The Kingmaker (All the King's Men, #1)(40)

“Mama,” I whisper. My throat burns and she blurs in front of me through a scrim of tears. “I thought you were gone. They said you were gone.”

“No.” Mama’s eyes shimmer with tears, too. “Never. I’m always here, Lenn. Always with you.”

I reach for her, needing to hold her, to feel her solid and soft against me, but she disappears.

A sound forces my attention to the plains below. The trees, there moments before, are gone now and the land has been invaded by monstrous machines. They claw through the dirt, overturning clumps of it and shoving it aside. The bulldozer’s massive jaw scoops up the earth and an arm dangles over its row of steel teeth. The truck turns and drops its burden of soil and limbs to the ground. The body falls and rolls over, revealing the face. Lifeless eyes stare back at me through a veil of dark hair.

A low, keening scream builds from my belly and scrambles up my throat. “Mama!”





19





Maxim





I wake to the sound of Lennix’s terror and reach to turn on the bedside lamp. She kicks and strikes out. I put my arms around her and press her back to my chest.

“Nix,” I say, my voice sharpening as I force my way to full consciousness. “Nix, baby, stop.”

“Mama,” she mutters, tossing her head back so hard she nails my chin.

I work my jaw and flip her onto her back. “Lennix, wake up.”

“Mama, oh God,” she says fretfully, her eyes still closed. “Come back. Mama, don’t go. Don’t go.”

The words jumble, dissolving into sobs that shake her shoulders and crumple her pretty face.

“Shhhh.” I bend my lips to her ear. “I’m here. Hey, I’m right here.”

When I push her hair back, she stills, grabbing my hand and bringing it to her face. She kisses my hand and her tears wet my fingers.

“Mama,” she says, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. “I thought . . . I thought . . .”

“I’m here,” I whisper to her. I’m not sure if I’m telling her that I’m her mother to keep her calm, or if I’m telling her that I’m here, but it doesn’t matter. I am here, and I want to do whatever I can to ease this pain.

In slow blinks, she comes awake. She looks up at me and then around the room.

“Was I dreaming?” The words emerge hoarse and hesitant.

“Yeah.” I brush tears from her cheeks, that same spot in my chest going tight seeing her pain as when I witnessed her simple joy in the rain.

“I woke you up,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

I lie down beside her. She’s shaking, and I can’t tell if it’s a reaction from the dream, or the coolness of the room.

“Are you cold?” I pull away to get out of bed and adjust the temperature.

“No.” She grabs my arm under the sheet and huddles into me, her bare skin cool against mine. “Please just . . . hold me.” Her laugh comes shaky and thin. “You said no attachments, and here I am in your bed, clinging and crying and—”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” I tuck her into my side and kiss her hair.

I hesitate when she doesn’t respond, but just shivers against me.

“You remember your dream? You want to talk about it?”

An anxious breath is her only response. I’m about to move on, make sure she knows she doesn’t have to talk about it, but then she nods. I wait a few more beats while she grips my arm a little tighter.

“I’ve had the dream before. I’m always at the cliffs overlooking the valley where Cade laid the pipeline.”

When she mentions Cade, I’m not sure if she means my father or the company, but I know to her they’re one and the same.

“We’re all there.” Her short chuckle breezes over my skin. “Even your friend and mine, Mr. Paul.”

I chuckle a little, too, but I still hear her crying in her sleep, frantic and trapped in her unconsciousness, still feel her shivering against me, so her comment only goes so far to lighten the moment.

“My mom is there.” Her voice cracks and she pulls in a wispy breath. “She’s so beautiful. So alive. And then she’s not.”

“What happens?”

“When I look down again, the construction trucks are there and they dig up my mom’s body.”

I pull her closer, unable to wrap my arms around her tightly enough. “I’m so sorry.”

“It . . . there’s just no closure, you know? The cops were a joke when she disappeared. I mean, it’s so tough getting justice when our women go missing.”

“Why is that?”

“Sometimes it’s complicated because of where it happens. If it’s on a reservation, most Indian nations are so limited in criminal authority over non-Indians. Communication between local police and tribal sucks, and there’s bureaucratic breakdown. Mostly they simply don’t care as much, if you ask me. Whatever the reason, it’s tougher to protect Native women and to prosecute for them. The trail grew so cold with my mom’s case, we found nothing.”

“No one was ever arrested or even questioned?”

“No. They found her phone beside her car and traces of her . . .” She pauses to clear her throat. “Traces of her blood like maybe there had been a struggle, but nothing that could lead us anywhere.”