Catch a Falling Star

by Fay McDermott

  “Papa?” Lyrianne put a hand on the stilled chest, her eyes dry as she stared at him. “Papa.”

  Miguel’s mouth opened and he breathed in, the hand in his deathly still and lifeless. He did not at once release it. Not until the woman beside him tried to rouse her father. Leaning forward, he rested the withered hand upon the ceased chest and rose to his feet. His hand he lay then upon Lyrianne’s shoulder. She pressed her cheek against it for a moment while she continued to watch her father, looking for him to take a breath she knew would never come again.

  “Thank you, Miguel. You don't know how much it means to me that you did that.”

  She placed her hand over his briefly then straightened and stood. Leaning over the bed, she settled her father into a comfortable position, his hands folded over his chest, with as much care and love as she'd been giving him for months now.

  She turned to the Fed pilot and brushed her hair back from her face, looking weary and sad though her eyes remained dry. “Are you hungry?” She sounded as worn as she looked, drained of all emotion. “I'll fix us something to eat. If you want to get cleaned up while I'm doing that, there's a bath up here or a shower on the main floor, whichever you prefer. I'll bring you some fresh clothes and there are clean towels in the bathroom.”

  He would have objected. The words were right there in his mouth, but he knew that sometimes one had to be busy in times of grief. It was that way back home with family. The women always seemed to putter about, finding this thing that needed fixing and that person feeding. He stepped back, gave her hand a squeeze and left the room and the woman to say her goodbyes in private.

  Lyrianne didn't stay in the room for long. She'd been saying her goodbyes for days now. She felt as numb everywhere as the Freeze-It had made her ankle when she softly closed the door to her parents' room. Passing by Miguel without looking up, she continued down the hall to her brothers' room, coming back out with another shirt and another pair of pants. She stopped at the linen closet to take out two of their best towels, bigger and fluffier than the ones in the bathroom cupboard.

  When she handed him the stack she held, she managed a smile. “Does a roast with steamed vegetables sound alright? There's a berry pie for dessert, too. It should be ready by the time you finish.”

  Miguel only nodded and said “That would be great,” before thanking her for the toiletries and excusing himself to the washroom. Once he was safely inside with his back to the closed door, he listened until he could no longer hear her retreating footsteps. Then he let out his breath in a heavy sigh and pushed away to set the stack of linens on the sink, where above it hung an old, gilded mirror.

  “What the hell am I doing?” he muttered to his reflection, digging fingers into his sticky, spiked everywhere hair. He had no business telling lies to a dying old man, making promises some other man was supposed to keep. His people would come for him and he would have to leave and Lyrianne would be no better off, just a single woman trying to run a farm by herself.

  Shaking his head, he stepped back and leaned over to unstrap his boots. She’d called him her hero. He snorted at that, not amused but bitter. He was no such thing. He was just a selfish space jockey who’d crash landed in her backyard the night her father died. That didn’t make him a savior, it made him an asshole.

  Leaving the boots and grimy, sweaty socks tucked inside, Miguel caught and lifted the borrowed shirt over his head, put his Fed-issued weapon on the side of the sink and quickly unlaced the pants. It was a good thing he didn’t go commando because it’d be mighty embarrassing to be walking around in some other dude’s pants, especially if that other dude did in fact go commando.

  Dropping his boxer briefs on top of his boots, he reached into the bathtub, one of those old porcelain ones with the clawed feet (which seemed surreal, as it was something he’d have seen on his home planet and wouldn’t have expected on some backwater farming colony), and started turning the handle faucets until the warm ran hot. Then he climbed in and gingerly sat himself down.

  He didn’t belong here. He reached for the soap and depressed the plunger, cupping his hands next in the running water before he sloshed it over himself and started to scrub at the dirt and sweat dried on his skin.

  “You should not be here, man,” he told himself grimly, watching the dirty soap bubbles slide down the drain. Not only was he in enemy territory, he was in the bathtub of a possible Alliance sympathizer.

