Stranger (16 page)

Mr. Preston shook his head, his expression solemn. “I have never seen one that big. And snakes herding you kids to be devoured.”

He shook his head again as Mia stepped up, rubbing her hands. “It's my turn now.”

• • •

Jennie's headache had reached thunderstorm proportions by the time she reported to the town hall. She fought it with relaxation breathing during the debriefing and the resulting vote, but her head still throbbed when she and Felicité were released to return to the schoolhouse.

As they walked through the plaza, sounds jabbed at Jennie like cactus spines, unnaturally loud: Felicité's mincing steps, the rustle of her skirts. Even the smell of her expensive lemon verbena soap was nauseating.

Jennie took a deep breath. Everything had turned out fine. Both the defense chief and the mayor had been unstinting in their praise of her handling of the disaster in light of what they'd discovered. As the mayor put it, “for keeping a cool head under extraordinary circumstances.” To which the defense chief had added, “This is exactly what I expect of a future leader.”

Felicité had smiled as she noted it for the record, but Jennie wondered if that was yet another part of her act. Who was the real Felicité Wolfe—the considerate girl who did everyone favors, or the mean-spirited bigot who had called Ross a mutant? Jennie wished she'd been there, if only to hear what Felicité's voice was like when she wasn't . . . performing.

“Do you want to announce the result, as representative of the kids' delegation, or shall I?” Jennie asked.

“I think as teacher, it is your place,” Felicité said.

Which was only fair.

Jennie winced as a splash of sunlight reflected off sheet metal in Mia's yard. Maybe she was holding an unfair grudge about the “mutant” remark. It wasn't as if Jennie had never said something in anger and regretted it later.

Then Jennie remembered Felicité's quinceañera. She'd stood in the decorated town square, accepting her presents and greeting everyone in her sparkling dress and tiara. Alfonso Medina had brought her a rarity, a huge conch shell that he must have dived deep to find. Felicité had smiled her perfect smile and thanked him prettily, but she had indicated a table for him to set it on, rather than touching his gecko fingers. And when she'd gone home, the shell had remained. Nothing had ever been said, but Jennie had not forgotten the hurt in Alfonso's eyes.

On the other hand, that had been two years ago. People changed.

The trouble was, you never knew what Felicité really felt. At school, she ended up reading history when she ought to be tackling physics, explaining, “Mother says I need to know history for my job.” On hot mornings, rather than training, she'd organize the little kids, whom, Jennie had to admit, Felicité managed better than Laura. But she never actually said, “I hate studying physics and getting sweaty, so I won't do it.”

With the people Jennie liked best, what you saw was what you got: Mia, Sera, Indra, and her parents. But Henry was like that too, unable to take anything seriously, and so was Tommy Horst, dropping his father's opinions like an anvil on your head. Neither of them hid their true feelings, but sometimes she wished they would.

Ross, now . . . Jennie couldn't figure out where to place him. He seemed straightforward by nature, and yet so much about him was a mystery. Where had he come from? Why had he been attacked? She'd seen his scars when they'd been sparring, and they weren't all recent. Were they from accidents or tangles with wildlife, or were some from battle? Had he ever had to kill another human being?

She didn't even know if he was a Norm or Changed, and that was no accident: she'd heard the kids trying to figure that out, via subtle and less-than-subtle questions, and he'd resolutely refused to say.

Not that Jennie blamed him. She liked to think of herself as honest and up-front, but she knew she hid many of her feelings. Maybe her real problem was that she and Felicité were too much alike. There was an unpleasant thought.

She wondered what Felicité thinking now, while she waved at Mr. Nazarian propelling his wheelchair with his strong arms, on his way to mend fishnets.

Felicité seemed to feel her gaze, and smiled brightly. “I'm having a party tomorrow night to choose the music for the dance. Since my mother's the guest of honor, the band's going to play songs popular when she was our age. I want to make sure they're still danceable. Everyone gets a vote. I've already invited Sujata and Indra, and if you come, maybe he will too. I know he likes to dance. Please come.”

