Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
RHYS
The quail breasts are small. Less than the meat of one of my thumbs.
But it’s good eating. Some of the best.
I butchered them earlier at the traps so I wouldn’t draw predators this way.
I thread the meat onto makeshift stick spits, then sprinkle it with my precious reserve of salt and pepper. I usually save that for special occasions.
“Apparently, Phoenix, your sister’s special,” I whisper under my breath. Not like he’s haunting me. Never that. But it gets lonely out here.
Sometimes enough that I speak just to hear a voice.
And unlike the rest of the team. Phoenix is the only one who could respond. Theoretically.
He’s never wanted to, though. At least in my experience.
“Prettier than I thought.” The admission feels wrong the second it leaves my mouth. “You’d kill me if you heard that.”
Not really.
But it makes me feel less… guilty. Thinking about him hating me. About him punishing me back.
I finish them with a little fresh sage and a dribble of lard. I could use potatoes. A welcome addition. But these afternoon storms have been more violent than usual. Kept me from a grocery run into town. Instead, I fry eggs in the pan.
“Why all this trouble?” I say to myself a moment before I call for her.
The answer’s simple.
Because she’s someone.
And according to our reckoning earlier, the first someone I’ve seen in a long while apart from locals, the occasional misdirected tourist, and the hunters I host come fall.
I run a hand through my beard, trying to untangle it. My fingers only make it worse. Can’t imagine what I must look like.
Robinson Crusoe.
Worse, I’d imagine.
At least I’m showered from the rain.
Will be tomorrow again, too. Storms like today come through regular, starting in the spring, though usually not so destructive.
Still can’t believe she lost her Jeep that way. We should be able to pull it up with the winch if it hasn’t dropped over the ravine.
We.
Don’t use that word. Not often.
I don’t like it. Because it means someone could get disappointed. Or hurt. It’s too complicated.
All of this is.
“Smells good,” a hard voice says behind me. Hard, but still softer than I’m used to. Trouble, pure and simple.
“Almost done,” I grumble, testy because she’s rushing me now. But I don’t say it. Don’t want to push her. Neither of us needs that. Not today.
Not when my mind’s still trying to sort out the official narrative. What she wants to hear… so that she’ll go away.
“Empty traps today. But got lucky in the bush. Three quail.”
She freezes, the corners of her mouth dropping.
“You ever eat quail before?”
She shakes her head, face ambivalent.
“Don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian or something.”
“Not that,” she says.
“And I imagine you’ve eaten worse as an embed.”
The corners of Sloane’s mouth tip up. Not into a smile, but something that’s not a frown. Somehow that feels like a victory.
“What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten?” I ask.
She steps forward, her face opening just a tick. Not enough for most people to even notice. But I do.
“Kal puce,” she says without hesitation. “In Afghanistan.”
“God.” It comes out like a sharp exhale.
“Yep. Boiled sheep head and hooves. Quite a delicacy, apparently.”
“You make MREs sound good.”
She eyes the quail breasts and eggs as if she’s sizing me up. “Eaten plenty of those, too.”
“Best and worst?” I ask.
“Worst is easy. Four Fingers of Death.”
I laugh out loud, unexpectedly. Like echoing down the valley loud. Haven’t done that in too long to recall.
She doesn’t. But her mouth does do this lopsided grin thing.
“I thought you were gonna say the Vomlet.”
She covers her mouth with her hand like she’s reliving something. But her body language is still guarded, stiff. “Don’t remind me.”
“Now best?”
“Probably Chili Mac.” She shrugs.
“Fair. Or Beef Ravioli.”
“Yeah, I could see that. Phoenix’s favorite.”
Our eyes meet. Too many questions rage behind them. So, I say the only thing that I can with complete honesty. “Wish he were here instead of me.”
She grimaces, looking away.
“Sorry.”
I didn’t mean to upset her. But I don’t know what else to say. And I can’t even tell her the truth. Or that the comment I just made was about the Phoenix before.
Not after.
That one she doesn’t need to know about.
She swipes her cheeks with the back of one hand. Quick. I would’ve missed it if I wasn’t studying her and those damn eyes.
“You could’ve stuck to MREs tonight, you know,” she says almost like she’s scolding me. “I would’ve been fine.”
“Nature provided.”
That’s all. I don’t have another excuse.
She looks away for a long time, then asks, “What do you feed the chickens?”
