Midnight (23 page)
But nope. Hadn’t happened.
That didn’t mean he wouldn’t relish reading it. He literally couldn’t remember the last thing he’d read. The prospect made the hollow in his chest a little fuller, a little warmer, as if he still had enough pieces of soul to keep functioning.
A glimmer of light in the west caught his attention. His finger tightened reflexively on the trigger. He narrowed his eyes, staring, staring, until blinking became something other people did. The glimmer had been right between two sharp peaks, perhaps kilometers off, where he camped at night. It didn’t return. None of the preternatural alarm bells went off in his brain, but neither could he relax.
Metal, maybe? Or a reflection off glass?
The procession was filing back into town, breaking up now that the bonfire had calmed.
“Hey, Doc,” called Ingrid. She looked up at him from the base of the ladder. “My shift. Go get some breakfast.”
“Thanks.”
As he climbed down, he made a decision. He would check out the area between those peaks. But not now. He didn’t want to get the town in a tizzy if his suspicions were wrong, and he didn’t want Rosa to think she couldn’t trust his gut feelings. No, he decided to check it out that night, when he returned to the caves to sleep.
“Keep an eye on the western horizon, between those two peaks,” he said to Ingrid.
Discretion was one thing, but failing to pass along a possible threat was another. Ingrid had keen senses and a quiet temperament. He felt right in trusting that she wouldn’t make more of it than it was.
She took the watchman’s rifle he handed over. “Trouble?”
“Nah, just thought I saw something. It’s probably nothing.”
The town was quiet when he walked back. The funeral had cast a contemplative blanket over the whole place. Chris returned to his room above the store. It was more like a bus station locker, just a place to stow his gear. He rummaged through his satchel, throwing together a complement of general medical provisions. A wide variety. Then he steeled himself for dealing with these new women. Some might suffer from ailments he couldn’t cure.
Shifting his shoulders back, nodding once to himself, he headed downstairs. Wicker was sweeping and humming tunelessly in his rough baritone. He looked up. “Oh, hey, Doc.”
Falco and his closest allies might resent Chris’s initiation, but no one else gave off that vibe. They just . . . welcomed him.
“I’m heading over to check up on our new guests,” Chris said. “I’m assuming we have free run of supplies here if we need to get them cleaned up?”
“Sure thing,” Wicker said, grinning. “I’d love to see those gals spiffed up and healthy.”
“You and twenty other bravos.”
Wicker shrugged his lanky shoulders. “And the odds improve.”
“Amen,” Chris said, his enthusiasm feigned.
His desire would find no outlet among starved, terrified girls. Rosa was the woman he wanted.
He shoved out of the store and into the street. Again he was struck by the overall change in mood when other townspeople greeted him warmly. But unwilling to analyze it too closely, his mind on the task he faced, Chris kept his replies brief and his strides long.
Brick stood outside the town hall with a shotgun cradled in his arms. “Morning, Doc.” Without hesitation, he stepped aside and opened the door for Chris.
Rosa was already inside. Of course she was.
Their gazes met over the head of a thin brunette. Chris looked away first.
The women had made little nests of their floor space. Some were still asleep at that hour, their blankets pulled tightly around thin bodies or flung away by restless feet. The intimacy of seeing how each woman slept—there on the floor, without much privacy—added to Chris’s tension. No matter who they were, they deserved better. His job was to get them well enough to make that happen.
He walked over to where one woman was sitting up. She wrestled with the task of feeding herself some sort of paste. Viv must have made it to help ease their stomachs back onto solid food. The woman’s posture was defensive, hunched over her ration, legs drawn up near her chest. Chris’s years-long study of wild animals came back like instinct.
“Good morning,” he said.
She flinched.
He set the medical bag against the wall. Slowly, giving her plenty of room and time to get used to his presence, he knelt. “Good morning,” he said again. “My name’s Chris. I’m the doctor here.”
The woman showed no sign of comprehension. Skin like coffee with cream. Dark eyes. Black hair.
He tried again.
“Buenos días. Me llamo Cristián.”
