Orphan Maker (18 page)

Cain rubbed Kevin’s cropped head with a laugh. “Check you out, dawg! You off tap for shizzle. Going to get them drawers, huh?”

Kevin’s complexion was dark, but Gwen bet he was blushing so hard he’d set off fire alarms.

“What’s that mean? ‘Get some drawers.’” Terry frowned at the camaraderie.

“Um.” Gwen looked at Loomis who was busy talking to two of the Baxter men. “Getting a girlfriend,” she said, not quite lying. She didn’t think Loomis would appreciate her telling him it meant getting into a woman’s pants.

Terry grimaced, still at the age when girlfriends were a hindrance rather than something to desire. “Come on, Kevin. Let’s get our tent set up.” He tugged on his friend’s arm possessively.

“A’ight.” Kevin proceeded to give each of the Gatos a complicated handshake, a grin splitting his face, before following Terry to the cart.

“Little man looks good,” Rogelio said. “So do you and Lucky,
chica
.”

“
Graciás
. You guys look good too. How they treating you?” The three of them drifted a bit away to allow some privacy.

“Not bad,” Cain said. “Wasn’t sure what to expect with all the white bread we got here.”

“Me, neither.”

Gwen frowned. She hadn’t really thought of that. In the gang, race had no meaning. Sure, there were assholes that made derogatory comments about others because of their skin color, but they were put down pretty quick. She frowned and looked over the field as another wagonload of people made their way past. With the Gatos she’d been a minority. Now most of the gang were outnumbered. The issue hadn’t even occurred to her.

“So, the Baxters ain’t haters?”

“Nope,” Rogelio said. “They’re nice folks.”

“Folks?” Gwen repeated, beginning to laugh. “Dawg, you been here too long! You starting to sound like them!” Cain joined in her laughter.

Rogelio blinked wide-eyed a moment before catching the humor and snickering. “You should talk,
chica
,” he said, looking her up and down. “No bling-bling, homemade shoes—what up wit dat?”

She nudged him with her shoulder, still chuckling. “Same thing up wit choo.” She tugged at his shirt. It resembled one of the tunics they’d found in McAdam.

He blushed and grinned.

“Hey, Gwen!”

She turned to see Loomis waving at her.

“Let’s get the camp together. Then we can enjoy ourselves.”

“I got to go,” Gwen said. “Talk to you later?”

“You bet,
gái dep
,” Cain said.

Gwen gave them each a kiss before trotting back to Loomis.

***

Setting up camp was an adventure. Loomis had brought along the tent they’d discovered in the Phillips’s basement on the chance they could put up the strange apparatus. The tent had a wooden frame for the base and four towering corner pieces. It took a lot of head scratching before it could be erected. Terry’s innate engineering ability helped considerably as he puzzled over the pieces, and the activity drew spectators who interrupted with suggestions or chuckled over their errors. With the help of the Baxters, the dusty canvas eventually rose, and the tent was proclaimed sturdy enough for occupation. It stood twice as tall as everything else, almost three quarters the height of the nearby goal posts. The top crosspiece was intricately carved and painted, portraying stylized dragons that blew fire from their snarling mouths, the brilliant colors catching the eye of everybody in the field. A series of eyehooks had been screwed into the wooden uprights, and Terry lashed a web of rope between them, giving the tent more stability. After digging in one of the wooden chests, Cara found hanging candleholders and oil lamps designed for suspension from the ropes. The steep sides made standing easy, and there was a decent amount of floor space—enough to bed down Loomis, Gwen, Cara, Lucky and the younger children. Kevin and Terry had erected a military pup tent a good distance away, and Rick and Heather had a small nylon dome that had seen better days.

Once sleeping arrangements were taken care of, Loomis and Rick set up the four shearing tables they’d brought along. Everyone else unpacked their trade items, setting them out for display. As the day began to warm, the field became more populated with the arrival of the residents living in town. Some carried backpacks or satchels of goods and others came with nothing, simply stopping to examine the Loomis family offerings.

“
Querida
.”