This was the first time Felicité had invited Jennie to one of her exclusive Hill parties.
She's certainly not thinking mean thoughts about
me, Jennie thought, and said, “We'll be there, thank you.”

At the schoolhouse, they found Ms. Lowenstein supervising a reenactment of the snake battle. Older teens were the snakes, armed with sponges dipped in beet juice, while the thirteen- to fifteen-year-olds defended themselves. Jennie didn't know whether to be pleased or depressed that the defenders were doing better under the chief archer's cat-eyed gaze than in the actual battle.

Ms. Lowenstein clapped her hands to end the drill, and pointed out the students who were splashed with dark red. “You're dead. . . you're dead . . . you might live for two days in the infirmary. You lost that arm. Ms. Riley? They're all yours.”

“Inside.” Jennie's throat was dry.

Ms. Lowenstein thumped Jennie on the shoulder. “Remember. Hindsight is always a hundred percent after a battle. In the heat? Any of us could have done what you did. If you want to talk about it some more, why don't you join us for Shabbat dinner this Friday?”

Inside, the students sat quietly for once. Each would tell his or her parents what Jennie said. She had to choose her words carefully. “Okay, here's what we did right. We killed fourteen huge rattlesnakes, even though we never trained to fight more than one snake at a time. We located and evaded the largest pit mouth anyone has ever seen—even Mr. Preston. And nobody was killed.”

She stopped when a few began to whisper. The voices instantly ceased.

“Here's what we did wrong. Nearly everyone under sixteen forgot their training and panicked. Some tried to run. Three were wounded, one by someone's arrow, and three lost control of their horses.”

The younger teens began protesting. Jennie lifted her voice. “I know that some of you sent a delegation to Felicité Wolfe, and she spoke to the council on your behalf. But they've decided that from now on, patrol age is sixteen and up.”

The protest was louder this time.

“Other people panicked, but I was okay!”

“That's not fair!”

She slammed a slate on her desk. It sounded like a rifle shot; Ross wasn't the only person who jumped.

“Quiet.” She lowered her voice. “Things change. When our parents were young, patrolling age was eighteen. Train hard, and they might change their minds. But if you act like little kids, they might go to twenty.”

“Then
you
won't go.” Tommy's whisper was calculated to reach Jennie.

She turned, ready to annihilate him. But every other face was somber. Dee whispered, “Thanks for trying, Felicité.”

Jennie forced her shoulders to relax. “Now, let's break into study groups, and review—”

The bell began to clang: two short tangs and a long one.

Stranger at the gate.

Felicité

FELICITÉ SWEPT HER SKIRTS TOGETHER. SHE
loathed wall duty, but she loved to watch her father in command, and it was important to observe how he did it.

Jennie Riley still frowned, even though she'd been completely exonerated. What more could she want? She said in her teacher voice—which Felicité had to admit was quite authoritative—“Those on wall duty for ‘Stranger,' go.”

People grabbed their weapons, and Felicité got her bow. Henry paused in the doorway. “Let's run! Mr. Preston will be timing us.”

The students tore after him, Felicité following more sedately. When they reached the wall, sure enough, her daddy clicked his beautiful old stopwatch. But he didn't praise their speed.

The sheriff stood beside him, hands on her pistol grips. The Rangers were back from their mission, lined up and ready; Jennie wasn't even out of breath as she raced to join them on the ammo platform.

Felicité's attention shifted from Jennie to Indra. The sun gave his hair a blue sheen and glinted off the machete at his belt. She wished she could enjoy the sight, but she recalled the painful visit to the Vardams' to apologize.

At least Indra had been pleasant and friendly when he forgave her. She'd been relieved that she hadn't burned any bridges. But unfortunately he'd had to rush off to Ranger training, leaving her alone with his Changed father and the rest of his family.

Sujata had been equally pleasant, though quiet. The elder Vardams had been gracious but stiff, offering her manzanita cider and a warm chapati spread with the latest jam from their orchards. Each bit of polite talk she scraped out to fill the awkward silences was a reminder of what happened when one lost control. Felicité was certain that she would never again enjoy pomegranate jelly.

