“Yes,” I whisper.
He swallows hard, a long silence stretching between us before he nods toward the yard. “I’ll have a carriage ready at the gate.”
“Smart boy,” Kodiak says, then hefts the burlap sacks to his shoulder, his other hand pressing lightly at my back, steering me on.
At the carriage, Gideon steadies me as I climb aboard. His face seems older than his years—drawn, sorrowful. Before he steps back, he slips his revolver into my hands. “Just in case,” he murmurs, cutting a wary flick toward Kodiak.
The iron chills my palm. My throat tightens. “Thank you, Gideon.”
His lip trembles, his attention fixed on me as if trying to memorize every detail, then he forces himself to step away.
Kodiak gathers the reins. “Best you head inside, boy.”
The whip cracks, and the horses surge forward. Wheels clatter over the stones, sunlight flaring as the inn drops away behind us.
Chapter 10
KODIAK
Once we hit open country, the truth settles in—ain’t no turning back.
We’re in it together now.
Alice sits beside me, staring off, looking low. Can’t blame her. She blew her life apart, and I supplied the dynamite. Ain’t a word I could say to ease her, though I’ve turned it over for miles. Just wish there was something I could do.
That’s why I’ve always gone alone. No one needing, no one feeling, no one taking more than they give. Don’t have to wonder if they’re true or fixing to sell me out the first chance they get.
But Alice… Since the first time she turned them wide, unguarded eyes on me, I ain’t been right. Locked up in that room, I thought on her skin till it near drove me mad. Soft hands. Sweet mouth. Tits heavy enough to fill both my palms. Thought of her baring one to feed my young near broke me. And the work it takes to make young—her body clutching me tight, trembling. Just the thought made me hard as iron. I’d spill blood from here to kingdom come to make her mine.
But sweating and patched up from a blade wound ain’t the time. And sitting up here with the reins, catching how she’s gone all downcast, I know taking what I want would only make it worse. Already spooked her enough. I’ve seen fear before—men facing the barrel, women when I step in their path. I love that fear. Tells me I’ve done my job.
But on her? Don’t sit right. She’s too pure for this crooked world. That’s why I call her little lamb. Feels like fate. Like the future I never reckoned I deserved.
But I got to take care. Move too fast, I’ll break what little trust she’s given.
Chapter 11
ALICE
We ride. The carriage, a Mylord commandeered from one of the Astral Society guests, is led by two Clydesdales—one bay, and one roan with white blaze and legs. They slow their pace once we’ve left the town behind. I take shelter from the sun under the open carriage’s black leather hood as a passenger, while Kodiak drives up front. Wheels clatter over stone, hooves pounding a steady rhythm that carries us away from everything I’ve ever known. Kodiak doesn’t speak much, only says we’re headed south.
But when dusk fades and the sky clears, the stars tell me otherwise. I know them like old friends—the Dipper, the North Star, the tilted line of Cassiopeia. They show me what he does not say, what perhaps he doesn’t even know.
Not south. Southwest.
I am not sure why we’ve traveled in this direction, but I had no reason to ask. We’ve already gone further than I’d ever dreamed. We ride through the night until dawn bleeds acrossthe horizon. And the further we go, the stranger it feels to be untethered. Back at the inn, my tasks had been marked out like minutes on a clock. Routine so ingrained, I scarcely had to think to carry it out.
But here, inside this rattling carriage, nothing holds me. Only the sky above, wide as eternity. The rush of wind, the groan of a leather harness, the smell of horseflesh and sweat. A world of earth and animals and stars. I don’t know who I am without the chains of my old life.
At last, we stop beside a creek fringed with cottonwoods. “Trees’ll give us cover,” he says, his voice rough from hours of silence. Kodiak bends to inspect the horses’ hooves, then leads them to water.
It’s been a day since our last proper meal. I rummage through the rations, preparing a pot over a fire. It’s less than ideal. Nothing fresh. But it will fill our bellies, and for a time, the work helps me forget my listlessness.
When he returns, he gives the small camp I’ve made a quick once-over. He squats by the fire, peering into the pot. The summer sun sets behind him, painting the sky in pink and gold. “I’da chewed jerky and called it a meal. You make it feel damn near civilized.”
“It’s the least I can do,” I say. “I only wish I had more to give.”
He watches the pot a second, steam curling up into his face as he tips his chin with approval. “You’ve given plenty. I’d be dangling from a rope by now if not for your kindness.” His mouth crooks. “Hell, I’d be dinin’ with the devil hisself.”
