Devils Unto Dust(15)

“Accompany, not escort.” I don’t like this hard case of a brother, and it’s clear he doesn’t cotton to me, either. “You got a problem with that?”

“Matter of fact, I do. We’re hunters, not babysitters.”

“Mr. Garrett, I don’t need looking after. I would go on my lonesome if I knew the way.”

He snorts disbelievingly. “You ain’t serious.”

“I usually am. I can take care of myself.”

“Like with Dollarhide there?”

“I was handling that,” I say crossly.

“Looked more like he was handling you.”

The hot, familiar buzz of anger bubbles under my skin, and I’m starting to regret hiring Curtis if this man is attached. “I made an agreement with your brother; if the deal’s off, then stop wasting my time and tell me so.”

Garrett shakes his unkempt head. “Curtis is holding firm. But I ain’t as tenderhearted as my brother.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that the only payment we take is cash money.” Garrett eyes me levelly, and I stiffen at the implied insult.

“That is all I am offering,” I say, making my voice as cold and unflinching as I can.

“I hope so. ’Cause I’m not moved by pretty words or pretty eyes like Curtis. If you bilk us, I got no problem turning you over to the Judge. I think you know his brand of mercy.”

A chill creeps up my neck despite the heat. Garrett’s bright eyes bore into me, and it’s like he knows; somehow he knows I’m lying. I should call this off now, while I still have the chance, just turn my back and go home. Something inside me balks then; I know what waits for me at home. My life stretches out endlessly before me, an unwavering path of snake meat, ill-fitting pants, and a crumbling house. Three pairs of eyes pleading at me, the constant fear that it will never be enough; nothing ever changing, until I’m too old and broken to care. There is nothing this man or even the Judge can do that scares me more than dying ancient and wasted in Glory, with only ghosts and regrets to keep me company.

“You’ll get your money,” I tell him.

“So long as we’re straight.”

“As the crow flies,” I say quietly. “Good-bye, Mr. Garrett.” I start walking away, not bothering to wait for his reply; just as well, because it never comes.





12.


It always feels twice as far going back home, and I may as well take my time because I got no rest coming once I get there. There’s washing to bring in and dinner to start, and I begin a mental list of what to pack. Part of me can’t believe I’m really doing this, and part of me thrills at the idea of leaving Glory. Micah will be mad, but then he’s always mad at me for something. I adjust the bag on my shoulder, wishing my life could be simple. That’s a long road to start going down, though; I could wish for a lot of things, and if wishes were pigs we’d all eat bacon.

My thoughts are interrupted when a commanding voice calls out to me.

“Daisy, is that you?”

I groan inwardly and squeeze my eyes shut for just a moment. “Hello, Miss Bess.”

“Come here so I can see you.”

“Miss Bess, this ain’t the best time—”

“Hurry up, now, Daisy, I’m old and I got no time for dawdling.”

I sigh softly, but I’ve learned from experience that it’s useless to argue with the woman, she’ll only pretend she can’t hear you. I step around a wheelbarrow with no wheels and kick aside an empty can, weaving my way through the debris to the porch.

She waits for me impatiently, her hair stark white against her brown face, back straight as a board. Most old folks stoop, but then Bess ain’t like most folks. I’ve never seen her smile, not in all my born days, and she has the kind of strength that only comes from being hard-pressed your whole life. She made her way here from Georgia, and even though most of her family kept going west, Bess stayed put. She still has the accent; her voice is round and deep, all burnt sugar and smoke.

“Now then,” Bess says when I climb up the steps and knock over a birdhouse, “let me get a look at you, Daisy.”

“Miss Bess, you know no one calls me—”

“You’re too thin. You need to drink some cream; it’ll fill your face out some.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, biting back another response. Drink some cream, indeed; as if it were that simple. As if my jaw doesn’t clench at night with hunger, as if I’m not living on weak coffee and desperation.

“Sit with me, my dear,” Bess says, easing herself into her rocking chair. She bangs her cane against an overturned bucket, which I reckon is for me.

“Only for a moment,” I say. I clear the bucket of dirty mugs and perch on the edge, my knees almost to my chin.

“Would you look at that,” Bess says, her eyes gazing at the flat land beyond the fence. Her dark brown hands curl over her cane, the fingers knobby and wrinkled. “It’s gonna be a beautiful sunset, Daisy, mark my words.”

“It always is, Miss Bess.”

“Every day the same, but every one different.”

I start to fidget. How long am I going to be stuck here? Maybe she’ll fall asleep and I can just leave. I sneak a glance, but her eyes are wide open and glued to the desert. What she’s looking at I can only guess; maybe she sees the same beauty I see, the lines flat and unbroken, the dust drifting up hazily.