  More soap, more water, and a lot more scrubbing later and the pilot, hair squeaky clean and dusky skin red and raw, climbed out of the tub and picked up a towel. He needed to get back to the barn and destroy his capsule. Then he needed to get back in the woods and hunker down while he waited for an extraction team.

  What he did was pull on the fresh pants, soft from use and forced into hugging his junk when his underwear proved just too sweaty to put back on. He scrubbed at his hair until it no longer dripped, then he reached for the shirt laid out for him and opened the bathroom door.

  Miguel walked into the kitchen barefoot, working his arms into the sleeves of the tunic.

  Lyrianne looked up, a little more animation in her eyes than before as she smiled at him. The table was set for one and she pulled the chair out and patted the back of it to indicate he should sit. “I've already eaten.” She had, or at least tried, but had been unable to choke down more than a few bites of the tender roast.

  She sat in a chair opposite the one with the table setting and food laid out before it and rested her chin on her palms. While he'd been in the bath, she'd done her best to clean up short of climbing in a bath herself. That would have to wait, but at least her hair was combed and neatly braided and her face had been scrubbed clean. The bump and purple bruise above her right eye was more clearly visible but she hadn't even given it a second thought.

  She still had work to do, so she hadn't changed out of the sweaty, grimy coveralls. Her feet were now bare save for the makeshift wrap she'd wound around the sprained ankle. She'd tried putting on another pair of boots, but they wouldn't go over the bandage. It wasn't like she hadn't spent a good deal of her life barefoot, however. She could handle it.

  “I took Farley some bedding and towels and he told me you were an asshole and a very dangerous maniac.” She had a half smile on her face, not sure if she was irritated at Miguel for antagonizing the big oaf once again or not. “Do you want to tell me what happened between you two? He refused. Said it was 'men's business' and I shouldn't worry my 'pretty little head' about it.”

  Miguel smirked and speared the slab of roast with a fork. He was ravenous but he wasn’t sure he could hold anything down.

  Yeah he could.

  Cutting up the meat, he carefully did not look at the woman across from him. “While I would not call him a man really, I must agree. It is nothing you need worry your pretty head over, yes?”

  She didn't say anything to that, letting a raised eyebrow and the spark of irritation in her eyes speak for her. After watching him eat for a while longer, she got up and prepared a dish with a generous slice of berry pie, topped with fresh whipped cream from their – her - milk cows. She set the dessert down beside his plate along with a tall glass of ice cold milk.

  That done, she sat, this time leaning back and propping her bad foot up on the chair beside her. Her voice was as neutral as her expression while she watched his face. “Are you going to destroy the capsule in the barn like you did your ship?” She tapped a finger on the table. “I figured that's what you were planning so I was going to hide it from you. Then I decided I owe you for what you did for my father, so... I didn't.” She did owe him, more than he would ever know.

  “I'll use the mule to get it out and away from the barn so you don't destroy my property. Then, after you take care of it, I'd like one last favor from you. I could use your help to take Farley's hovercraft over to the old saloon. It's abandoned but he likes to go there to drink sometimes and everybody knows it. I'll show you the way. People will think he's gone on another of hi
s two-day benders when they see it there and they won't be looking for him for at least a few days. I hope that'll give your people enough time to rescue you.” She looked down at her hands then back at him. “I'll give you a ride after the saloon to wherever you want to go. Does that sound alright?”

  Miguel had stopped eating, his fork dangling from a limp wrist. He swallowed but it hurt going down. It seemed she was eager to have him away and he couldn’t blame her for it. If he was discovered she would be in serious, perhaps even fatal trouble. What she'd done was more than enough and far more risk than he had a right to ask of her.

  “Of course,” he said instead, trying for a charming smile but not feeling it. He wasn’t going to, but he found himself explaining all the same. “I cannot leave behind anything that could be confiscated. If I let it be taken, I might as well be along with it. I do not expect you to understand, but it is the way of it. I appreciate very much what you have done for me and I will try to repay you when I am returned to my ship.”

