Page 23

Crazy Tree Lady

Callum

You fucking idiot.

Callum totaled the infractions in his head as he ran with the girl in his arms, listing them like his own personal form of penance.

Friendly fire, aiding and abetting criminals, harboring a murderer, disobeying direct orders…Not to mention the absolute stupidity of fleeing into the desert completely unprepared with a woman who would most certainly stab him again at the next opportune moment.

What an absolute fucking moron he was.

But what choice did he have? He wasn’t about to sit there and let Sullivan use the Arryvian as target practice; even criminals deserved better than to be shot like rabid dogs.

And when Callum had seen her limping, so desperate to get away…it was like his body had moved of its own accord and suddenly he was running—picking her up like it was the most natural thing in the world.

All before he could think about what he was doing; before he could talk himself out of the hellish mess the choice would bring.

Barlow would be laughing at him right now—he’d been the soft-hearted one, willing to defy the powers that be to help those in need.

Anyway, it was done now.

Sullivan had witnessed it all.

That son of a bitch would tell their superiors and there’d be hell to pay.

Callum knew his record would show that this behavior was out of the norm for him.

They’d open his file and see nothing but gold stars and great marks—though those would only stretch so far.

Surely they’d conclude that there had to be more at play to inspire behavior so out of character? But while his record might have allowed a pass on a single infraction…a treasonous act on this scale? Even Callum had to admit it was unlikely to make a lick of difference.

Then again, whatever string Sullivan had pulled to get the Arryivian transferred out to this backwater…it didn’t seem sanctioned.

Scratch that, there was no way it was sanctioned.

There were no official prisons this far outside Durask.That outpost Weston and his men had mentioned? That was new and, as far as he was aware, was put in place to lay claim to resources outside of the city.

So what was Sullivan even doing there, close enough that Dirk could take a walk to him and back? And coming in the night, shooting at an unarmed woman running away, putting a bullet into a fellow soldier—what was he up to?

One thing was clear: Callum could not take her back to Durask.

Whatever Sullivan had done to get her transferred would just be done again, which meant there was only one option: get to Chirston and pass the woman on to local officials.

Chirston was the closest city sizable enough to have a solid detachment as well as a courthouse, and the information in his journal combined with his rank in the military would ensure he wasn’t dismissed as a lunatic.

That, and the magistrate he knew there owed him, which should make things easier.

Cal could clear his name of any allegations Sullivan and his men may have made against him easily enough, as they’d have some explaining of their own to do—two could play that game.

All would be well.

The Arryvian would stand trial for her crimes, and this time Cal would be there to make sure of it.

All it would take is a trip through the desert with nothing but what he had on him, while caring for a wounded woman who made no secret of wanting to kill him.

At least Fyn’s “long trip”

had him a little more prepared, but he only had enough rations for one person.

He had his piercer and plenty of ammunition, so he could probably hunt just fine.

They might be a little on the hungrier side when they got to Chirston, but at least they’d be alive.

When he looked down at the woman in his arms, her lashes shadowing her cheeks, her skin pale and lips pursed in pain, he knew without a doubt that leaving her with Sullivan again would absolutely have been the wrong choice.

No man deserved to be judge, jury, and executioner, and even a villain such as she had a right to a fair trial.

A strange feeling of déjà vu tickled his brain, gone before he could grasp at it.

He hoped Fyn was okay.

The bullet had passed through, but beyond that, Cal hadn’t been able to get a sense of how seriously his friend had been injured.

A knot formed in Callum’s stomach and a queasy feeling traveled up into his throat.

“Traitor,”

Callum heard from behind, then blood flecked his cheek.

A pair of dusty glasses flashed through his mind, abandoned on the desk.

Callum shook his head as he kept up the pace, willing the thoughts away.

He trusted Weston would take care of his own, and Fynten had clearly been adopted into their little club, though how Fyn’d even hooked up with the strange band was beyond him.

The question was, did Sullivan have enough to ensure they all were arrested, or would the bulk of the crimes rest on Callum’s shoulders?

Callum slowed, unable to maintain such a brisk pace.

He breathed heavily as he trudged along, the moon beaming from the cloudless sky, and the lefiin and sparse vegetation casting long shadows that reminded him of teeth.

The desert seemed ready to devour them whole.

She shifted in his arms, her teeth bared against another wave of pain.

The wound in her leg must have been excruciating.

His hand was sticky with her blood, though the bleeding seemed to have slowed.

She was lucky she hadn’t stepped on any of the smaller cacti that stuck up from the ground.

That wasn’t fun.

“Almost there, Twiggy,”

he said, eyes scanning the horizon in earnest.

He hoped it wasn’t a lie.

When Cal was sure they weren’t being followed, he eased to a walk and allowed his heart to slow.

He found his eyes drawn to her face once again.

What did the marks mean? Why had she sent those contaminated shipments in the first place? Was Sullivan correct in his misguided rantings about the treefolk?

What was her name?

