Sovereign Ground (Breaking Bonds) (19 page)

And I trust Hayden. “Okay. But there is something
more.” Hayden hands back the disk, and I work it into the backpack then replace
my flute. “My grandfather has the key to all of this.”

“He’s involved?”

“Yes, and they won’t stop coming after me until he
stops it.”

“Sparrow, we can’t, we need to…”

“If you love me, you will take me to Humboldt.” It
didn’t sound so manipulating in my mind. I hate myself.

He sucks air like I slapped him. “You believe in
love now?”

Sex? Yes.

Need? Definitely.

Trust? Maybe.

Love?

“You do.” It’s the only answer I can give. Silence
accompanies us while he waits for me to explain more. I won’t lie to him. “I
think there’s a deep emotion that obligates one person to another.” I’m just
not willing to give over that control—be obligated. “But love,” I shake my
head. “It’s as elusive as the happy ending.”

“So you aren’t asking me to take you out of love?”

It feels like my lungs or heart spin out of
control and crash into my ribs. So much more powerful than fear is this
sensation. I want to cry at the thought of him loving me.

I shake my head.

He picks up his phone and calls Thom. How foreign
that their relationship is where he can call them a second time in the same day
and send them scurrying to a new location. Of course getting shot at could make
them believe anything. Next, he calls Malcolm. He is brief and vague. Hayden
promises to email something, “A.S.A.P.”

“I don’t want him to see the pictures of me,” I
say when he hangs up.

“I was talking about the disk and the note. But
Sparrow, you do realize those aren’t the only copies.”

 “Yeah.” And I picture Brody joking with the
billboard designer about having me on their computers. So much for control.

“Will you help me end this?”

“Yes.” But he opens the truck door and gets out.

“Where are you going?” If he thinks I’ll follow him
into the police station, I’ll run as far as my drugged legs take me.

“We can’t hide in this thing.” He smacks the
truck’s seat, opens the truck door wider and points to a motorcycle parked next
to us. “Malcolm said I could borrow his bike.”

Thrill and fear have a symbiotic relationship
sometimes. “Is Clint gone?”

Hayden makes a stretch and turns 360 degrees. “I
see no one.”

Clint is “no one,” but I slide out of the truck
and crouch-walk around the front. Hayden holds a helmet out to me. He also
wears one with a visor pushed up. “Hide your hair too.”

Still squatting, I pull my hair around the side
and braid it. I don’t have any way to bind it, but it should stay tucked into
my shirt.

“Even though it’s summer, you’ll get cold. Wear
this.” Hayden lifts a huge, flock-lined flannel jacket from under the driver’s
seat but changes his mind and hands me my backpack. I put that on first, still
squatting. Then he holds the coat and I walk backward into it. I feel hidden in
the helmet and oversized coat. I’ll just be a nondescript hunchback to anyone
we pass. Hayden straddles the bike.

He jumps up and presses down on a foot lever at
the same moment I step forward. The heat and roar cause me to stumble back.
Hayden turns and holds out a hand. A last glance around tells me Hayden was
right, there isn’t anyone waiting in front of the police station. We are not
alone, though. Cars zip in and out, parking and searching for spots.

A motorcycle? I don’t even know how to ride a
regular bike. Through the full-face visor, Hayden’s eyebrows lift. He looks
like he did when he came to the TorchLight and asked me not to work there. When
I didn’t listen to him. When he left me.

I throw a leg over the seat.

It isn’t too bad leaving the parking lot, the
rumble under me, Hayden in front. I hold myself rigid, afraid I’ll throw the
precarious balance off.

We stop at the exit to the parking lot. “Relax, lean
into me.” Hayden calls over his left shoulder.

I slide my arms around his middle. Hayden rewards
me by placing his hand over mine and squeezing. On my right, I see Clint scan
the area, his back against the building’s side. He doesn’t see me. I try to
look away casually and lay my helmet between Hayden’s shoulders. Hayden pulls
out of the parking lot and the bike tips. I jerk, trying to keep it right.
“Lean with me,” he yells. “Follow my body.”

