Page 19

Duty

Callum

It was unwise to be out and about in the heat of the day without precautions.

Everyone knew that.

Not that it couldn’t be done, and sometimes it was necessary.

Most people made sure to work in the shade in the worst heat of the day.

It was no surprise, then, when all eight of them crammed into the farmhouse when the sun was at its hottest, occupying themselves with various handiwork, their limbs draped over the arms of chairs or along the walls to keep the heat from their skin.

Sunlight slashed in from beneath the front door, stretching all the way across the living room floor to nearly kiss the toes of the Arryvian in the chair.

It was the only bit of sunlight that freely roamed through the house with the windows all shuttered or covered by faded curtains, backlit with golden afternoon light.

The kitchen conjoined with the living room, separated only by a demarcation on the floor and an empty doorjamb.

A long stretch of dim, windowless hallway peeled off from the kitchen.

Fyn and Cal sat at the far end of the kitchen table playing cards, and Callum was losing terribly.

Dust motes floated around his head, and as he waved them away irritably, he was certain they were mocking him.

Weston and Dirk stood near the front door, their discussion too quiet to discern.

Weston tried to appear at ease, his thumbs in his pockets, leaning against the doorjamb, but Cal noticed the way his eyes kept shifting to the Arryvian woman.

Not that he blamed the older man; his couldn’t stay away from her either.

She was an oddity out here in the desert.

He watched as she perched in the rocking chair and painstakingly combed through each tangle and knot in her dark hair.

He still knew as much about her as he did before.

Which was to say, nothing.

He knew only what he could see, except that she was a criminal.

That, and she was the most infuriating and stubborn person he’d ever met.

If he was going to successfully return her to his superiors, he would have to tie her up and toss her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Though he’d have to find a sedative or knock her out first to keep from getting impaled with another damned knife.

“I win again,”

Fyn said with his quirky grin, slapping a card on the table with more force than was necessary.

The noise made the small, frazzled Arryvian jump and drop the comb.

She scrambled to pick it up, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes as she settled into her spot once more.

Though she tried to look at ease, he saw the way she fidgeted, her hands hiding the shake by stroking the wooden comb.

Thus the afternoon continued.

Weston and his gang plotted, Melba sewed and patched, and Fyn whipped Cal at cards.

And all of them drank milk from the goats housed out back.

Callum pieced together some things as he listened to the men whisper amongst themselves, and he pinned the information in the back of his mind.

Apparently, there was an oritium deposit nearby that they’d found and claimed as their own.

Which, of course, was illegal.

Any information on newly discovered oritium deposits was supposed to be passed along to government officials.

Yet another unlawful feather in Weston’s cap.

Callum sighed as he turned his attention back to the low conversation.

Weston believed it was safe, but Dirk argued that keeping the girl here posed a risk to their secret enterprise.

Cal wasn’t sure who was right, but the girl presented a problem.

Apparently, not an immense one, because Melba set her a plate for the evening meal instead of sending her on her way, which surprised the Arryvian more than anyone else.

He still couldn’t believe that she’d literally fallen at their feet, just down the way from Weston’s place.

She sat across from Cal, beside Weston and James, hunched over her plate with her shoulders at her ears.

He noted the way she held herself now, much more guarded, if that was possible.

There was a haunted look that worked hard to surface, though she appeared to be trying to keep it in check.

Something wasn’t lining up and it nagged at the back of his mind.

Regardless, he’d have to take her back as soon as he could, before she could run again.

Somewhere beneath that dark hair and innocent eyes was a calculating murderer, he reminded himself.

He’d told Fyn his concerns—that she’d escaped from prison and was now on the lam.

It was his duty as colonel to turn her in.

Fynten only brushed him off with a blithe “Yer on vacation, boyo.”

He tried to bring it up to Weston earlier, but the older man only shook his head and tapped the side of his nose before speaking to Melba about what jobs the Arryvian might be able to help with.

To earn her keep.

As if they intended for her to stay a while.

The whole thing had him bristling.

As if feeling his gaze on her, she lifted her dark eyes and they collided with his igniting a visceral shock that rattled something in his chest.

Her forehead wrinkled ever so slightly before she quickly looked away.

He was certain it was residual adrenaline, his body preparing for a fight, reacting to her presence based on their previous encounters.

Fyn was regaling his new friends with one of his outlandish stories full of unique characters, gesticulating and changing his voice to match the speaker.

