Page 8 of Kane

He takes a huge bite, chewing noisily, appearing to enjoy it quite immensely. I open mine, using the wrapper to protect my fingers from becoming sticky. I take a tentative bite—it is not as sweet as I would have thought.

I chew, swallow, bob my head around. “It is like a cookie, kind of.”

“Except it’s crammed full’a protein. Fills you up. Don’t love ‘em, but if it’s all ya got, you’ll eat it, and you’ll survive.” He shrugs, taking another huge bite—his is almost gone in two bites.

I nibble more slowly. When it is half gone, I find myself already feeling full. “Quite filling indeed.”

He nods, his only answer.

I finish mine, holding the wrapper since my clothing does not have pockets. He takes the wrapper, shoving it into his pocket with his wrapper. “Thank you,” I say. “For the…food. And for helping me.”

“Yup.”

He has not asked me the questions I expected. It is disconcerting. I watch him. His eyes scan the darkness, watchful, cautious.

“Kane?” I ask; his head lifts, turns to mine. “What are you doing out here?”

He just looks at me a long moment. Then up to the sky—I follow his gaze, and gasp; the stars above, I notice for the first time, are innumerable, so bright and countless as I have never before seen them. “That.”

I look up. It is hypnotic, trying to take in the expanse of stars. I slide down a bit, so it is easier on my neck. “I see,” I breathe. “Yes, I do see.”

We look at the stars for a long time, in silence. It is not awkward, somehow, even though I should be afraid of this man. Yet, it is not, and I am not.

I yawn, my jaw cracking with it, eyes watering.

“Tired?” he asks, looking at me sidelong, from the corner of his eye.

I nod. “Oh yes, quite. The day for me began well before the dawn, and it was…a very emotionally taxing day.”

An opening if there ever was one, but he does not take it.

He just rises, pulls the roll off the back of his machine. “Stand up a second,” he instructs.

I do so, and he unrolls the sleeping bag over the poncho with the foot end near the fire, unzips it partway down, and folds the flap aside. Goes back again, pulls a roll of clothing from the bag and places it near the top of the sleeping bag.

“Ain’t got a pillow, but that’ll do in a pinch.” He moves gracefully to his seat against the rock, gestures at the sleeping bag. “Hit it and get some sleep, Anjalee.”

“What about you?” I pluck the sleeve of the jacket I’m wearing. “I have your jacket, and if I sleep there, I will also have your bed. Will you not be cold and uncomfortable?”

His smile is kind, and it warms his rugged features. “’Preciate the consideration, darlin’, but I’ll be fine. Used to roughin’ it.”

“What does it mean, thisroughingit?”

He peers at me, as if unsure if I am joking. He lifts a shoulder, gestures at the dirt in front of the fire, where I assume he intends to sleep. “Sleeping rough.”

I shake my head, sitting on the sleeping bag—he’s only a foot away. “A sleeping bag in the desert, this is sleeping rough. No coat, no sleeping bag? This is something else.”

He just grins. “Babe. I’m good. Promise.”

“I will give you your coat. The sleeping bag will keep me warm.” I move to peel the warm, heavy jacket off.

He reaches out a hand, stopping me. “Anjalee—said I’m good. You need it. Wear it. Get some sleep. We got a long ride tomorrow.”

“I would feel poorly if I was warm and you were not.”

He just chuckles, and points at the roll of clothing. “There’s a long-sleeve shirt in there. Hand me it.”

I unroll the bundle—a thick white thermal Henley shirt is inside the jeans, a pair of boxer briefs rolled around a pair of socks inside that. I feel my cheeks flame as I try to stuff the underwear back into the jeans and roll them up together. The only man’s undergarments I have ever seen or touched are my Pappa’s, to launder them.