I look away from the police department and press
harder to Hayden. He turns back and forth on the street, calling instruction.
He’s taking time for a lesson? “Move where I move. Yeah, like that.”

It helps when I don’t watch where we are going. I
just hold Hayden and sync my body with his. After a while, he relaxes and
increases speed. There isn’t any possibility for conversation. The hum of the
engine and rubber against pavement become white noise as we move together. My
hands are chilled, but the sun beats down on my back, and I don’t really need
the jacket. The warmth feels good, though. We are leaving Reno. I want him to
drive so fast that no spirits can follow.

We weave through dry hills and rock ridges. The
scenery is simple, but attractive. After the city has been behind us awhile, I
start to notice signs for The Mustang Ranch, a famous Nevada brothel. I wonder
where Brody’s brothel is. Will Brody live? Will he come after me? Another sign
says, “Would you like a pretty lady to sit on your lap? Truckers Welcome.” My
stomach stirs like it’s digesting bad fish. Have I made a mistake? Are we
heading to a darker place?

I want it all to go away to just match the
movement of my body to Hayden’s and close my eyes to the world. We could drive
forever. The warm sun. The white dashes in the center of the road— all running together
as one.

A pinch on my right leg jolts me awake. “Don’t
sleep.” I try to obey Hayden, but my limbs are not my own, they are heavier.

“Ow.” That second pinch will leave a bruise.

“Sorry. Stay awake.”

I pull at the collar of Hayden’s flannel and
several snaps break open. The air flows in and cools the sweat. It feels good
to sit straight and press back against the metal seat. If only I could take off
my helmet. I push the visor up. I can’t see well and the wind just makes my
eyes water. It cools me, though, so I leave it up for a few minutes. The wide
valley rises on either side to low mountains. Sagebrush and other hearty bushes
speckle the hard ground. Beauty diminished by loneliness. Ahead, something lies
on the side of the road. The closer we get, the clearer the animal. I glance
away when I realize it’s a dead coyote.

The only benefit to a desert is the reminder that
we are frail, needy beings. At least it’s good when you think about your
enemies in those terms. I don’t much like the reminder for myself.

Some of the landscape looks white, shiny almost. We
pass signs for a town called Lovelock. I hold up my sleeves and let wind blow
into Hayden’s jacket. I’m playing, just trying to stay awake. The wind
rhythmically whips Hayden’s T-shirt, but I can still see the definition in his
shoulder blades. I want to trace them with my finger. It isn’t a sexual desire.
He is pleasing to look at—I’m just curious what it would feel like.

Love. Being in love. Making love. I don’t want to
love him, yet I find I’m already bound to him in a way I can’t control. Need
pulls me, and not merely the need for a driver. Something inside him
communicates with something deep inside me. An indefinable longing—like maybe
he could satisfy the barrenness concealed inside me.

No. He won’t be able to. Sadness dams up, rising
to smother my lungs. I’ve seen enough physical love to know that satisfaction
it isn’t found there. I’ve read enough emotional love, to know it isn’t there,
either. What is it I lack?

Hayden arches and stretches. He yells over his
shoulder.

“What?”

“You all right?”

“Fine.”

“Need to stop?”

“Soon.” I lay my helmet back between his
shoulders. What is it I want?

Hayden pinches me a couple more times before we
pull into Winnemucca. The freeway exit is a long incline. Our slowing speed can’t
pull me from my stupor. I’m so tired. At the first stop light, Hayden lifts his
visor.

“Stay awake.” He squeezes my hands one at a time.
The light turns green, and we pass a graveyard on our right. I don’t wish I
were dead, but any kind of sleep right now would be good—even the permanent
kind.

“Little further.” He pats my leg and pinches me. I
don’t care anymore.

The sun is heading toward the mountain ridge, but
if anything, the air is hotter. Hayden turns into a motel and parks in the
shade. He takes off my jacket and tries to get me to follow him.

“I’ll wait here.” I lean forward and place my
crossed arms over his seat. He tries to get me to walk again, but I ignore him.
My legs don’t work. He bunches the jacket under my head and I sleep. At least I
start to. In just seconds he’s coaxing me, poking me, and finally carrying me
into a motel room.

