Revenge and the Wild(13)

“I said you don’t look well.” He worried over her like a persistent mother, wiping her brow with his pocket square.

“It’s the heat,” she said, swatting his hands away.

“I’m getting you something to drink.”

After he left, Westie continued to study the couple. A young man joined them, squinting against the sun, rodent-like, with his eyes, nose, and tiny mouth all pushed into the center of his face. His hair was the color of wet sand, worn long and pulled into a tail. He peeled off his gloves one finger at a time.

She dug her nails into her palm until it bled, wondering if he could be their son. There had been four people taking shelter in the hunting cabin when her folks had stumbled upon it: a man, his wife, and two children. Westie didn’t remember the boy as much as she did the mother and father, but his age, the color of his hair, it all fit.

The similarities were remarkable, but there had been a daughter too. Where was she? She would’ve been nine by now, nearly the same age as Westie had been when she’d escaped the cabin. It was possible the girl had died. The wagon trail was no place for children.

Alistair came back with a cup of lemonade and handed it to Westie. She dropped it back in one shot but was still thirsty after, only her appetite required something stronger, with proof. Her mouth had gone as dry as the hot clay beneath her feet.

The rest of Westie’s resolve shattered as she watched the mayor and James join the family on the dock.

“Those folks are the investors?” she said.

Nigel gave her an inquisitive look. “Yes, those are the Fairfields.”

The cup shattered beneath the grip of her machine.

“Is something wrong?” Nigel said. “Are you ill?”

Westie hesitated, the words stuck in her throat. Her voice was thick with fear when she finally spoke. “I think those folks are the ones who killed my family.”

The admission felt dangerous. It had just been a notion before. Saying the words made it real.

Nigel stared at her without expression. When Bena reached for the knife tucked into her belt, he stopped her.

“There won’t be any need for that,” he said. “I’m sure Westie is mistaken.”

Westie looked back at the Fairfields, their attire, their smiles as they conversed with the mayor and James. She wondered if her desire to find the family of cannibals had been so strong that her judgment was impaired. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d gotten it wrong.

A young girl of nine or ten years slipped through the forest of legs crowding her path. She held a rainbow-colored lollipop in one hand and a doll in the other. She reached up, taking hold of the woman’s hand.

Westie swayed in the breeze. Alistair gripped her arm to keep her up.

“It’s them.” Her throat felt as though she were talking through shards of glass. “I need to alert the sheriff.”

Her eyes darted around like bugs trapped in mason jars, looking for him.

“Like hell you will,” Nigel said, gripping her flesh arm.

She gazed up at him, eyes charred by the screaming sun. “It’s them, Nigel. I know this woman’s face like I know my own.” Westie caught a glimpse of a tan Stetson over Nigel’s shoulder. “There he is,” she said when the sheriff came into view.

Her hand trembled, stomach coiled with nerves. She shook off Nigel’s grip and made her way toward the sheriff. Nigel lunged at her and Alistair followed. Their first attempt to take Westie down before she reached him didn’t go well. Alistair received a copper blow to the chest that knocked the air out of him. Nigel’s strength was no match, and he soon found the seat of his trousers dusted with red clay when she pushed him down.

“Stop her!” Nigel cried out to Bena, but Bena had seen the aftermath of what the cannibals had done to Westie’s family and made no move to help in the effort.

Westie cussed as the hem of her skirt caught on a broken hitching post. Struggling to get free without stripping down to her bloomers, she failed to notice Costin at her side until he tackled her.

She flailed her arms for something to grab hold of. It was no use. Her head hit the dirt with a blunt sound. The pain it caused wasn’t as dull. It rippled through her like a rock being dropped into a sleeping pond. Costin straddled her waist while Nigel pinned her metal arm to disable her strength. A tendon in her shoulder was the key to her machine, a shutoff switch. The arm was useless when enough pressure was applied. Nigel knew exactly where to push, and there was no doubt in Westie’s mind that he’d planned it exactly that way when attaching the machine to her arm. If it hadn’t been for that vulnerability, there would’ve been nothing to stop her strength.

A choking veil of red dirt rose around them as the pair worked to contain her. She fought like a feral cat. Tears filled her eyes. She let out a howl that caused the women who’d gathered around to step back, and their children to take shelter behind their skirts.

“What’s happening to her?” she heard Costin ask.

“She’s having a seizure,” Nigel said to Costin and the crowd, “a long-standing medical condition. Please stand back and give the poor girl some air.”

Costin started to stand. Nigel stopped him. “No, not you. I need help keeping her down.” Costin hesitated. Eventually his weight settled on her again.

He looked down at her. His face was hidden by his veil, but she saw his throat move when he swallowed. “Do you need my blood to heal her?” he said.