“That’s okay. I guess it was a surprise.” As much as she wanted to ask, she reeled in her avid curiosity. Loomis’s response to the whole thing, coupled with Cara’s and Heather’s reactions warned her to go very, very slowly here. If she put her foot in it, she would be sitting in the town church looking for someplace else to live. Cara would march her there by her ear. “Are you going to be all right?”
Loomis swallowed and nodded, fully concentrating on the water as she returned to dabbling her fingers in the pond. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’d like to be alone, if that’s okay.”
Gwen studied her, noting the tense shoulders and the tight set jaw. Her eyes stung with the unshed tears she could sense from Loomis, but she respected her desire for privacy. Standing, a little awkward with the unfamiliar movement of the dock, she reached over to squeeze Loomis’s stiff shoulder. “I’ll see you inside.”
She received only a nod in response.
With a sigh, Gwen began the walk back to the cabin. At least she’d broken through Loomis’s fury. She still didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on, but Loomis wouldn’t dump on her now. She cleared her throat around the lump in it, grumbling to herself. “What’s with all this wanting to cry shit, anyway?”
Another consequence of their return was an increase in clothing for Gwen. She had hastily declined the nightgowns that had been gathered, her mind flashing on the pathetic form of Mrs. Phillips’s emaciated corpse wearing them. Instead, she took a couple of the lawyer’s button-up shirts, a nice pair of trousers with suspenders, two pairs of flannel boxers and a handful of sleeveless T-shirts. It seemed Mr. Phillips had held a fondness for wife beaters as well as medieval garb. When Gwen prepared for bed, she wore a pair of boxers and one of the button-up shirts with the sleeves rolled up almost to her elbows. Her small frame fairly swam in the sea of pinstriped cloth and the hem dangled to her knees.
Both the living room and kitchen still looked a disaster with books, sewing paraphernalia and camping supplies taking up floor and table space. That didn’t deter the Loomis clan from enjoying their nightly ritual, however. Gwen curled on the end of the couch, shirt drawn over her knees and tucked under her sock feet, rapt with wonder as she lost herself to the story of a boy in a wizard school and the obstacles he overcame.
Since their discussion by the pond, Loomis’s mood had cheered. Gwen had caught moments of melancholy in her eyes through the afternoon and evening, but the worst of her anger and moodiness had washed away. At least Loomis wasn’t looking at her like being reminded of Riddick was Gwen’s fault. Gwen was certain that Heather and Cara had spoken to Rick. It seemed all three of them walked a little warier around their matriarch, doing their level best to keep her laughing and smiling in an attempt to forestall depression.
The nightly ritual, the tucking in of the younger kids, began. Again Rick took the boys to their upper room, and Loomis took the girls to theirs. Did they ever swap? Gwen went to her room with a candle. Overhead, she heard Loomis’s footsteps as she moved from one side of the room to the other, getting the girls dressed and into bed. As bedsprings creaked, Gwen finished lighting the lamp and pinched out the candle flame.
She sat on the bed and picked up the framed photo of the pre-plague Loomis family. Having never had siblings, she wondered if it was hard for Loomis to be raised with so many brothers. The only girls were her and Megan. Gwen peered closely at the picture, not seeing the baby Megan no doubt was at the time. Maybe she hadn’t been born yet—Loomis had said this was taken the summer before what the townies called “Orphan Maker.” That name was much more appropriate than the Methuselah Plague. She squinted at the photo. Somewhere in that crowd of redheads, Mother Loomis had a swollen belly, but Gwen couldn’t make it out. Setting the photo down, Gwen yawned and climbed into bed. She snuggled under the blankets, lying on her side facing the door. Not much later, it opened to admit Loomis.
“Hey,” Loomis said upon seeing her. “Still awake?”
“Not for much longer.” As if on cue, her face split into another yawn.
Loomis opened one of the dresser drawers and emptied it into a couple of others. “I’m going to put your stuff in the top left drawer, okay?” She proceeded to do so. “In the morning, I’ll free up another drawer or two and some space in the armoire for your pants.”
“Okay.”