“How sweet.” An old couple, wearing matching black,
teal and silver western-shirts, wave and exclaim over us as Hayden maneuvers me
over the threshold. “Happy Honeymoon!”

Hayden doesn’t answer them, just kicks the door
closed. The cool indoor air swirls around me. He sets me on the bed, pulls off
my shoes and…

I dream.

This is it. I have it. What I’ve been looking for.
My arms and my face lift to the sky. Weighty, white suede drapes over me.
Fringe dangles from my arms. Beauty rests on me. Strength, not from myself,
lifts my feet to stomp the earth. I dance because I’m complete.

“Wake up, Sparrow.” Hayden is haloed by dim blue
light. Muffled voices argue on a television. “You were crying.” He strokes my
cheek. It’s wet.

“I…” I sob now. The dream is not real.

“You’re safe.” Hayden kneels beside me, stroking
my forehead, my hair.

I turn and press my face into his chest. It isn’t
safety I want, but that completeness. The wholeness from my dream. Hayden rubs
my back. How many times have I cried with him? Why can I do this with him and
no one else?

“Was there music in here?”

His cleft lift crinkles and his eyes squint with a
secret. “Maybe.”

“Radio?”

“Naw. I was playing my harmonica a while.”

“Harmonica?” A little laugh comes out my nose.

“I was bored. You were out a long time.”

“What time is it?” Pushing back from him, I slide
out of the covers. Dizziness disorients me, and I lower myself to a hard chair
near the bed.

“One in the morning. You’ve slept six hours at
least. Not counting the two on the bike.” Hayden rises and stands on the far
side of the queen bed. The covers are pulled back where I slept, the far side
is unruffled.

“You didn’t sleep.”

“I tried…in the chair. I was worried about you.” A
commercial ditty annoys in the background. Hayden picks up the remote and turns
it off. We are left in only the illumination of the small table lamp.

I feel like I could sleep another eight hours.
“Could you sleep now?” I point to the bed.

“Ah, no, not if you…” If he was uncomfortable
being alone with me at the Jones’ house, what is this doing to him? A single
bed. Just the two of us.

“I’m not tired.” A yawn starts, so I cover my mouth
and make a show of coughing.

“No, y-you can have the bed.”

I take the single chair. “I don’t want it.” I prop
my feet up on the edge of the bed. “I slept enough. Besides, I normally read
myself to sleep, and I don’t have a book. I won’t sleep again.” I try to
swallow. My tongue feels like fabric, but the bathroom is too far away. As soon
as he sleeps, I’ll slide into bed—and just be careful not to touch him.

Hayden yanks on the door handle, checking the
lock. He stretches out on the edge of the bed and lays face up. He crosses his
left arm under his head and rests his right arm next to his side, close to his
gun. “You can’t sleep without a story, huh? Would you like me to tell you one?”

His question feels like a kiss. Not a sensual lip
kiss—a protective, forehead kiss. “Yes.” My voice is breathy.

“There once was a girl named Cinderella.” His
chest expands with air. He holds it a second and releases slowly, evenly for
several seconds. “She had long, straight, black hair. Dark eyes that smiled about
some hidden joke that only she knew. She was strong, but didn’t know it…”

I interrupt with a guffaw.

“Okay.” He smiles at me. “She wanted to go to a
ball. This wasn’t just any ball. It was an opportunity to meet a true love.” He
pauses. I hope he doesn’t start describing himself.

“But her stepmother—” I picture Lorna. “Who was
named ‘Sin,’ didn’t want her to go.” The skin on my arms tingles. This is about
me, but not Lorna.

“She had two stepsisters. One was named ‘Law’ and
the other, ‘Rules.’ They continually showed Cinderella why she should not go to
the ball. Until a fairy named Iglesia came.”

“And gave her a dress.” I add.