I'm so glad I thought of asking Jennie to my party
, she thought now. Indra had changed his mind about coming, as she'd hoped, once he found out Jennie was invited. Felicité could work on recovering lost ground.

On the wall, Indra and Jennie stood shoulder to shoulder, both alert and full of authority of which they weren't even aware. Their attention was solely on the stranger striding through the shimmering heat waves and dust.

Popular teacher—skilled patrol leader—Ranger. Jennie could do no wrong. Though the Rileys didn't live on the Hill, they were respected by Norms and Changed alike.
Sooner or later, she's sure to end up on the council,
Felicité thought.

And where would that end? Indra and Jennie stood there like the town leaders of the future. Felicité's heart twisted.

The sentries readied their weapons. The approaching stranger was a tall man in a long black duster, a rifle slung across his back. He carried a staff. His broad-brimmed hat hid most of his face, until he paused about twenty paces from the gates. Then he lifted his head, squinting against the sun.

He was about her father's age, tough and weather-beaten. He laid down the staff, then stood, holding out his empty hands. The sleeves of his coat slid back, and Felicité saw the edge of a bandage on his right arm.

His gaze flicked from her father to Sera Diaz. Finally he examined Sheriff Crow's hideous skull face. Then he addressed Daddy; he knew who the real leader was.

“Your town has something I want.”

An hour later, Felicité dipped the steel nib of her pen into the inkwell. Her mother gave a nod of approval before scrutinizing the bounty hunter. Since the stranger had refused to give his name, Felicité was abbreviating him as “B. H.”

“Yes, I shot that boy,” the man said. “Winged him as a warning. He jumped a claim and I'm bringing him back for the bounty.”

“A claim jumper?” The sheriff's snake eye narrowed. “That's a serious accusation.” No wonder Ross Juarez was so twitchy. “Whose claim did he jump? And who are you bringing him back to?”

“A private individual.” The man's voice was deep as a gravel pit. He leaned toward the sheriff as he spoke, as if the mutated side of her face didn't repulse him at all.

The normal side of Sheriff Crow's mouth pulled down in annoyance. “I'm finding it very difficult to take anything on faith from a man with no name.”

“I'm also a private individual,” said the bounty hunter. “That boy is dangerous, Sheriff. Better let me take him off your hands.”

“Which brings us to the real question,” said Felicité's mother. “Do we surrender Ross Juarez or do we not?”

“Not. At least until the council reconvenes.” The sheriff shot a look at the man, her hair swinging back from her skull. “You stay away from him until then. You can sleep outside the walls with your weapons, or inside without them.” She held out her hands.

The bounty hunter's eyes flicked from her hands to her face and back to her hands, as seconds ticked by.

Sheriff Crow didn't move.

The man reached over his shoulder and pulled his sectional staff from its harness. In a surprisingly formal gesture, he held it out with both hands. With the same formality, she accepted the staff, and then his rifle and his pouches of bullets and gunpowder.

Felicité saw her mother's eyes narrow. The sheriff and the bounty hunter seemed to have made a wordless truce without consulting her. “As Mayor of Las Anclas, I accept you as a guest of the town,” she said graciously.

The sheriff added, with no grace at all, “You can get a room from Jack Lowell at the saloon.”

“My husband wished me to invite you to stay at our house,” Felicité's mother cut in. “I believe you will find it more comfortable and far less noisy.”

“Thank you,” the bounty hunter said.

• • •

Felicité tried to see her home as a stranger would. The bounty hunter showed no signs of appreciating the roses that lined the walkway, but he did pause in the foyer to look around the parlor—from the Mexican piano handed down through generations of Wolfes to the Chinese screen, also handed down for generations, and upward to the French crystal chandelier, whose tapers were lit only on holidays.

“I'd better dust off my coat, Mayor Wolfe,” he said finally.

Felicité's mother gave him her most gracious smile. “You may remove your boots here. If you would like to avail yourself of a hot bath, we have the means. We will dine when you are ready.”

Wu Zetian scampered up to greet Felicité. Seeing the stranger's curious gaze, she explained, “We've had trained rats in Las Anclas for forty years, ever since Tatyana Koslova came here with four breeding pairs. They're mostly reserved for official use, running messages and scouting and so forth. But a boy who wants to be a prospector has one, and I do too, as council scribe.”

