The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet, #1)(7)

Her crying stopped.

Her sniffles and flowing tears didn’t.

But at least she was silent, and there was no way I wanted to shatter that miracle, so I sat with her uncomfortably, letting her do what all baby creatures did when seeking comfort—nuzzling and suckling, creating another layer of frost on my hatred rather than thawing.

“Why did you mess this up for me?” I growled. “Why couldn’t you have stayed with your awful parents?”

I would be so much better off without her.

I should’ve left her behind days ago.

We’d already gone through the food far faster than I’d planned. The cheese was gone and two cans of baked beans. I had one left.

I didn’t even know if babies could eat beans, but I’d smashed it up and fed it as a paste, and she’d wisely never refused anything I offered. Not after my threat the first time.

Feeling trapped and useless and totally unprepared, I rocked my nemesis to sleep, both our empty tummies cawing as loud as the crows in the trees.





CHAPTER FOUR


REN



2000



EVERYTHING I HAD in the world now fit into two cargo pants pockets and an empty backpack.

I had no food or water.

I had no tent or blanket, no spare clothes, no medicine, no toothbrush or soap.

I’d done a terrible job at stashing away important things I’d need for this journey and regretted my stupidity on not planning better.

I’d done my best to keep us semi-clean by washing in the river we followed by day, and tried my hardest to keep us fed by hunting rats and rabbits and cooking them over the smallest fire I could by night.

Della screamed the first time I bashed in the head of a rabbit caught in my snare and skinned it in front of her. Unlike the previous times she’d cried, sucking on my finger didn’t shut her up.

She’d cried and cried herself into a stupor until her gasps and hiccups trailed into sleep, and I’d woken her a few hours later with stringy overcooked meat.

Her golden curls had turned brassy with grease. Her pudgy pink cheeks white and sallow.

I wasn’t used to seeing health slip so quickly from someone I saw every day. The kids in the barn all looked like filthy skeletons with wiry muscles and bleakness in their gaze.

No one changed inside that place once they’d given up hope and accepted their new fate. Della, on the other hand, switched from inquisitive infant to cranky monster, and my hate billowed bigger every day, swarming in size until I rubbed at my ribs, trying to dislodge the suffocating pressure whenever I looked at her.

If she cried, my hands curled to shut her up permanently. If she shat my t-shirt, my gag reflex begged to vomit all over her. If she crawled from the backpack while I was sleeping and burrowed into my side, my desire to shove her away was so strong I had to leap to my feet and back away to avoid hurting her the way I wanted.

I didn’t want this.

I didn’t want her.

I wanted my freedom, and she was just another form of imprisonment.

Sighing heavily, I once again rubbed at the ball of loathing wrapped around my throat and forced myself to relax. I was hungry enough without burning through more precious energy.

Ten days.

I’d made it ten days.

I could make it ten more—even with a no longer fat baby and an ever-increasing need to rest, eat something decent, and change into cleaner clothes.

Sitting in the shade of a massive oak tree, I scanned the horizon as I always did and split my attention three ways.

One, on Della as she lay on her back, twirling her dirty blue ribbon while wriggling in fallen acorns; two, on our surroundings and any sudden motions or noises, and three, on the measly tools in front of me.

I’d hoped by spreading out my worldly possessions, I would see an alternative for their use or have an epiphany on how to make life better. How to actually survive rather than continue what we were doing and slowly dying day by day.

My fingers stroked the nicked and tarnished blade that I’d stolen from the sheering shed last season. Mclary had whipped all of us for its disappearance, but no one knew I’d taken it, and I’d buried my guilt deep enough to justify everyone being punished on my behalf.

Along with a knife, I had a ball of baling twine, an oversize sewing needle meant for repairing sacking and tarp, a hay net that had come in handy making small animal snares, and a tin cup that had been assigned to me to drink from the well on the farm.

My one set of cargo pants, faded green t-shirt, and holey sneakers were days away from falling apart and covered in filth from living in the wilderness. And Della’s pink onesie was now a disgusting shade of putrid brown from diaper mishaps, mud, and pathetic attempts to rinse in the river.

Like I said, utterly measly and totally lacking.

I should’ve grabbed a tarp at least for shelter, a blanket from my bed, cutlery, painkillers—not that I had access to those—and so many other handy things I missed.

The only thing we had on our side was the weather.

The temperature had stayed muggy and warm since leaving Mclary’s and a small layering of leaves at night was enough to stay comfortable. With the river as our guide, we might be hungry, but we were never dehydrated, which I suppose was something to be thankful for.

*

I’d lost count of the days and nights.

I’d forgotten how long I’d lugged a baby through forest and farmland, putting as much distance between me and the Mclary’s farm as I could.