Domestic chores complete, Loomis opened the wardrobe, revealing hangers filled with clothing and hooks on the inside door. She seemed a little nervous with Gwen’s presence, not quite looking over her shoulder as she prepared for bed. For her part, Gwen refused to roll over like she had the first night. If she was going to get anywhere with this woman, she needed Loomis to get used to her being in the room. She didn’t stare, but didn’t look away, either. Loomis quickly shed her shirt and hung it from a hook. In the lamplight, Gwen admired the strong back, her prurient interest almost making her miss the faint scars. There were three of them crisscrossing Loomis’s shoulders, the tissue shiny as scars usually were. Gwen almost spoke, but snapped her mouth shut as Loomis dived into her nightshirt. She knew Riddick had had a hand in those. One of his ideas of fun was to use the buckle end of his belt as he beat his victims. Gwen had seen similar wounds on several girls who’d had the misfortune of being involved with the cracker. Was Loomis Riddick’s first girlfriend? Sure, she had said she’d never had a boyfriend, but Riddick was a psychopath, not a cut buddy. Gwen would deny the connection too, if she’d been stupid enough to get mired in a relationship with the asshole.
Her dark thoughts caused her to miss Loomis dropping her pants and hanging them from a hook. Gwen didn’t notice the flash of pale thigh until Loomis arrived at the bed, pulling the covers back to climb in. Abruptly brought back to the present, Gwen scooted closer to the wall to give Loomis room.
Loomis plumped up her pillows and sat up in bed, reaching for the book on the nightstand.
“You sure do read a lot.”
“So do you.” A faint smile graced Loomis’s face. “Romance novels, huh?”
Pleased with her attempt at conversation, Gwen grinned. “Yeah. The trashier the better.”
Loomis shook her head. “Let me know when you want to read real books, okay? We’ve got plenty.”
“Hey, mine are real books!” Gwen protested with little heat. “What kind of books do you read?” Her smile widened at the embarrassed blush that met her question.
Waggling the hardbound book before Gwen, Loomis muttered, “Science fiction and fantasy.”
“Hah!” Gwen chuckled. “Just as real as romance.”
Loomis only shook her head and adjusted herself until she was comfortable. As she opened the book to her place, she paused, giving Gwen a sidelong look. “Pleasant journeys.”
Gwen’s smile softened. “You, too.”
Her eyes drifted shut as Loomis became engrossed in her book and she dreamed of many pleasurable romances, each involving a certain auburn-haired woman with cinnamon-hazel eyes.
***
Loomis woke to heart-pounding terror, tears streaming down her face and the echo of her cry still ringing off the bedroom walls. Panting heavily, she darted her gaze around the room. She confirmed that it had indeed been another nightmare, that it wasn’t happening all over again, and she smothered a sob of relief, slumping. As expected, there came a gentle tap at the door as her brother checked on her, something he had done every time this nightmare had occurred for the past five years.
“You okay, Marissa?”
“Yeah,” she croaked, pausing to clear her throat. “Go back to bed.”
“See you in a bit,” he said, completing the ritual.
Comforted by the oft-repeated practice, she scrubbed at her face with her hands. She needed a handkerchief. When she tossed back the covers to get one from the dresser she remembered Gwen.
The moon was a quarter full and waning, and it wasn’t positioned to allow much light in through the small windows. Loomis barely made out wide eyes watching from the bed. At least she hadn’t scared the city kid into cowering like last time. “Sorry.” She sniffled and got up to get that handkerchief before her nose ran all over the place.
“Are you okay, Marissa?” Gwen repeated softly.
Hearing her first name from Gwen, Loomis shivered. A rush of emotions coursed through her, but she couldn’t seem to pin any of them down.
I’m still shook up from the nightmare.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She found the cloth and blew her nose. Then she closed her eyes and stood for a moment, leaning on the dresser.
“I’m here if you want to talk.”
A fresh wave of tears threatened Loomis, and she nodded, keeping her back to Gwen. “Thanks. It comes and goes sometimes, that’s all. I expect it’ll fade off to nothing soon.”
God, let that be true.
“Okay.”
Still fighting the desire to cry, Loomis pushed her shoulders back. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be all right.” Without waiting for a reply, she went to the armoire and retrieved her clothes and boots. In moments she stood in the hall, the bedroom door closed on Gwen’s sympathy. She sighed, resting her forehead on the door. She’d survived another narrow escape from anyone witnessing her weakness.