He shook his head to clear the errant thoughts.

No.

He needed to get his mind in the game or they’d be dead before they’d even begun.

He still had a couple salt cubes in his pocket, but that would only do well for a day or two.

He’d need to find a salt flat if he wanted to gather more, to mitigate dehydration.

And he had some bandages and alcohol somewhere, plus rope and a few knives that could also come in handy. Thank God he’d been able to snatch his gear before he gave chase.

He’d hazard a guess that they were about a week’s walk out of Chirston.

With no sandstriders, and no access to the O-rail unless they were in Chirston, it would be a rough journey.

They could survive a while on cactus and lefiin juice and mucilage, but it would be good to scrounge up some sable ginger.

The problem with lefiin juice was it lacked in pretty much everything but water, so the desert root would supplement the juice and would stave off dehydration for quite a while.

Between the lefiin juice, ginger, and salt, they’d be in pretty good shape from a hydration standpoint.

He’d keep an eye out for lilac lichen, which sometimes grew in caves. That would be good for burns, and they’d certainly burn in the desert sun.

Cal glanced down at the woman, studying her tan skin.

Did Arryvian’s sunburn? Fuck, Cal, stop.

With a soft grunt, he returned to reviewing his options.

As he walked, ignoring his aching arms, he made a mental map of what he could see of the area lit by the moon, noting landmarks and taking stock of what supplies he might be able to find out here.

A plateau rose up from the sand ahead, seemingly out of nowhere, and he knew they’d find decent shelter there.

He might need to clear out an animal or two, but he could make it work.

Orange-red rock crafted through the years by wind and time, the great sculptors.

The formation cast a cool shadow over them as they approached.

Cal wondered, as he often did in these parts, if this rock had once tasted the sea.

He’d been told that when the land was still young, there’d been heaps of it—water.

Water all around.

Lakes, rivers, seas…the notion was ludicrous and as much a fantasy as mermaids or nightwalkers.

“You still awake?”

Callum said as he scanned the rock face for a place he could put her down and take a look at her leg.

If she was drifting off, she might be in shock.

He’d begun to go through the steps to treat shock in his head when she answered.

“Take your false kindness and fuck yourself right off, Colonel.”

She said with her teeth clenched, the impacts of his feet vibrating through her voice.

The anger in her voice made him glad she hadn’t gotten her hands on any wood.

The plateau cast a long shadow in the moonlight as he brought her closer to the sandstone monolith.

Ignoring her request, he said, “Listen, I’m going to put you down.

Don’t run.

I’d hate to have to chase after you all over again.

Plus I don’t think your leg would like it all that much.”

When she glared at him, he added, “Just keep in mind, false or no, I’m the nicest thing out here.

Anything else, hot-blooded or cold, would sooner eat you than look twice atcha.”

He placed her against the stone, keeping an eye on her delicate hands to make sure she didn’t snatch one of his knives.

She made no attempt, though, as she leaned into the wall behind her with her head back and eyes closed.

Still deathly pale, her lips ghostly, her fingers trembled as they flattened against the rock to steady herself.

“You should lay down, and draw your knees up until I get back.

Don’t want you dying from shock right after my dramatic rescue.”

She opened her eyes long enough to scowl at him before complying, but not without giving him a rude gesture and closing her eyes again.

Good enough, he decided.

With a soft sigh of relief, shaking the weariness from his arms as he went, he followed the wall until he found what he’d been looking for.

The cave was small.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been hoping for something bigger, but this would do.

They just needed a place to keep out of the sun when it made its inevitable journey back across the sky.

As much as possible, they’d be better off if they could travel at night.

It made for more large predators, but at least it would minimize the threat of sunstroke.

Cal pulled his piercer from the holster and the knife from his boot and prowled into the cave on silent feet, listening intently for any signs of life within.

Moonlight filtered in and bounced along the walls giving just enough light to see in a ways.

He scraped the toe of his boot along the wall in case something small had made a home against the edges of the cave where the shadows lingered.

After a thorough search turned up nothing, he returned to find the woman standing up, looking back the way they had come.

Stubborn fucking woman.

She was favoring her uninjured leg.

Her face turned to his when he approached, her dark eyes luminous in the moonlight.

His fingers tapped against his leg as the urge to draw itched at his fingers.

Her visage shaped in charcoal on the page, the glow against her cheek and the shine in her eyes making her gaze fathomless…dark lashes scratched in ink—yes, he could see it clearly in his mind.

He shook his head.

At least that way if she escaped, he would have a solid picture to show people while he hunted her back down.

“I see nothing ate you,”

she said, those damned eyes drifting over his body in a way that had the back of his neck heating up.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“There is still time.”

Reminding him yet again that while she appeared to be a pretty, innocent woman, she was very much a criminal.

If she felt cornered, he had no doubt she’d gut him in his sleep.

Surreptitiously, he checked her hands for any signs of a crafted knife.

“Come on, get inside and let me have a look at that wound.”

