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  Juto yanks the door open with a loud screech. He’ll drag me out and kill me. My hands scramble over the dash, into the glove compartment. Nothing. His hand cinches over my bicep hard enough to bring a cry of pain to my lips.

  “I’m going to take what you did to my face out on your body. Good Mother will hear you howl and be much pleased.” He grins. Some of his front teeth have been whittled into points. His eyes are feral black pools.

  The truck chugs over a pothole and we bounce back and forth. Juto’s grip on my arm loosens. He wobbles backward. This is my chance. I lean back and kick him squarely between the ribs. Juto claws the air as he falls out of the cab and into the dust with a thud. I jam my foot to the gas.

  The trunk rocks wildly as if I’ve run over a boulder. But a boulder doesn’t crunch like that. I step on the brake and lurch to a stop, my face banging into the steering wheel. Squinting in the rearview, I see the crumpled mess of blood and mangled bones. I’ve run him over. I slam the truck into park and jump out. I walk to my enemy, smelling blood and burnt rubber.

  I’ve seen roadkill before, flattened rabbits, blown-apart coyotes, lizards that are sizzled lumps on the pavement, their eyes pools of jelly around their bloody mouths. It doesn’t prepare me for this. Thick ropes of dark red blood pool out both sides of Juto’s mouth and ears. His chest is a concave bowl and there’s tire tread running the length of his stomach. A bloody rib angles through the war paint on his chest, stark white against the mess of red and brown. His hands clench and unclench once. Then they settle on the hardpan.

  He’s dead. I killed him.

  My ears ring and my mouth tastes like blood. I killed a man. I look at the blood streaming from his ear and pooling under this neck. There’s a dark stain on his loincloth. I killed him. I gotta look away. I can’t stop looking.

  Slowly, I remember the shootout behind me. Clay and Ethan. I run sloppily back, my brain feeling loose.

  The Mexican standoff is still going on, neither shooter willing to break cover. Now the men are taunting each other.

  “Infidels’ howls will please the Good Mother,” Bear Paws shouts from behind the Jeep. “Come, let me please her.”

  Clay’s voice floats up from behind his rock. “Still so holy, you sick sonovabitch? I can shoot all day. Come try me.” I want to believe him, but how many bullets can he have?

  Bear Paws wipes his forearm across his brow and hugs the rifle to his chest. “I think I remember you, infidel. Didn’t we buy a pretty pet from you a while back?”

  There’s a long pause. “No.”

  “Yes, yes.” Bear Paws smiles wickedly. “Last month. You had the boy who wet himself—”

  “Shut up!” Clay yells from behind the rock. “Shut your mouth!”

  Bear Paws smiles vilely. “Good Mother was much pleased with him. His cries were long and loud. All the way to the end.”

  “I said,” Clay shouts, standing, “SHUT UP!” He strides around the rock, lifting his revolvers.

  I clutch my face. Is he crazy?

  Bear Paws stands, fumbling to raise his rifle with his injured arm. He lunges for the hood of the Jeep to steady his shot. Clay strides forward, his face contorted in rage. Bear Paws squints one eye and curls his finger over the trigger.

  “Clay!” My voice is drowned out by the sound of a rifle discharging.

  The bullet wings out, the hot lead zipping close enough to ruffle Clay’s collar. Clay doesn’t flinch. He strides forward, his teeth bared.

  Bear Paws’s eyes widen. He scrambles to reload, his right hand useless and blood-crusted. Clay runs the last few steps and springs around the Jeep. Bear Paws slips a bullet in the chamber, but Clay kicks the rifle away. It whirls end over end into the dust. He tackles Bear Paws. They roll, a tangle of arms and legs and grunts and I can’t see what’s happening. I run over. Can I help?

  Bear Paws throws a few wild punches that do nothing to stop Clay. He grabs Bear Paws by the shoulders, hefts him up and throws him against our Jeep. There’s a loud thunk and the Jeep rocks back and forth. Bear Paws slides weakly to the ground with a moan.

  Clay straddles the crumpled man, his lean shadow trailing out behind. He presses the muzzle of his revolver to the Rider’s forehead.

  “Don’t! Don’t!” Bear Paws throws up his shaking palms. “I say sorry. You can have whatever you want.”