  As good as the pie looked, he was no longer in the mood to eat and he set the fork down and wiped his mouth self-consciously with a thumb, not knowing what else he could say. He would help her as requested and then they would part ways.

  “Do you need help cleaning up?” He hadn’t stood yet but his hands had moved to his plate.

  She felt sick to her stomach, the little bit of food she had in her sitting like a lead weight. What did she expect? That he'd object? That he'd want to stay with her until his Federation friends came for him? Why would he do that? She'd done nothing for him but complicate things. He didn't owe her a thing and she didn't believe that he'd give her a second's thought once he was back with his people.

  Hurt and hating that she was, she stood before he could. “No. I'll clean up later.” She balanced the plates and glass so she could carry them to the counter. She stared at the half eaten meal and the untouched pie, contemplating transferring them to storage containers. Instead she turned around and looked at Miguel.

  “I don't understand. Why can't you wait for your people here? I, I think you'd be safer waiting here than,” she waved an arm in the general direction of the forested area where the crash site was located, “out there somewhere.” She blushed at her boldness. “I'm sorry. I'm sure you have your reasons. Whenever you're ready. I just need to get your flightsuit for you and an extra set of clothes since you'll be safer wearing local clothes until you're off planet.”

  She started for the stairs then turned to him again once she reached them, gripping the balustrade nervously. “Can I get you any food to take along? We've got some food packs and a water sack. There's enough food to get you through a couple of days, anyway. And a backpack. I can let you have that. What about a blanket? It does sometimes get cool at night. A tent? Well, we don't have a tent but there's some canvas that you can use, in case it rains. Though it rarely rains this time of year so maybe you won't need that... “

  She stopped, realizing what a fool she was making of herself. She sat down on the stairs and put her hands over her dry eyes, concentrating on getting her composure back. When she looked back up, her voice was once more flat. “I guess we should go. I still have a lot to do here before I can... Are you ready?”

  Miguel had followed her to the stairs and was now looking down at her as if it pained and confused him. He knew she was deeply hurting over the loss of her father and it had to be a frightening prospect to face the world alone now.

  “I would be scared too,” he said. “To be alone.”

  Lyrianne stared at him, totally confused. Why was he bringing up her being alone? Or scared? She knew she was alone. She didn't need him to be rubbing it in. And she wasn't scared. Things were as they were and she would face them as her parents had raised her to do; with her head held high. However, she was also tired; too tired to deal with his compassion by trying to characterize it as a lack of feelings.

  Without saying anything, she stood and moved up the stairs, using her left foot to take each step to avoid putting too much weight on the bad ankle. When she got back to the main floor, she had his flightsuit, another pair of pants and a flannel shirt as well as several pairs of sturdy socks that were still in their vacu-seal packs. She handed them to him without a word then proceeded past him and out the front door. She didn't feel like prolonging his departure after the humiliation of him totally ignoring her invitation to wait out his rescue at her home. It had cost her a lot to offer it and he made it painfully obvious he'd rejected it.

  She slid the heavy barn door open with enough force to cause it to travel all the way to the ends of its rail and bang loudly. That seemed to help calm her a little, but she was still muttering to herself as she moved the hoverbike inside and began to set up the cables to attach to the space pod.

  He followed because he had nothing else to do. Clearly he had made her angry somehow and though he had been raised by a strong female presence, he still couldn't figure out what he'd said that brought on this new coldness from the woman.

  “Let me do that,” he finally said, suppressing a sigh as he joined her. “Just sit down somewhere, I will do it.” He reached to take the hook from her hand.

  She jerked it away from him and put her back to him. “I'm perfectly capable of doing it. You go sit down and wait.”

  Miguel frowned, annoyed that she was being so difficult, and reached around her, trying to grab for the hook again. “I said I will do it, querida.”

