He kicked the engine to life. The bike took off like a champion thoroughbred at the races. Chris grimaced, but adrenaline made him daring. The expanse of the desert seemed entirely endless. Flatness stretched out past more flatness, creating an illusion of watery waves, not solid ground. He felt the sun against his right cheek. So that was east. The highway should be straight ahead.
But something . . . that dream told him to turn left. He knew it wasn’t Rosa. Rosa was exactly where she should be, riding along the east-west highway that cut through her territory. Gunshots or no, she and her boys would hold their own. In that she’d been right. Chris would only get in the way.
Frustration burst over him like shotgun pellets. He’d been nailed that way once, when a scared homesteader opened fire on him—like being hit with a blowtorch in two dozen places. He felt that way now, overwhelmed by the struggle between what his mind wanted and what his dream dictated. The dream needed him to turn toward the west.
Away from Rosa.
And that felt just plain wrong.
He revved the engine and turned, putting the rising sun to his back. Two shallow rises later and he stopped atop a gully no wider than two grown men laid out head to toe. Down the middle of it ran a beat-up old pickup truck. Covered in so much dust that it nearly blended with the gully floor, it traveled slowly, quietly. The muffler was in good shape, and the driver must’ve been willing to sacrifice speed for stealth.
Maybe the raid on the highway was a diversion. Maybe this was one big coincidence. But for the first time since the alarm had sounded that morning, his logical mind and the dream aligned. He was supposed to be here.
Chris checked the ammunition in his rifle. Then he set about picking a slow, careful path down into the gully, walking the bike toward the ravine floor. Whoever drove the truck might not even be on the lookout for trouble, especially if the highway raid was, in truth, a diversion. But if Chris were discovered, he could pass for a lone drifter rather than one of Rosa’s bravos.
Then the rock beneath his heel gave way, and he slid flat onto his back. Only holding on to the bike’s handle grips kept him from sliding all the way to the bottom of the incline. Chris nearly lost his grip but managed to regain his balance. The truck was almost out of sight now, traveling at that slow, furtive pace.
Sweat made his hands into oil slicks. He wiped them on his shirt when he finally reached level ground. The back of his throat was parched
.
With the empty gully stretching out before him, its floor almost entirely coated by shadows, he remounted and took off flat out. It was a good bike, responsive and damn fast.
Minutes passed, with the cool shaded breezes making the best use of his body’s sweat. He inhaled deeply as he raced after the truck. At least now he knew he was doing the right thing. Whatever his overactive imagination wanted him to discover was inside that truck.
He wondered after Rosa. God, he hoped she proved as tough as she acted. Even as he kept his eye trained on the horizon, he ached to see her again.
The truck was visible now. Chris was loath to waste something as valuable as a tire, but he might not have a choice. He’d rather take them by surprise than try to play one-man army. He got as close as he dared with the bike, then dismounted quickly. He’d become quite a shot over the years—out of necessity rather than desire. The stock of the rifle fit easily along his shoulder. He lowered onto one knee and braced himself. Two slow breaths later, with the truck crawling onward, he fired.
Rubber erupted from the right rear tire. Another shot and the left matched it—completely flat. The truck skidded to a stop. Chris was already back on the motorcycle, his heart pumping blood faster than he would have thought possible.
He had just declared war. But he was feeling territorial. This was Valle land, damn it.The driver and passenger doors opened. Shotguns emerged before bodies did.
“Drop them,” he shouted. “I have you sighted.” His voice echoed off the gully’s bowl-like walls.
Two shotguns hit the ground with metallic thuds.
“Out and on your knees,” Chris said.
As gingerly as he’d handled his initial encounter with Brick, shotgun primed, he circled the vehicle on foot toward the driver’s side. After a smooth grab, he had
two
shotguns. A quick check revealed the man’s weapon loaded and ready.
“I’ll take this,” Chris said. “In lieu of payment.”
The driver was surprisingly short, entirely bald, and wearing a one-piece mechanic’s overalls. The fabric may have once been blue but now reflected only hard wear and lots of dirt. Chris quickly shuffled over to the passenger side. He kicked the other man’s shotgun out of reach. If the driver was the talent of the pair, his partner was the muscle. Fully as tall as Chris, he was built like a pro wrestler who sprinkled his breakfast with steroids.
“Start walking,” Chris ordered. “Same direction you were going.”
“Hell, no.”
Chris leveled his shotgun. “Try again.”
“You won’t shoot me.” He reached behind his back as he said it.
Chris didn’t need the invitation but he appreciated it. One pull of his index finger and the man lay on the ground clutching his foot.
“Now walking out of here will be trickier, but you have your orders.”
“Our orders are to deliver this truck to L.A.,” the driver said. He’d edged around the hood, his hands behind his head. “If we don’t, we might as well be dead.”
The sound of fists banging on the inside of the truck bed caught Chris’s attention. “What the hell?”
A bowie knife hurtled past him, just missing his right arm. The driver’s hand was still extended. The wounded passenger lunged forward. Chris jumped back, shouldered one weapon, took aim with the other, and ended the man’s life. Perhaps preferring to take his chances with the desert, the driver took off running.
The times had not changed so much that shooting a man in the back held any appeal. Chris was too stunned, and the banging resumed. He rounded to the rear of the truck.
“You better not be armed,” he muttered, knowing his decency had hit low ebb three minutes ago.
Still cursing, Chris dropped the tailgate. The stench of sweaty, unwashed bodies hit him like a punch to the nose. He staggered back.
“Holy Christ.”
Inside were eight young women, all crammed together, barely dressed. One looked no older than Penny would have been now. Maybe fourteen? His stomach constricted into a ball.