  “Not enough,” Clay growls. His eyebrows angle down dangerously. “No goddamn Mother to hear your cries today. You’re going straight to hell. And I’m the one to send you there.” He thumbs down the safety on his gun with a sharp click.

  Bear Paws clutches his hands together beneath his throat and looks up at Clay with wet eyes. He begins to mutter a prayer.

  Clay’s lip curls back from sharp white teeth. “How dare you pray after what you did.” He narrows his eyes. “This is for Kody.”

  When the gunshot crackles over the desert, I close my eyes. When I open them, there’s nothing but the Jeep and Clay and a bloody mess of bodies on either side of the dusty crossroads. It’s over.

  Somehow I make it back to the Jeep, though my head’s thrumming like an engine and everything’s doubling in my vision. I walk past Bennett and his father. Both lie in muddy red pools. Their lifeless faces stare up at the sky. I can’t look. I keep my watering eyes on the Jeep. Ethan’s in there. I gotta get back to him.

  Clay stands above the Rider, a bloody mess against the side of our Jeep. I don’t look. I can’t take any more blood. I climb back in the Jeep next to Ethan (who’s completely undisturbed, thank God or the Good Mother or whoever) and tuck my head in my arms. The urge to throw up returns. I breathe through my nose and try to sort through what just happened.

  Clay was amazing. And scary. The way he dispatched Bear Paws … I’d hate to have that directed at me. And who is Kody?

  When I look up, Clay stands at the edge of the tailgate. His face is pale and distant. His voice rolls out of his throat as if he were just coming out of a dream. “The little man? He alright?” His hat’s down low over his face so that his features are covered in shadow again, but his hands tremble slightly as he rubs a revolver on his shirt and tucks it in the holster.

  I put my hand on Ethan’s chest. “He’s still out.”

  He tucks both guns into their holsters. He looks at me, his face tight. “You okay? You look really pale.”

  I nod, though I feel anything but okay. “All in one piece.” I look up at him and note the tremble of his hands, the paleness of his cheeks. “What was that back there? The Rider said something about—”

  “Nothing,” he says sharply. Then his tone softens. “He’s a lying, thieving sonovabitch, but he won’t hurt anyone again.”

  I bite my lip. I don’t believe that was nothing.

  Clay’s eyes stray to Bennett and his father. He walks over, crouches and lays two fingers on their necks. Each time he shakes his head sadly. Despite all they’ve put us through, he’s sad they’re dead. I can’t feel sad. They would’ve sold us into torture and death.

  Clay frowns, his hand on Bennett’s arm. “We have to bury them.” He stands up and brushes the dust off his pants. “He was my friend.”

  “Your friend kidnapped us and almost killed us.” Yet, I think of Arn drug out for the coyotes. It’s no way to go, even for someone as low as Bennett. I scoot to the edge of the Jeep and stand. My legs tremble, but I steady them. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Clay nods, a ghost of a smile on his lips. It fades as he picks up his lifeless friend.

  We move Bennett and his father into a little rock crevasse. Clay slides loose rocks over the opening to discourage scavengers and then lingers around the bodies for a while. I head back to the Jeep to see if Ethan’s awake. Walking past the man I killed makes my legs go to jelly. The blood pool has seeped into the dirt, but as I walk past, his moccasin gives a twitch. I jump in the Jeep and focus on keeping food in my stomach.

  Clay leans against the Jeep tailgate. His face is ashen and slack. When he spots my br
other, he frowns. “Why’s he still out?” It’s his turn to put his hand on Ethan’s chest.

  I shrug. “His breathing’s regular. His pulse is fine. I think he got a heavy dose of those damn tranqs.”

  “Didn’t we all? Goddamn that Bennett.”

  “Yeah,” I say, clutching my knees. “How’d you find us, anyway? Last I saw, you were face down on the rug.”

  Clay leans against the side of the Jeep. He tracks a vulture that’s already circling. “When I came to and you were gone, I had a pretty good idea of what happened. I followed your tracks for a while. When those disappeared, I took a chance that they’d be trading to the Riders. It’s a pretty regular post.”

  My eyes narrow. “Wait a minute. You’ve traded with the Riders?”

  Clay turns his eyes to the rise of buttes in the north. The pain’s written on his face.