  She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow then stepped away to give her room to turn and confront him. Her eyes were snapping with repressed emotions that were coming out as one of her infamous tempers. “And I said I will!”

  Her knuckles were white because of the death grip she had on the hook. “What is it with you? You want to get away from here so bad, right? Then let me get this done.” The tears she couldn't shed for her father came now and she had no idea why. Maybe she didn't want to know.

  Embarrassed, she reached into the anger she was feeling and focused it on him, throwing the cable at him. “Do what you want. Just get off my farm!” She kicked the side of his capsule, forgetting she was barefoot and then reacted with a howl of rage. Without looking at him again she stormed off toward the barn door. “Make sure you bring the bike back. That's MY property.”

  Holding the hook he'd initially fumbled against his stomach, the pilot watched the tumult of emotions bombard the woman, and thus him, nervous he was going to get clobbered; wincing when she kicked his capsule... she was going to have a matching set of swollen feet at this rate.

  Trying to think of something to say that wouldn't get him murdered and dropped down a well, Miguel's chance came and went when the barn door was slammed shut and he found himself hunching his shoulders as if the ceiling might collapse. How was he to know? Maybe it would.

  Waiting to be sure she wasn't going to come back for another round, once he was relatively certain she wasn't, he turned to the capsule and secured it himself. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 8

  Miguel’s long night hadn't gotten him out of the barn before the door slid open part way and his boots came sailing towards him, barely missing his head though she hadn't deliberately aimed them at him. Lyrianne stood within the opening, debating whether to go in and try to apologize for her temper tantrum. What was the point of doing that, though? He wouldn't care one way or the other.

  She turned back to the house.

  She came in to be greeted by pounding on the basement door and she sighed heavily. “Get back downstairs, Farley. I'm fixing the rest of your food. Don't be so impatient.” Pushing herself, she prepared another big meal and carried it down, leaving the door open behind her.

  Setting it down before him, she sat at the opposite end of the small table, trying to stay as far away as possible while he ate. She didn't notice the empty moonshine bottle on the floor beside his foot. If she had she would have bolted up the stairs without another thought.

  He watched her for a w
hile without pausing as he stuffed his mouth with the roast chicken and rice. Picking up the pie plate, he sniffed it, scooped up a chunk with his fingers and stuffed it in his mouth. With a berry-smeared smile he set the plate down and placed his hands on the table, a sly look in his piggy eyes.

  “I know who he is.”

  “What? Who? Miguel?” She sniffed at him then sat back, wondering what he was getting at. “I already told you who he is.”

  “Yeah. You lied. I seen his gun, you know? That ain't something that's just out there for anyone to have. It's Federation. And it's military. High tech stuff. He's the pilot.” The big man looked pleased that he'd figured all that out and he watched her to see if she'd be impressed with him.

  “You're wrong, Farley. No he isn't. I told you. He was sent for by my father-“

  A big fist slammed onto the table, creating a dent in the metal surface and making the dinnerware jump. She jumped as well and scooted her chair back to the wall.

  “Lies. Lies, Lyrie. I know and I'm gonna let the authorities know. They won't care any about me bein' drunk and disorderly once I give him to them.”

  “Farley, please. You can't.” She was too tired to think fast enough to come up with any plausible story that might put holes in her neighbor's conclusions. “Please. Just let him be.”

  “Why should I, Lyrie?” A light seemed to go on inside the man's eyes as he looked at her. He licked his lips then leaned forward. “I dunno. Maybe we can work out a deal.”

  Lyrianne frowned and shook her head, her first instinct being to run upstairs, lock the door and never come back down. Never. But, she couldn't do that. Not even to Fat Farley. “What kind of deal?”

  “You marry me. You marry me and I don't tell.” He rose, his huge belly pushing the table toward her, trapping her in the chair. She didn't have enough room behind her to move the chair any further so she tried to push on the table to allow her room to escape. It didn't move. He was holding on to it as he advanced around it toward her.