“Buenos días. Me llamo Cristián.”
Her eyebrows lifted, ever so subtly.
“Soy el médico aquí. Estás en el Valle de Bravo.”
Maybe it was the news that he was a doctor or that their settlement had a name, but her posture sank toward abject relief. Her hands began to tremble. Two tears slid down cheeks that still bore the desert’s filmy dust.
Chris eased closer and wrapped his hands around hers, steadying her grip. She tensed but did not pull away. “I’ll help you,” he continued in Spanish.
After a try or two she let him guide her hand, bringing the spoon to her mouth. His chest was hot and crushed by a vise of emotions he couldn’t sort out. Pride, maybe—in himself and in her trust. Rage toward those who’d abused her. And the knowledge that he couldn’t leave the valley while these women needed his care.
Strength eased back into her with every swallow of paste. It smelled of buckwheat and maybe even the agave wine. She ate with more and more enthusiasm. Soon the bowl was empty, and she pushed out a heavy sigh. Although the process probably exhausted her, she looked rejuvenated by the meal.
“Bueno,”
he said.
“Bueno
.
¿Cómo te llamas?”
he said.
“Bueno
.
¿Cómo te llamas?”
“Sara,” she whispered.
He asked her age. Nineteen. He asked where she’d been born. Guadalajara. He asked if she knew the names of the other women. She looked around, her expression bleak, then shook her head.
“I saw them for the first time in the truck,” she said in Spanish, her voice cracking.
“Who did this?”
Again she shook her head.
Chris didn’t want to push her any harder. He offered an encouraging smile. Then he made another decision: in no way were these women ready to be examined by a man, doctor or not. They had endured hell. Living rough had been a test of his mettle. What these women had needed to do to survive since the Change . . . He didn’t feel hearty enough to go there.
With one last smile, he stood and left Sara. Rosa had moved on to another woman, a thick-boned blonde who should have seemed robust and stout. Instead she looked wasted, her eyes like those of a soldier with PTSD.
“Can I talk to you a minute,
Jefa
?”
Jefa
?”
Rosa may have noticed the distance in his tone. He hoped she did. But she wore her poker face too. She nodded and followed him to the back of the hall.
“These women aren’t ready for me,” he said quietly.
She blinked as if surprised by his appraisal. “No, they’re not.”
“The one I was talking to is Sara. She said she hadn’t met any of the others until they wound up in the truck together.”
“The dishwater blonde there, she’s Allison. She said the same thing. Traded along until she wound up here with this lot.” Rosa seamed her lips together, then seemed to force herself to relax. “I’ve heard of it happening. Wandering traders say the O’Malley is notorious for trafficking women.”
“Bastard,” he said tightly. “Doctor’s advice? Food. The gruel seems to be working. Water as they want it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe if Viv and Singer could help, they can get them cleaned up and into new clothes. Good for morale.”
“Right.”
“We’ll give it a week, see if they respond. Then maybe they’ll be mentally strong enough to endure a physical, especially if they bond with you three.”
“We could be there during the exam. I think that would . . .” She cleared her throat, her attention on Allison. “That would help them.”
Rosa’s slide back toward emotion only highlighted how she had been behaving. Curt, professional, but amenable. She hadn’t balked at his suggestions out of reflexive pride. He liked that she was at least to the point of considering his advice for what it was: well-intentioned.
“I’ll introduce myself to the rest, if they seem willing,” he said. “Then I’ll leave it to you and Viv.”
Without waiting for a reply, he returned to tending the women. One draining, heartbreaking hour later, Chris had done all he could. For now. Three more hours of rounds meant cleaning gunshot wounds and checking for signs of infection. None of the bravos qualified as a model patient. Ex insisted on working the forge despite his shoulder wound, and Rio was back on guard duty. Their machismo left Chris with a headache. At least the women seemed grateful for the help he offered.
A shower followed. Then a nap, riddled with erotic fantasies—no glimmer of premonition, just his body being desperate. He woke up, cursed, paced, and waited.