  Now I remember all the reasons not to trust Clay.

  Around us the sounds of dusk start up, the shrill insects, a howl of a predator, filling in the gaps created by our awkward silence.

  Clay breaks it. “Your brother looks a lot like mine.”

  My eyes trace the line of Ethan’s mouth as it moves in his sleep. “You left your brother behind?”

  “Nope,” he says, throwing a rifle over his shoulder and turning toward the ridge. “He died.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Night falls. Ethan won’t wake. The worry sits on me like a soaked comforter. I spend the time while Clay’s gone checking Ethan’s pulse over and over.

  When the moon’s big and yellow in the sky, Clay returns with a musk hog, dead and dangling over his shoulder. He drops it with a thump into the dirt and sets the rifle in the passenger seat.

  “Where’d you get the pig?” I ask, sliding forward on the tailgate, the metal ridges pushing into my knees.

  Clay shrugs. “Found him rooting along the ridge. When I’ve got the bullets, hunting’s as easy as picking food off the ground.” He flicks out his hunting knife and begins to butcher the hog. He deftly slices the blade up the pig’s belly, releasing a mess of blood and guts. I wrinkle my nose at the warm, wet smell of animal innards.

  I slip out of the Jeep and stand over him, watching. “That’s what I don’t get. How come you’re such a crack shot and those Riders weren’t worth a damn? They didn’t stand a chance.”

  Clay’s making quick work of the pig. He strips the skin and sets to work on the haunches.

  He keeps his eyes on the hog as he talks. “Road gangs are all the same. Big on guns. Short on one little thing.” Clay pauses and squints up at me. “Bullets. These gangs don’t got a handful of lead between ’em. Even if they get a shipment, they’ve never had enough to practice with. Couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

  He saws through more of the musk hog, his hands smeared red. He wipes them on a cloth and squints out at the last strip of light in the west. “My pa kept us eye-deep in lead. Said he rather go short on whiskey than ammo. And my pa loves whiskey.” He pauses, wipes his forehead with his shirt sleeve. “Pa used to take me out and we’d shoot all day. Wouldn’t let me quit till I could hit a bottle at 300 yards.” His face tightens. Then he stands, wipes his hands and pops the kinks out of his back. He digs through his pack and hands me a flint. “Start the fire, will ya? Can’t burn her long, but I won’t eat raw hog.”

  I set off to gather scrub brush and branches. It’s a good excuse to mull over everything he said. As I pick up the scrub, I think about Clay’s father-son target practice sessions. Did the Sheriff smile and pat his son on the back when he blew a bottle into little glass shards or did he backhand him when he missed? Somehow I can’t imagine them smiling, sharing a flask of homemade whiskey and whistling on the way home.

  Above the ridge, the moon highlights the rocky peaks against deep valleys of shadow. The coyotes howl mournfully in the distance. It’s been a while since I’ve spent a night in the desert. I’ve forgotten how cold it gets when the sun goes down. I gather my armload of prickly shrubs and hurry back to where Clay’s set up camp. The stars begin to spread out before us, pinpricks of light in the dark blanket of sky.

  Once the fire’s going, we set to work building a spit and setting the meat over it. Clay and I sit before the budding fire and warm our scraped and numb hands. I shoot a glance at Clay. He’s abnormally quiet and fidgety. The flickering glow highlights his cheeks a ruddy orange. His look is distant, his eyes wrinkled at the corners as if he’s still pondering all he left behind.

  Now’s my chance to unravel some of this boy’s mystery. I take a deep breath and try to sound casual. “What was town life like?”

  Clay eyes follow the dancing tongues of flame. “Easy most days. Hard on others.”

  “What’d you mean?” I run my hands over my arms and watch the fire burn up my scrub brush. The smaller twigs pop and bend as the flames consume them.

  He leans back against a rock, his hands laced behind his head. “Being the Sheriff’s brat made life easy as pie. We had fresh meat, books, toys— a lady to housekeep. I had my own bike, a red ten-speed with a bell. I’d pop wheelies and tool around town all day on that puppy.” He smiles. Then his face darkens. “Then I turned thirteen and my pa said it was time to man up. Taught me the trade.” He says “trade” like it’s a dirty word.

  “What’d you have to do?”