It was his talent, making people laugh.

Always had been.

Even the Arryvian woman was engrossed in his tales and didn’t seem quite as tense as she had before.

Cal even thought he saw a little smile, but it could have been a trick of the light.

Fyn finished his story with a flourish and bowed, soaking in the scattered applause with an impish smile.

“Well, Little Miss, once you’ve had your fill, I can show ya to your bed,”

Weston said as he leaned back in his chair and patted his stomach.

“Thank you for the food, Melba.”

He stood and leaned over to kiss his lady on the top of her head and then strode into the other room.

“Bed?”

Dirk echoed, his chair scraping on the floor as he hustled after Weston, his protests not far behind.

“Don’t worry, Miss,”

Jamie whispered.

He was younger, barely into manhood, but he’d already begun filling out.

“Dirk’s just not keen on strangers, and we all bunk together while we’re out here.”

Callum was already on his feet and following Weston and Dirk into the other room.

He made it just as Dirk stomped out the front door.

Weston was pouring himself a drink before he turned to Cal, standing with one hand on his hip and a glass of amber liquid in the other.

“He thinks I’m goin’ senile,”

he said, turning to face Cal.

“You don’t seem nearly old enough,”

Cal replied.

This man had a wicked look about him.

There was certainly more to him than Cal could see with just his eyes.

Weston groaned as he eased into a chair and kicked his feet onto the footrest.

The chair was old, the color long-faded, as was true of much of the interior of the humble home.

It spoke of a life well-lived.

“All this excitement over the tree girl has him riled up.

He’s not the brightest, but he’s family,”

he said, nodding toward the door where Dirk had just left.

So he knew she was Arryvian.

Who was this man?

Not voicing the question in his mind, Callum instead said, “With all due respect, Weston, he might be right.

I think I ought to take the woman back with me and turn her in.

An Arryvian with no papers, and no wedding ring…she’s not where she’s meant to be.

She was found nearly dead in a stolen military jacket and the outpost is just a ways off.

Put the two together, man—she’s a fugitive.

You don’t know what she’s capable of. I’ve seen—”

He nearly said he’d seen what she could do, but saved himself in the nick of time.

“—what Arryvians can do.”

“That little thing in there?”

Weston huffed, waving a hand in the air.

“She ain’t gonna be trouble.

Poor thing’s half dead.

She needs a good meal and a solid night’s rest, so that’s what I’m gonna give her.

Respectfully,”

Weston raised his brow, “I think you can mind yer manners.”

If only Weston had seen what she could do while sedated.

Surely half dead wasn’t too different.

“You don’t understand—”

“Bold o’ you to assume,”

he interrupted, rising to his feet.

He put the drink down and his face shifted, losing the amiable quality, turning to hard edges and sharp corners.

Grief.

And fury.

“When my darlin’ Selma died, may Amuna protect her soul, Melba an’ I swore that when the time came that we could help, we would.

It don’t matter that she’s got magic an’ lives in trees—and I couldn’t care less if she came straight from the governor’s prison.”

Weston crossed his arms, daring Cal to argue.

“Listen, I don’t care what you’re up to here, I’m not law enforcement, but that woman in there is under military jurisdiction and it is my duty to return her.”

“This here is my house and under my jurisdiction.”

His voice was soft.

Cold.

And left no room for arguments.

“Fyn told me who you are, Colonel.

I’ve heard of ya.

He also said you was on vacation or grievin’ or somethin’. It ain’t you I got issues with. I know you got your duty and all that, but I’m gonna need you to turn a blind eye while you stay here. See, I put a lot o’ trust in you on account o’ Fyn, an’ I’d hate to see someone get hurt.”

The threat was clear enough.

Cal clenched his jaw and shook his head but stepped back.

“In the morning, then.

After she’s slept and had her fill.

I’ll be taking her back.”

“We’ll see.

I ain’t about to stick my nose in matters o’ the governor,”

Weston’s face softened again and his grin told Cal he absolutely would do just that, his steely eyes twinkling.

“But things change.”

Callum turned on his heel and returned to the kitchen to find it mostly empty.

Weston was hiding something.

Obviously a criminal himself, it made sense that he would prefer to keep the heat from his own doorstep.

But the Arryvian was dangerous.

Cal had to ensure her return and prevent any future escapes.