The bounty hunter let Wu Zetian sniff his boots but did not pet her. “You tie messages to their collars, like carrier pigeons?”

“Yes, exactly. They're even trained to deliver them to specific people or places.”

“Very clever.”

Unnerved by his shrewd gaze, Felicité wished she hadn't gone on about Wu Zetian. But everything she said was public knowledge.

“I'll take that bath now,” he said. “Thank you, Mayor Wolfe. Felicité.”

When he was gone, and they heard water gushing into the heating cistern, her mother said, “Felicité, tell the cook to have dinner at eight. You and I can take your father's to him on the wall.”

The door banged open, and in pounded Felicité's little brother Will—with his shoes on. “Mother! Rico said you've got that bounty hunter here!”

“Will, please remove your shoes,” Felicité asked as pleasantly as possible.

He jerked up one shoulder. “I'm going right out again.”

“William,” their mother said, “you must demonstrate better manners than these. If you want to meet our guest—”

Will flung his shoes into the cubby. “Is he gonna arrest Ross Juarez? Did Ross shoot somebody? Is he gonna shoot someone here?”

“William, dear—”

“Ross is cool! He killed a snake one-handed!”

Their mother patted his cheek. “Take our guest's boots to Clara to clean and polish.”

He scampered off. Felicité and her mother collected a packed dinner from the cook, then headed for her father's command post.

A couple of passersby asked, “What's going on?” and one, “Is the council meeting again?”

Her mother answered them all without stopping, and no one dared hinder her. Felicité memorized her tone and gestures. She needed to learn how to express authority just as naturally.
Jennie Riley will not take my place,
she thought.

At the wall, Daddy grinned in welcome, looking like a grown-up version of Will. “My two favorite ladies in the world!”

As she unpacked the basket, her mother recounted the interview.

“So is the boy Changed?” her father asked, his heavy brows furrowing. “I knew we shouldn't have had a council vote before that was determined.”

“The man was careful not to say,” Felicité's mother replied. “I invited him to stay with us, as you requested. The sheriff did not like that. But she conceded.”

“She'd figure I'll keep a personal eye on him. And she'd be right.”

“I trust he will open up more to you. He told us very little, not even his name. What is it?”

He smiled. “Ah, Valeria. Can't tell you everything. A man's got to have a few secrets.”

Felicité couldn't resist. “You don't know, do you, Daddy?”

“You got me.” He laughed. “I never learned much about him. He's a very dangerous man. We've always had agreeable interactions—he keeps his word—but I confess I'll be relieved when he takes that boy and leaves.”

Felicité nodded, thinking,
I can train Wu Zetian on his boots. He won't go anywhere in this town without my knowledge.

Her mother shook her head. “Only if the man is legally entitled to him. If not, keeping the boy might not be such a bad alternative. He is a strong young man, and you know how much we need healthy young folk.”

Her father retorted, “If they're healthy and
normal
.”

It always upset Felicité when he got that tone in his voice.

“Thomas,” her mother murmured.

He glumly eyed an open container. “Dearest Valeria, I hate sardines. You know that.”

Felicité averted her gaze from the silver-scaled fish, their bulging eyes and their hideous, gaping gill slits. “I agree, Daddy. Mother, can't we have them banned from the kitchen?”

“Felicité, you used to love pan-fried sardines,” her mother said with gentle reproof.

“When I was twelve. Whole fish are revolting.”

“They're good for you, my dears. Plenty of calcium.”

As they returned home, Felicité wondered if Ross really was a claim jumper. She recognized she wanted him to be one, only because life would be simpler if he was gone. Every time she saw him, she remembered her humiliating loss of control and the shock in everyone's faces.

Maybe if Ross chose to leave on his own? There were a lot of people in town who—quite rightly—loathed the idea of claim jumpers. She smiled. Sometimes the best way to make people believe an accusation was to insist that it couldn't possibly be true.

Most important of all, she had to make certain that Felicité Wolfe would be the female half of the most powerful couple in Las Anclas's future.