Callum offered her his arm and raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t want you dying of infection.”

Before I get you back in prison.

“I can walk.

Keep your hands to yourself,”

she snapped and inched toward the entrance of the cave, leaning against the stone and using the wall to keep her balance as she hobbled, swaying dangerously to the side before righting herself.

He rolled his eyes and held up his hands, content to let her make her own way, careful to keep his snarky comments to himself.

The dark glare she threw his way only confirmed he’d made the smart decision.

If ya poke at a snake, his mama used to say, then don’t be surprised when it sinks its fangs into ya.

Here he was, attempting to wrangle a damn viper.

With a sigh, he followed her into the cave, cursing himself and his ill judgement.

“All right, Twiggy, a tour of your inn for the night,”

he began with a grand flourish.

“On your left you’ll find a nice patch of sand, great for the back, they say, very supportive.

Straight ahead, a wall of rock.

If you look closely enough, you might find some tell-tale signs of the beast who used this place last; scrapes from scales or claws.

To the right, a rock, a rock, and,”

he paused for emphasis, “…another rock.

Please, make yourself at home.”

Another flash of irritation in her onyx eyes and an annoyed curl of her lip made his own answer with a smirk.

“I’ll be back in a bit,”

he said, placing two fingers at his forehead in a mock salute to his prisoner, who stood in the middle of the cave, clutching the makeshift bundle she’d carried the whole way like her life depended on it.

He eyed it for a moment, wondering if he should go through it and take back the knife Fyn had given her, but he decided against it.

He would have time later to make sure she couldn’t easily kill him in his sleep.

“Where are you going?”

she asked.

“Why? Are you worried about me?”

She snapped her teeth and scowled before turning her back to him, grumbling curses in her native tongue.

Callum chuckled to himself and walked back into the moonlight.

He didn’t bother trying to keep the cave in sight, since it would be entirely too easy to catch her again if she decided to make a run for it.

He’d throw her over his shoulder and carry her the whole way if that’s what it took.

Night sounds filled the air with a peaceful hum that belied the deadly nature of the place, putting one at ease.

Cal remembered the first time he’d camped with Barlow beneath the stars, the two of them telling ghost stories till they were huddled together, scared of their own shadows.

A slice of pain through his ribs accompanied the thoughts of his brother, and it worked its way to his throat, lodging itself so deeply it was hard to swallow.

With a grunt, he kicked a stone and sent it skittering over the sand.

He should be home mourning with Mama.

Instead, he’d made foolish choices that had landed him here with the crazy tree lady who seemed to enjoy the thought of stabbing him.

If Barlow could see him now—what would his dear little brother think? He wished he could ask him.

He paused his wanderings and glanced back at the cave.

Barlow would have liked her—liked her fire and intelligence.

Her stubbornness and sarcasm, more like.

But he would have known how to speak to her, too, to at least get some cooperation.

A name.

Callum sighed and raked his hand through his hair before shaking his head and stalking to the lefiin towering over him. The knife hissed softly as he slid it from its sheath and bent down to the base of the plant. It stretched to the sky with thick disks spreading from the center in sporadic reaches. He used to imagine they were hands, lifted to the sky with their palms open and spread wide, ready to catch any precipitation that fell from the sky. The larger ones also made for great shady spots.

A thick, rounded, leaf the shape of a paddle and the size of his head speared outward just near his shoulder.

Callum pried away the large spikes that ridged its edges and collected them in his pocket for later.

Each one was about the length of his first finger, and they were great for things like sewing needles or darts, but if you got enough of them and soaked them in salt water, they could be ground into a paste, spread out flat, and left to dry to make a fantastic, durable paper.

They could also be hollowed out and filled with a small dose of poison or sedative like the one he’d had on the ship.

When the leaf was unarmed, Cal took his knife and sawed through the base, closest to the vertical stump.

It was thick and rigid and clearly not fond of losing its arm, but he won in the end and it snapped off the rest of the way.

He gathered the thorns and the leaf and started back toward the cave.

On the way, he used his knife to scrape along the inside of the thick disk-like lefiin pad, crushing and slicing to loosen up the liquid within.

Upon his return, he was greeted by the sight of the Arryvian sitting on a pile of blankets near the far wall.

She glanced up when he entered, her body rigid and ready to defend, but she relaxed ever so slightly when she saw that it was him.

Or maybe he imagined it, since her scowl never wavered.

“Here,”

he said, offering her the plant.

“From a lefiin.

It’s not amazin’, but it’ll quench your thirst.”

When she hesitated, he sighed and held it to his own lips, letting the lukewarm liquid spill into his mouth.

Bitter and earthy, with a floral aftertaste and a slimy texture, it certainly wasn’t winning any prizes for flavor or mouth-feel, but he hadn’t been lying when he said it would hydrate.

He offered it to her again, and this time she stood and took it, greedily drinking the contents despite the wrinkle in her nose.

“All right, Twiggy, let me have a look at that leg.”