Gwen turned from watching Loomis haggle over a pair of boots to see Weasel standing back near the cart, out of the way of the bartering. Her stomach did flip-flops at seeing him again. The joy confused her. She hadn’t realized she’d missed him so much. The emotion was tempered with serious concern. Would he be stupid and act like she still belonged to him? What the hell would Loomis think? She glanced around him, not seeing any other Gatos hanging nearby. He had come alone.

Lucky had also heard him. She seemed to realize the potential of triggering his territorial anger. Glancing at Gwen, she stepped in between them, sashaying over to Weasel. “
Hola
, Weasel.” She gave him a welcome smile. “Remember Oscar?” She held up the baby.

Weasel smoothed the annoyance from his face, finding a smile for the young mother. “Hey, Oscar.” He chucked the baby’s chin. “He’s looking good, Lucky. Things been going good for you?”

The young mother laughed and flirted with Weasel. Gwen smiled thanks at her for distracting him, slipping past her and out from behind the tables. “Hey, Weas. How’s it going?”

“Been better.” As with all the city kids, a steady diet had added some weight to his frame. His narrow face had filled out. He still wore his original boots and jeans, but the shirt was new. His long hair was now pulled back into a ponytail instead of hanging free with a gang-knotted kerchief over his head. “You?”

“We’re doing really good. Kevin’s with us too, see?” She pointed to the center of the field where Terry was introducing him to other townies his age. The group was interspersed with the few Gato children that had survived. “Where’d you end up?”

“Not far from here. Been staying with Walker.”

Gwen raised an eyebrow. “The mayor?”

“Yeah. We figured it’d be better this way. If I backed the mayor, so would the Gatos.”

She remembered her initial thoughts of hooking up with the mayor, and was now relieved she hadn’t done so. Glancing back at Loomis, a shiver coursed through her. Gwen wasn’t sure, but she suspected that Loomis was beginning to open up to her. At least Gwen’s mild flirtations appeared to be having some effect if Loomis’s blush that morning was any indication.

“You’re with the Loomis homestead, right?”

Gwen nodded. “Yeah. That’s Loomis there.”

“Always follow the power, huh?”

The chill in his voice put her on guard as she turned back to him. His expression was bitter, and a part of her felt dismay. Didn’t he realize they’d only been cut buddies these last four years?
It’s not like we loved each other.
“If that’s what it takes to survive.”

Weasel snorted. “Be careful who you choose, Gwen.” He looked over her shoulder at the family behind the tables, and she followed his gaze.

The boys had run off to play a game of soccer in the center of the field. Cara had disappeared as she went to see what other homesteads had brought to trade. Megan and Delia played house with the Baxter girl in the tall dragon tent. Heather and Lucky sat with one of the Baxter girlfriends, chatting about pregnancy and children. Only Loomis and Rick were actively dealing, swapping future harvests and solid goods with abandon. Loomis caught her watching and turned to wink at her.

“So, it’s the
chica
that’s got your attention, huh? You always were into the ’ho’s.”

“Shut up. She ain’t a ’ho.” Gwen rounded on him. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything.”

“I know a lot more than you do, I bet.” He sneered at her. “As soon as I saw you leave the church with them, I started asking around. Best watch yourself,
querida
, or one of them will put a cap in your head.”

She gave him a disdainful look. “Please. The Loomises are pure. Not like us.” She gestured between them to indicate the Gatos.

“Suit yourself. But little brother has a reputation around town. He might not like you sweating his sister. You wouldn’t be the first one to end up dead.”

As he turned and stalked away, Gwen saw a couple of his lieutenants appear from the growing crowd. So he’d been able to keep some scrap of power for himself through this mess. She didn’t know if she should be worried or find his impotent bitching pathetic. She turned to study Loomis and Rick as they joked with one another, Weasel’s words rolling around in her head. They were tight; she’d known that since she’d first seen them in the church. Rick’s devotion to his sister was rooted in the shit Riddick had called down on Loomis. Gwen was certain of that. His nightly forays to Loomis’s room to check on her after a nightmare, his quiet acceptance of her authority, and his absolute refusal to reveal her secrets all proved his loyalty. But would he kill for her?