She entered the living room, treading with care lest she trip over the clutter still strewn across the floor. Here the light was a little better, but not by much. At the fireplace she stirred the banked coals with a long bit of kindling. Several minutes later, a candle burned merrily, illuminating the disaster area of half- sorted piles. It was too early to start chores and she doubted she would be able to get back to sleep tonight. She dressed in the flickering light, knowing she was up for the duration. A multitude of books was piled on the dining table. She brought her candle there to begin the tedious task of sorting them by subject. As she worked on the project, she reflected on what she had told Gwen.
Tonight’s nightmare had been the worst she had experienced in some time. It had been years since it had been bad enough to cause her to cry out in her sleep. Twice now. After the news she had received yesterday, it was no surprise she would experience an upswing in intensity. She just hoped that news of Riddick’s involvement with the city kids would pass quickly. The more she was reminded of him by the expressions of pity she would receive from her friends and neighbors, the longer the nightmares would continue. Even now her throat was thick with unshed tears and it annoyed her. In her experience, crying never did any good. It sure as hell wouldn’t help now, five years later. She ruthlessly shoved the emotions away, dividing the books into fiction and nonfiction piles.
***
Gwen stared at the ceiling as she listened for Loomis. There was just enough subtle movement beyond the door to indicate that she was still in the cabin, though not enough noise to wake anyone. She knew Loomis wouldn’t be returning to bed. She hadn’t last time, either. It had been just as alarming to be wakened by her thrashing again, but Gwen must have been expecting it. Despite hard-won reflexes, she didn’t try to get away or hide when she woke. She watched Loomis battle her demons, thrashing and muttering, begging her invisible attacker to leave someone alone. Gwen wished she could go back and kill Riddick herself. It was one thing for him to beat the girls he had been with. By rights, they almost deserved it since they had flocked to his violent ways despite knowing what he was like with other girls. She was sure Loomis hadn’t rated such treatment. No wonder that first townie was so pissed off when Gwen had mentioned the name. Did anyone else here have similar scars on their bodies and hearts?
She really hoped that this news wouldn’t mess things up for the Gatos. They were no more at fault than she was. Having run with Riddick for a few years, the townies might decide to toss the newcomers back onto the road. Gwen didn’t expect it here—the Loomises were decent people. There were bound to be other folks, less pure, who would consider Riddick’s involvement with the Gatos as cause to get rid of them. What had Annie Faber said? Something about a festival? In two weeks, who knew what could happen. There might be another town meeting, the people reneging on their agreement to take in the Gatos. What would Loomis do? Fight it? Agree? What if this whole thing broke Lindsay Crossing?
Frowning, Gwen rolled over and stared at the wall.
“You want me to do what?” Gwen stared at the sheep laying helpless on a worktable before her, hooves neatly trussed together. It bleated, but didn’t seem particularly panicked over its current predicament. It had been a week since her arrival here, and today was shearing day at the Loomis homestead. The annual chore involved everyone including the youngest members of the family.
Four plank tables had been erected in the sheep barn, creating workstations for the various tasks necessary in relieving the sheep of their wool. The animals had been ushered into the corral in the wee hours after the ewes had been milked. Now Delia let one at a time into the barn to be tied and placed on a table.
“Pull it. We need to pull the inner coat out where it’s shedding. Actually, the term we use is ‘rooing’ and the undercoat is called thel.” Rick demonstrated the process, plucking at the tufts of down on the sheep’s belly. Wads of downy fleece came away, and he deposited a double handful in a canvas bag attached to the side of the table. “It’s easy. Just don’t pull hard—you want to get the loose stuff out, not yank their fleece out by the roots.”
Grimacing, her movements tentative, Gwen began plucking at the hair. She watched the hooves for any sign of aggressive motion, but this was routine for the sheep. It wriggled in displeasure at being on its back but didn’t fight her touch. Emboldened by its lack of fight, Gwen became a little more assertive at her assigned chore. At the next table, Cara and Lucky discussed their strategy. Lucky had Oscar in a sling across her back, and his dark eyes sleepily watched the proceedings. Across from Gwen, Kevin did the same thing as her with Loomis as his guide.