivering.

  I look down at the stirrup and reach for it. My weight shifts.

  The mule surges forward.

  I jolt forward, almost completely over his neck, before immediately being thrown backward at his less-than-smooth takeoff. My ribs bruising against the saddle as I whip my right leg over his rump, lose the left stirrup and try to hang on for a few strides.

  Colton yells something lost to the wind but Nigel only moves faster.

  Branches snap and lash across my upper back, snagging my jacket fringes and trying to pull me off. Pinning an elbow against the saddle, I reach my left hand up and seize a flimsy branch.

  Ice and bark pour over me as both worn boots slam against a root. My right hand goes straight up, an unspoken command to Nigel, and grabs the branch.

  A split-second swing backward gives way to a loud, branch-breaking crack.

  My left shoulder and hip take the hit as I fall between roots. The bone roses rattle in my jacket pocket. I sit up and rest my elbows on the roots, long enough to watch Nigel hang a right and vanish into the forest.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Are you all right, Frost Flea?” Colton dismounts and stumbles in the roots.

  “Yeah.” I slip the rifle from my shoulders and flip the safety off. “Just perfect.”

  Two beings emerge from their vantage points. Their forest-green jackets harbor fraying threads and sap stains. One’s olive trousers are covered in thistles. The other’s boots scuff beyond what a good polishing could fix.

  So much for those great K. C. standards.

  “Look at what we have here.” A light Midland Territory drawl ticks the left one’s words. “Did the wittle princess fall off her pony?”

  My eyes narrow. I stand up, turn the rifle so the silver vines show, and place my right hand on my hip. “Are you as ignorant as you seem to be stupid?”

  “Aww, how cute.” The one on the right advances. “Talking all big to the adults like she’s not afraid of us.”

  “Oh yeah, I’m shaking in my fringes.”

  “Why don’t you be a good little princess and put down that big old gun you got there,” says the Midlander.

  “Why? You scared?” I place my right foot on a root and challenge them.

  The second laughs. “Little girls don’t scare us.”

  “This one should.”

  Both K. C. advance, rifles trained on me, brayi
ng like two asses at a feed trough.

  “Stand down.” Colton jerks one foot free from the root’s snare. “That’s an order.”

  The Midlander scoffs. “We don’t answer to your authority, luresman.”

  Light hoofbeats tiptoe through the roots on the far right. My fist clenches.

  “You don’t get a choice on this, Private,” Colton raises his voice. “And I said stand down and let the lady alone.”

  “What are you gonna do about it?” The Midlander takes his cross hairs off me and adjusts them on Colton. “Tell on me?”

  “Don’t tempt me. How’s a week on the Threshing Floor sound?”

  The Midlander hesitates. “You have no authority over us.”

  “Guess again.” Colton locks eyes with the defiant soldier’s helmet. “Who do you honestly think Hyperion will believe? His established luresman sent here on an official mission? Or some nobody private who can’t even polish his boots properly?”

  A small red circle flickers just above my left breast from the second rifle. “Drop your weapon, missy.”

  “You pull that trigger and I’ll make it two weeks, Private.”

  “Oh, shut up, luresman. Your threats mean nothing.”

  Okay. Just like a raid. I can do this. Steeling my nerves, I look directly at his faceless helmet.

  “If you absolutely insist.” I raise my right hand, still clenching the fist, and kneel just enough to set my Damascus against the roots. “See, I put down the rifle.”

  “That’s a good girl.”

  “Unholy hell, Frost Flea.” Colton rubs his temples as though flustered by my clear surrender.

  My right hand rotates in a clockwise circle as though working a cramp out. Two fingers touch my lips. A shrill, short whistle pierces the air as I bring my hand down, fingers unclenching midswing.

  The rifle barrel angles off target as my boots find traction on the roots and my shoulder rams him. He falls backward as an explosive force lunges from behind the trees.