“No. Iglesia could not give her the right gown. Many
people would be wearing fancy gowns, but Cinderella had to go dressed like she
was, in rags. Iglesia knew the Prince was looking for a bride who came only as
herself, no pretenses. Iglesia told Cinderella that, since her stepmother and
stepsisters forbade her to go, she needed to renounce them. Cinderella went. Unfortunately,
so did Stepmother Sin. Sin was so angry that she shot an arrow to kill
Cinderella.” Hayden pauses and holds his hands up. “There Cinderella stood, shivering
in rags, as the arrow raced through the air, aiming for her heart.”

I sit up and lean in to hear better.

“The Prince stepped in front of Cinderella and
took Sin’s arrow. The prince didn’t have to block it—it wasn’t meant for him—but
he loved Cinderella so much that he was willing to die for her.”

“And that’s the end of your version? It sucks.”

“Hardly.” He smiles, and his cleft lip scar makes
him look so impish, I smile back. “This is an interactive version. A kind of choose
your own adventure,” he says.

“But the prince is dead.” I’ve read dozens of
different Cinderella versions. An Asian Cinderella, an Arabian Cinderella, even
a Native American adaptation, but I never heard anything like this.

His eyes hold my gaze. “Cinderella runs away at
the stroke of midnight. So she didn’t know that the prince did not stay dead.
He wasn’t obligated to Stepmother Sin’s arrows. His heart swelled with love for
Cinderella and pushed out the shaft. So here’s the part where you can choose:
the slippers fall from her tiny feet.”

I wiggle my size-nine foot.

“Do you pick up the slipper?”

“Hayden your story is strange.”

“Well, I’ll tell you the ending. The Prince lived
and is returning for his Cinderella. He wants to make her his bride. He will
know her by the glass slipper. When he comes in and she presents it he will
scoop her up, take her to his kingdom and she will inherit all that he has.” Hayden
rolls onto his side and asks me again. “Do you pick up the slipper?”

“Well of course, but only because you told me the
ending.”

“The story is true, Sparrow. It’s a picture of how
God loves you.”

God loves me. The only proof I have is people keep
telling me that.

“And he is returning for his bride.” Hayden yawns.

I jump up and let myself into the bathroom. I know
I don’t have a glass slipper. Everything he said niggles with a sensation that
I can’t fully grasp. I splash water on my face, rinse out my mouth and pull the
underwear from my pocket. I want to be clean. To wash the sweat from the ride,
the lingering puke smell, everything since my shower yesterday morning. I strip
and climb in.

Since I have to return to my dirty clothes, the
shower isn’t as satisfying as usual. But at least I have the undergarments now.
Hayden still lies on top of the bed covers, but now he snores softly. I pull
the comforter from my side and lay it over him. Since he’s driving, he needs
the sleep more than I do. I lie beside him, resisting the urge to align my body
with his like we did on the motorcycle.

Trying to stay as still as possible, I realize I’m
holding my breath.

“Don’t go…” Hayden mumbles. “Sabine, please.”

Though it’s muffled, it’s definitely the same name
Malcolm Graves said back in Reno. Who is Sabine? Maybe that’s why Hayden wouldn’t
want me here, lying beside him. I suddenly feel like I’m stealing, so I get up
and return to the chair. If I slept on a moving bike, I can sleep here.

I don’t, though. Time ticks by, whether I watch
the glowing red numbers or not.

Meow. Meow.

At about two in the morning I realize the meowing is
consistent. The air conditioning kicks on and muffles the kitten’s cry. I turn
off the thermostat and walk barefoot to the window. Maybe I imagined—nope, there
it is again. It’s a little one. I don’t know if I have ever heard such a small
cry. An hour goes by with me pacing the thin carpet. I can’t take it any
longer.

“Hayden.” I squat next to his stretched out body. He
doesn’t open his eyes, but his hand moves to his holster. “Hayden, it’s me.” I
shake him hard.

“What’s happening?” He sits up quickly.

I can’t move from my squatting position fast
enough, and I fall back on my seat. His thumb flips open the snap securing his
gun and his right fingers trill across his hip. His partially opened eyes flick
around the room. In the space of our shallow breathing and staring at each
other, the kitten cries a half a dozen times in quick succession.

“Do you hear that?” I move my feet under me and
take a couple crouching steps back to the window.