Gwen frowned and drifted away from the camp, not paying attention to the multitude of townies and Gatos coming together in celebratory commerce. If her theories were correct, Loomis was raped not long after the plague. That’s what the nightmares were about. Rick was the one Loomis was always crying out to protect; nothing else made sense. Riddick was involved though he wasn’t Megan’s father. That man was “dead and buried.” If Weasel’s information was right, that meant that Rick had killed Megan’s father. She chewed her lower lip. Was it really rape that created Megan? Was Loomis talking about Rick in her dreams? Or was she pleading with Rick for the life of Megan’s father?
And what the fuck does Riddick have to do with the mess?

After a lunch of cold chicken, bread and salad greens, Loomis wandered away from the campsite to prowl through the offerings of the other homesteads. She had a bag slung over her shoulder and a pistol on her hip. While she didn’t expect trouble, it was always good to be prepared. Mother Nature had begun encroaching on the small village. It wasn’t unheard of for wild dogs to be drawn to the sound and smell of prey. It was warm again today, but there was a haze in the sky, indicating a storm was on the way. It would probably hit by the next afternoon, giving her family plenty of time to enjoy themselves tonight and still make it home.

As always, her imagination had painted a far more severe picture of what would happen regarding the now public information about Riddick’s involvement with the city kids. Her expectations of pity and sympathy from her peers were never truly met. Sure, there were one or two of the gossips she’d caught standing back and whispering as they stared at her with a measure of horrified glee, but most the folks she’d dealt with that morning hadn’t acted like she was going to break. It helped that Annie had shown up, behaving as if this were any other Festival as they haggled over how much honey and pork would be an appropriate payment for the thel and wool Loomis had stored at the homestead. Finally relaxed for the first time in weeks she strolled along the campsites, waving and calling greetings to her neighbors as she looked over their offerings.

She had one sheet of paper in her back pocket and a stub of pencil behind her ear to keep track of personal deals. Most of the bartering was done on a family level; the extra food and goods swapped for things from which everyone in the homestead would benefit, like honey for wool and a new grinder blade for her father’s work boots. But each person had his or her own items or skills to trade, as well. In her bag, she had a couple of books that, while interesting, were ultimately worthless to her. She had a good idea who would find them intriguing, though, and looked for the distinctive wagon of the Harts. All she needed to do was follow her nose and the crowd.

In the early days after Orphan Maker, Matthew Hart had raided the small museum in McAdam for a Conestoga wagon replica that had been on display. It was the only one of its kind in town, though the canvas cover was worn and patched now. Sticking up through a flap in the center was a smoking stovepipe, and several people gathered at the back. Loomis slipped into the crowd and pressed forward. Matthew and his sister, Alice, were the local distillers. While most people in Lindsay Crossing had learned how to make their own beer or mead, the Harts had gone into business with corn liquor, making their wagon a very popular destination during Festivals. Joined by his two best friends and her boyfriend, the Hart homestead was considered one of the richest in town.

When it was Loomis’s turn, she bellied up to the makeshift bar, a narrow set of tables blocking off access to the rear of the wagon. She saw barrels, crates and bottles inside, and it looked like they were brewing a batch even now.

“Loomis! What the hell can I do for you?” Matt’s green eyes twinkled.

She opened her bag and pulled out two books, carefully laying them on the bar. Next to them she placed a quart mason jar. “You can fill it up.”

He gave the books a cursory glance. “What do I need books for?” He leaned on his elbows so he had to look up at her. “We ain’t big readers at our place, you know that.”

Loomis grinned, sliding the books under his nose. “Maybe not, but I think you’ll want to read these.”

Matt winked at her. “Why?”

She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Because if I swap these with someone else, you won’t be the only one making liquor.” She tapped the nondescript covers. “These are books on making booze. They’ve got all sorts of recipes too.”

He blinked at her, then glanced around to see if anyone else had overheard. “Really?”

“Yup. Tells you how to set up your own still, how to make the mash…even gives recipes for different kinds of alcohol.” She frowned in mock seriousness, picking up one of the books, opening it to flip through the pages. Her voice became louder. “Of course, some of these won’t work since we don’t have the proper ingredients, but I’m betting someone with a little skill and experimentation could make up for that.”