That question catches me off guard. “Cracked corn. Feed. There’s a barn further down the property. Where they winter over. You haven’t gotten that far yet.”
“You say that like I’m staying for a while.”
Our eyes lock again. “It’s you who keeps saying that.”
“Just until…”
“I get it. Loud and clear.” I pile a plate with quail breasts and fried eggs, then hand it to her. “More pepper and salt if you need it.”
“Thank you.” She doesn’t complement it. Or try to act more interested than she is. I respect that. But she does eat it, which has me wondering something.
“Been a while since a grocery run. Did you bring any food up with you?”
She sits back a little, assessing me. “Why? You want something.”
I shrug. “Been out of honey for a while. Pretty much anything sweet will do. Just, you know, how you get a craving for something?”
“Would Twinkies work?”
“God, yes.”
She can’t help but smile this time. “I’m a bad influence. Next thing you know, you’ll want civilization again.”
I shake my head. She’s got it all wrong. “But I do. It’s civilization that doesn’t want me.”
She shifts on the rock where she sits, balancing her plate and eating. “You know, sometimes you decide one thing. It makes sense in the moment. Perfectly logical. But then later you decide on something else that’s better.”
Things go silent after that.
Because she’s got me thinking. And hoping. The second I don’t want to do. But I’d be lying if I said wilderness life is all it’s cracked up to be. I would prefer a happy medium.
After dinner, she disappears while I clean up, returning with a paper bag.
“Alright,” she says, peering inside and then looking at me. “I kind of misrepresented the choices earlier because, honestly, I’m a foodie with a sweet tooth, and I always come prepared.”
My stomach rumbles despite the meal we just finished.
“So, we have Twinkies, vanilla and chocolate, and stuff for s’mores. Your pick.”
I sit back on my heels, eyes widening, and she laughs. The first real one I’ve heard from her.
“Damn, that’s too many choices.”
Her face goes sad, like she’s putting something together she didn’t realize before. “You don’t have to decide. You can have them all.”
“The s’mores,” I say without a second thought. “Though those Twinkies are going to be on my mind.”
“Help yourself. Anytime.”
“You don’t have to—”
“You shared with me. I share with you.”
Don’t like that.
We’re staring at each other again, but then she looks away abruptly. “Simple hospitality,” she excuses.
“Yep.”
After that, things get tenser and weirder. Back in the cabin, I build the fire back up. Then, I nod toward my cot. “That’s yours tonight… if you want it.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly.”
“No, it’s fine.”
“I have a sleeping bag. Just point me where you want me on the floor.”
I grimace. “I’ll be out most of the night, anyway. So, I insist.”
“Out most of the night? Why?”
“Checking and resetting traps. Best done early, before first light.”
She nods, brow knitting.
“What’s that look for?”
“Trying to figure out your life,” she says, shaking her head. “On the one hand, it seems a little ascetic. But on the other hand, it’s simple, predictable. Just wondering what would make someone gravitate toward it.”
I shrug, acting like I don’t have an answer for it.
But I do.
She just doesn’t want to hear it.
“They call you the ‘Ghost’ in town. Any reason for that beyond staying out of sight, out of mind?”
My face hardens. “It’s not out of sight or mind. It’s that no one comes up here. No one wants to work so hard to live. There’s a difference.”
“So why you? Why do you want to work so hard?”
“Because it’s freedom.”
That’s it. I have nothing more to say.
The place goes quiet after that. I light a second kerosene lamp for her because she has a journal she writes in. She spreads out her sleeping bag. Then, she leans against the wall and writes.
I crack open Starship Troopers. Try to focus. But really, I keep watching her.
I look away quick enough each time she lifts her head. But the last time she doesn’t. Just cuts her eyes in my direction.
Caught.
I clear my throat, saying harsher than I need to. “At night, you stay here.”
The fire crackles, and her face shifts.
“You don’t go outside alone.”
I let that hit.
“You don’t touch anything. Understood?”
She opens her mouth, then closes it, choosing her next words carefully. “I’m not used to taking orders, and I won’t start now. But your rules seem like common sense. So, okay.”
Okay.
Too easy with her.
“Good,” I grunt.
But she’s still looking at me like there’s a question in her mind.
“What?” I ask.
“You don’t act like a man who abandoned someone.”
Not a question.
A conclusion.
Her words hit somewhere deep enough to hurt. “Be careful making assumptions about me,” I say, setting down the book and turning my back toward her on the cot.