Pain forgotten—or at least pushed aside—he made a snap decision. “Back in. Now!”
Rather than protest as Chris thought they would, the girls merely shrank from his raised voice. Any fight they might have once had was long gone. His heart ached for them, which was as unexpected as it was unpleasant. “God damn it,” he muttered as he locked the hatch once again.
They didn’t know he was one of the good guys—or what passed as good these days. But he didn’t want them scattering off into the desert. Fear would keep them quiet until he turned them over to people who could comfort them better.
He hid Singer’s bike behind a patch of scrub; someone could come back for it later. The engine rumbled to life with a single turn of the key. A shame to ruin such a well-maintained old bucket of bolts, but Chris saw no other way.
“Let’s see how well this piece of shit drives on two rims.”
And how Valle de Bravo would adjust to eight new female residents.
SEVENTEEN
Singer met Rosa at the front gate, and Jameson took the truck from her to park it with the others in the scrap yard. The girl looked worried and uncertain—not a good sign. In general she was remarkably composed, considering how rough life was, and she wasn’t easily disturbed. Something bad had happened.
How surprising.
Blood loss was starting to make Rosa dizzy, but she forced herself to remain upright. “What’s wrong?”
“The doc—Chris—he asked to borrow my bike . . . but he’s been gone awhile, and—”
“And you don’t know if you did the right thing. If he’s coming back. In your place, I’d be wondering the same thing.”
Singer seemed relieved she wasn’t angry, but honestly Rosa had no energy to spare. The loss of the bike, while heartbreaking for Singer, wouldn’t kill the rest of Valle.
“I’m sorry if I made a bad call,” Singer said.
“Don’t worry about it right now. I promise you, if he doesn’t come back in twenty-four, we’ll assume he’s a thief. Then he becomes shoot on sight.”
The girl focused on the red staining Rosa’s shirt. “You’re hurt.”
“
Sí
, many are. Find Viv and tell her to prepare the
taberna
. I’ll herd the bravos.”
Dios
knew, none of them liked medical attention, but to neglect a wound was simple stupidity. More light-headed by the second, she met the rest of the men. At least they’d gotten gas and metal, if nothing else. It wasn’t what she’d hoped, but better than nothing. Otherwise her shame would be insupportable.
The other bravos fell in behind her, but Falco came up to walk beside her.
So that’s how it’s going to be
.
First I let you walk next to me. Soon you’ll be giving orders. Then you’re in my bed, and finally I’m just the woman who sleeps with Falco.
For the first time in years, her position felt shaky.
In the
taberna
Viv had cleaned several tables. This doubled as a hospital, as Wicker didn’t want blood to spoil irreplaceable goods. The bar had been built to clean up easily, even in the Old West days before the Change. It was still stucco and adobe, with whitewashed walls and a clay floor. The furnishings were made of saguaro wood, and some of Singer’s fabric creations hung for decoration. Rosa grimaced past the pain, imagining bullets being dug out of cowboys who got wailing drunk on a bottle of something raw. Life hadn’t changed so much after all.
Apart from the magic and the monsters.
Viv treated Ex first. The bullet was lodged in his shoulder, and she had to do some digging. Rosa sat beside him and held his hand, letting him squeeze until she thought he would crush her fingers. He had great strength from working the forge, but she took it without protest. She was tough, impossibly tough, and that was why people didn’t mess with her. It was a point of pride that all her men be treated first, even if she had sprung a slow leak.
It will clot soon. I won’t bleed out. Not a major artery.
Singer pitched in, likely wanting to make up for her foolishness in trusting a drifter with her prized possession. She bandaged Rio, who remained stoic. He had been trying to get with the seamstress for months, but Singer thought he was too young, too inexperienced. His expression was proof that age didn’t make a bravo; courage did.
Viv was experienced with injuries. She didn’t talk much about her life before, but Rosa had the impression she’d patched up people for a living—probably not in any official capacity, despite her skills. Or maybe she just had a lot of kids. Either way, Rosa didn’t ask; that went against Valle’s code. Here, no one’s past mattered.
La jefa
needed that guarantee of absolution most of all.
By the time the others had all been tended, Rosa was seeing spots. She didn’t dare stand when she heard the rumble of an unfamiliar engine. The vehicle was obviously disabled. She could tell that from the thumping as it went. But no way could she investigate what was happening, not without falling on her face. Time for some delegation.
“Rio, go check it out. Lem, lock and load behind him.” She only hoped their anger and grief over Manuel would make them compliant. A few heartbeats passed before Rio nodded and left. Lem followed, his expression conflicted but his stride purposeful.
She sat there, rigid with tension, while Viv finished up with Falco. Rosa didn’t relax until Rio called, “It’s the doc. He hijacked a truck . . .” His tone gained wonder. “A truck full of
girls
.”
Madre de Dios.
“Of course he did,” she muttered. “Why would he stay put when there’s a whole desert full of trouble to get into?
Cabrón
.”
“What’re we gonna do with them all?” Rio came to the doorway of the
taberna
to aim an inquiring look at her. “They look starved and scared to death.”
“They were probably intended as slaves and whores,” she said softly.
No wonder they’re scared.
But she’d never say that aloud. It would give away too much of her past—and that she was determined to share with no one. She needed to act, not dwell on old failures.
“Viv, Singer, get the women to the town hall. Reassure them. Take food and drink. They won’t trust men right now. And find Ingrid if any of the bravos hassle you.”
Viv frowned. “You’re still bleeding.”
“I know. The doc can tend me now that he’s back. Those women need you more.”