Revenge and the Wild(64)

Westie raised her voice. “I swear to the Almighty, I’ll blister your hide, Olivia Fairfield. I don’t care who you tell about the gold.”

Olive’s smirk slid into a smile. “We’ll see about that.”

Westie watched helplessly as Olive gave the lizard’s tail a quick yank and tore it off. The lizard writhed in her grip, snapping at her fingers. Olive only laughed when she dropped the lizard and it scurried away with the rest of its life.

It wasn’t as if Westie had never seen an animal hurt before; she had, plenty of times. She’d hunted with Bena as a girl, stuck her fair share of hogs, even taken down a buck or two, but she did it to eat, to feed a tribe. It was done with respect and gratitude. Watching Olive beat a dog and pull the tail off a lizard for no other reason than to be cruel took more stomach than God had bestowed upon Westie, and so she turned her back on the girl and walked away, the dog following behind.

“Where are you going?” Olive called after her.

Westie swallowed back the words that would void the truce between her and Olivia. “I’m going home. You’d best do the same.” Before I change my mind about our deal, she thought.

“I don’t know the shortcut across the river.”

“Go back the way you came.”

Olive tried to keep up, but Westie ran, leaving her behind. She went the long way around to get back to Henry, needing time alone with her thoughts to come up with an alibi in case Nigel or the general store clerk accused her of stealing. If she passed the airdocks on her way, she could make sure one of the dockworkers saw her, and she could say she’d been there all morning watching aeroskiffs take off and land like she used to as a child before Alistair came to live with them. It was as good a plan as any.

Westie reached Henry and climbed into the saddle. Just as she was about to head off, a piercing scream sank its teeth into the back of her neck. The dog cowered, birds scattered from the trees. Westie looked back. If Olive had walked home the way she’d come, the sound would’ve come from the opposite direction. Unless she’d found the bridge and tried to cross. . . .

“Oh, hell,” Westie said.





Thirty


Westie dug her heels into Henry’s sides as they cut through a field, rushing toward the river. When she came to the bridge, she leaped from her saddle and slid down the rough embankment. It was a steady flogging all the way down. She had to dig her machine between the rocks and packed clay to stop her fall before she rolled into the brambles.

As she feared, the ancient bridge was far more unstable than when she’d last crossed it as a child. It was made of rope and driftwood planks for stepping. Between the sun and storms, the ropes were tendrils of hair.

“Olive?” Westie shouted when she saw the hole in the middle of the bridge where the planks were broken.

“Help!” The cry came from downriver.

Her heart a charging bull in her chest, Westie looked all around until she caught a glimpse of what looked like a white sheet caught on a branch in the middle of the river not far from the bridge.

She ran as best she could over the rough terrain, but the slick soles of her boots put her in danger of falling. She cursed as she maneuvered the shore, wishing she had worn her hunting garb and moccasins. She’d have made it to Olive by now had she not been weighed down by her dress.

Olive’s screams became shrieks.

“Hold on, Olive, I’m coming!”

Though the girl was a demon with a secret that could destroy Westie, she was a child all the same, and Westie would jump into the river if that was what it took to save her.

When she was close enough, she saw Olive’s arm crooked around the branch of a pine caught in the rapids. The river was a giant beast that had taken many lives in the time Westie had been in California, and once it had a victim in its clutches, it wasn’t likely to let them go. Olive was but a morsel in its gullet, and she wouldn’t have the strength to hold on for long.

Wading out into the anger could be the death of them both, but she couldn’t just leave the girl. She had to try.

Sweat ran into her eyes as Westie pushed through the tangle of blackberry vines along the shore. Some of the thorns were as long as fangs and shredded her skin until her flesh hand was drenched in blood.

“Hurry, I’m slipping.” Olive coughed as water forced the back of her head forward. Westie knew if the weight of the water didn’t kill the girl, the debris—some of it logs the size of grown men—surely would.

Westie finessed her way through the water, wedging her feet between rocks for stability and taking hold of boulders with her machine. When she was beside Olive, she reached out.

“Grab my hand!”

“I can’t.” Olive swallowed water when she opened her mouth, triggering a coughing fit. “I can’t reach.”

There were still inches between their fingers as Olive reached out with her free hand, but Westie had nowhere left to go. There were no more boulders between them to grab hold of.

“Olive, you need to listen to me,” Westie said, her voice rising over the rush of water. “When I tell you to let go of the branch, I need you to do just that, you hear? The water is shallow where you are. Your feet will touch the bottom. As soon as you let go of the branch, I want you to leap for my hand. I’ll catch you. Do you understand?”

Olive was able to focus long enough to nod her head. Westie nodded too. She leaned farther toward the girl. One good jump and Olive would be in her grasp.