Page 52 of When the Sky Breaks

“Because she was,” Ansel replied simply. “Now let’s get back to that absolutely spectacular hotel I selected.”

“About that,” Neal said.

“What happened?” Ansel asked.

“You got arrested,” I muttered, curling into Neal’s side.

“Any involvement of the police and they ask you to leave.” Neal shrugged. “So we need to find another place to sleep tonight.”

“I will handle it,” Ansel said, all composure and competent diplomacy again.

“Forgive me if I don’t entirely believe you,” I snapped.

Milkweed, retrieved from his flowerbox before we left the hotel, popped his little head out from my apron pocket and repeated, “Don’t entirely believe you.”

Houston was worse at night, if anything. Still loud, still reeking from the docks, still grimy, and barely any cooler even with the sun down.

“We are not sleeping here,” I said immediately when I realized what Ansel was trying to do. The saloon was nearly falling over, all peeling paint and rusty nails and warped siding. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes rolled off the building in waves.

“I think she’s right, Ansel,” Neal agreed. “We can always camp another night.”

“We’d have to get out of the city to do that,” Ansel insisted. “And she’s gonna fall asleep on her feet if we try. Plus mules and supplies are on the opposite end of town. It’d be dawn by the time we made camp.”

“I’m sure there’s a church or a mission where we could sleep,” I suggested.

“Too many questions we don’t have answers to,” Ansel replied, opening the saloon’s door. “I’m not happy about this either. But it’s our best shot at getting you two a few hours’ rest before we leave in the morning.”

Inside was worse, if anything. The barkeep, a painfully thin man with a pockmarked face, showed us to a grimy, first-floor room at the back of the building. While it was awful and disgusting, I was at least relieved to get away from the leering gazes of the saloon patrons.

“This is a place people go missing,” Neal muttered, trying the lock on the door and finding it broken. The shutters on the window didn’t properly latch either. There was a rickety wooden chair in one corner, so at least Ansel wouldn’t have to sit on the ground while he kept watch overnight. The floor itself was clean. Oddly clean. Scrubbed. Like something terrible had spilled and the proprietor had spared no effort in cleaning it up.

I suppressed a shudder.

The mattress, on the other hand, was filthy. Stained a myriad of colors, leaking moldy straw, inevitably harboring pests. So the bed was clearly not an option.

“We’re not sleeping on that.” Neal nodded at the mattress like he was reading my thoughts. He sat down with his back to the door.

“So we’re leaving?” I asked, almost hopeful.

Neal shook his head and opened his arms.

“Come here,” he said.

At first I didn’t reply, instead going to our bags and searching around until I found Milkweed. I held the tiny jackalope against my chest, then went and sat next to Neal on the floor, tucking myself into his arms. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than the dirt. Maybe.

“I’ll keep an eye on the window,” Ansel said bluntly, resting his massive, lever-action pistol across his knees. “You two rest.”

Twenty

Neal

Istartled awake, hand flying to my pistol. It took a second to get my bearings, but then it all came flooding back—Ansel getting arrested, being kicked out of our hotel, holing up at this awful saloon. And now someone was kicking the door of our room, clearly set on getting in.

A jolt of regret lanced through my thoughts—wondering briefly if it was wise to have trusted Ansel, to be moving the Court, to have undertaken this journey at all. If Ansel had been impulsive enough to spend the night in jail over an indignant, petty offense, were we sane to be trusting him with our lives? I shook the doubts away. It was too late to change course now.

I shifted Sorcha off my lap as we both got to our feet. She had her bowie knife in one hand and Milkweed tucked under the opposite arm. Ansel still stared at the window. Heavy footsteps echoed through the building. Then there was a moment of silence before the shutters slammed open and a massive, muscular figure tried to wriggle through the tiny opening.

Ansel grabbed the intruder by the front of his shirt and had him flat on his back in an instant. Ansel ground the heel of his boot into the big man’s chest, expression eerily calm.