When evening finally arrived, he felt like a free man as he walked into the desert.
TWENTY-THREE
Rosa didn’t need anything from the store, but she lingered in the hope that she would catch Chris either heading up to his room or coming downstairs. The impulse was alien, but she wanted to explain her motive for sending him to stand guard during the funeral. In her way, she had trusted him as much as she was capable of doing. He hadn’t seemed to appreciate that. For all they’d already shared that was extraordinary, they still misfired.
Wicker glanced up as she made her second pass. “Looking for something in particular?”
“Just seeing what new goods have come in.”
“Not much.” He continued sorting fabrics before adding in a conspiratorial tone, “Did you know the new doc’s already got someplace better to sleep? He’s quick, I’ll give him that.”
Rosa’s blood chilled and then heated, a wave of inexplicable emotion going tsunami in her skull. Before the Change, she’d seen the aftermath of such disasters on television. That devastation was inside her now.
Somehow she managed a casual response. “Oh?”
“Yeah. He don’t bunk up in here anymore. Keeps some stuff upstairs, but that’s about it.” Wicker twisted his lip in concentration. “I can’t figure who he’s with, though. Brick and Jolene spend a lot of time together these days, now that she’s given up on Falco. Singer’s too young. Viv seems a mite too old for him, though could be he don’t mind. Maybe Mica? Ingrid?” He shook his head. “But I’ve never known her to take up with anybody besides Ex now and then.”
“Well, it’s not one of the new girls,” she said, her throat tight.
The memory of how he tended to the abused women had stayed with her all day. His patience. His quiet care. The sound of Rosa’s first language on his tongue affected her—so out of proportion with whatever he said. But his diligence and concern for the plight of those girls had burrowed into her soul.
Wicker shrugged. “It’s a puzzle, all right.”
But what if she’d gotten Chris wrong? She knew so little about him. He’d love to stick his dick in her. So? That wasn’t enough to call what they had something real. She stalked out of the store, brows drawn down.
“‘Knowing you but not having you is ripping me up,’” she growled.
Sí, claro.
She climbed the watchtower, her heart tight, muttering curses all the while. To think she’d been
waiting
for him. How he must be laughing. Christian ought to be castrated, the way he wielded his wounded eyes and his smooth, practiced ways.
Dios
, it had been years since a man had fooled her about his sincerity.
waiting
for him. How he must be laughing. Christian ought to be castrated, the way he wielded his wounded eyes and his smooth, practiced ways.
Dios
, it had been years since a man had fooled her about his sincerity.
“Everything all right?” Ex asked.
Of all her bravos, Rosa liked him best because he minded his business. Most likely he shouldn’t be on watch up here so soon after being shot, but just try to stop him from doing exactly as he pleased.
Necio
, this one. Stubborn as hell.
Necio
, this one. Stubborn as hell.
“
Claro.
Mind if I sit for a little while?” Rosa settled in cross-legged, knowing he wouldn’t read her presence wrong. No point in going home when she was too wound up to read or sleep.
Claro.
Mind if I sit for a little while?” Rosa settled in cross-legged, knowing he wouldn’t read her presence wrong. No point in going home when she was too wound up to read or sleep.
“Suit yourself. It’s a quiet night. Mostly.”
Really, she should take a deep breath and let this go.
Don’t think about Chris anymore. Don’t think about him working between someone else’s thighs, gazing down at her face. Don’t think about the sweat on his skin or the sounds he makes—
Don’t think about Chris anymore. Don’t think about him working between someone else’s thighs, gazing down at her face. Don’t think about the sweat on his skin or the sounds he makes—
She ground her teeth, maddened because she knew too many things about the shape of his desire. It was wrong and frightening, but irresistible too. The urge to see if that shared dream had any basis in reality teased at the edges of her mind.
Instead she gazed out over her territory, which always filled her with pride and tranquility. The sky was darkening, a gorgeous sunset in vivid hues, all stark beauty in the slashes of red and violet, with dark hulks of mountain in the distance. This was all that mattered. Not faithless men and their ability to cause such hurt.
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