  Clay glances at me, his brow creasing. “Pa took me on raids. Had me sit in the car when he did business with the Riders and other gangs. At first, I thought it was exciting, you know, fun to travel around, watch my pa do business. People talked to him like he was the Almighty. They’d give me gifts. One man made his boy give me his lunch. I’ll never forget the look on that kid’s face when he handed over the sack. Looking back, he probably hadn’t eaten in days.” Clay turns his eyes to the moon, his frown deepening.

  “What then?” I ask, picking up a stick to poke the fire.

  Clay sighs, big and heavy. “Well, then I turned fourteen, my brother died. After that, my dad didn’t just want me to do ride-alongs anymore. I earned my shootin’ irons,” he says, caressing the silver revolver slung on his hip with the pads of two fingers. “Then he made me get my hands dirty.” He looks down at his palms. Then he clasps them together so tightly the knuckles whiten. I flick my eyes away as he looks over at me.

  “What you want to know all this for?” he asks, throwing more scrub on the fire. “You know what they say about the curious cat.”

  I blush and shrug. “Just wondering what goes on under that ten-gallon hat of yours.”

  He throws more wood on the fire until the flames soar and the heat cooks my shins. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “I shoulda lit out. It took me too damn long, but I done it, so you don’t need to judge.”

  I look down at the holes in the knees of my jeans and pick at some of the loose strings. “I’m not.” There’s one more question burning at the back of my brain. Should I ask? I squeeze my hands at my sides. “Who’s Kody?”

  He shoots me a glance that chills my insides. He opens his mouth as if to speak. Then closes it, stands and stalks off.

  I’ve broken the quiet moment. My eyes flick to the fire that’s eaten up most of the scrub and sunk into a few guttering flames. The night air grips me. I hug myself and feel deeply alone again.

  Movement. Clay’s back, standing at the edge of the circle. He’s breathing hard as if he were running. His eyes are wild. He seems to have trouble getting the next words out. “I’ll say this once and then I never want you to ask me again.”

  I nod.

  He takes a deep breath and steels himself. “Last month my pa made me take a twelve-year-old boy to the Riders. The kid …” His jaw tightens. “The kid wet himself when I carried him to their truck.” He looks into my face, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “He cried my name as they drove away.”

  “Kody,” I whisper.

  Clay sniffs and stares into the dancing blue and orange flames of the fire, the veins tight cords on his neck.
“I’ll see his face forever. Knowing what I did to him …” He curses and tugs at his hair angrily. Then he lifts his sorrowful face to me. “That day I swore I’d never trade another human being. That I’d get out.”

  I pull my knees up to my chest and think about Clay handing over the boy to the Riders. It’s awful. Then again, if my dad was the Sheriff, would I have done any different? Having Arn’s death on my hands is bad enough, but I didn’t actually kill him. What must it be like for Clay to carry that kind of guilt around?

  The raw emotion hangs over the fire like a cloud. For several moments we sit in silence as the fire dies down. The hog legs emit a delicious aroma, but right now I don’t feel like eating.

  Finally, Clay walks forward as if unstuck. Some of the wildness has fallen off him. “We need to eat,” he says handing me my portion of meat.

  I take it from him. My stomach grumbles at the smell. Maybe I can eat.

  Clay kicks dirt over the fire until it sizzles. “Come on. We’ll eat in the Jeep.”

  We slide into the Jeep, Clay in the driver’s side, me in the passenger seat. Normally, I’d fuss. It’s my Jeep. But, surprisingly, I don’t mind. Maybe I’m starting to trust Clay. Maybe I’m grateful he’s rescued us again. Either way, I’m looking over at Clay and smiling as he’s carefully holding the hot meat with the pads of his fingers. I shouldn’t trust this much. I’m worth enough for even a good man to lose his scruples. I pull the zipper on my coat all the way up to my throat.

  I check on Ethan. He’s tucked into the back of the Jeep, the blanket I curled around him still in the exact position I placed it. He better wake up tomorrow or we have real problems.

  I’m thinking about Ethan when Clay’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Your turn.”

  “Huh?”

  “You didn’t think that backstory was free, did ya?” He’s smiling for the first time in a while. “Your turn to answer my questions.” He takes a bite of his hog leg, the grease shining on his lips and chin.