The Believers (The Breeders Series - Book 2) (2 page)

My mama stands, drawing my eight-year-old brother, Ethan, up with her. Her cotton T-shirt flutters against the swell of her newly pregnant belly. “Can you walk?” she asks Clay softly. He nods, pushing up, hiding a wince of pain behind a small quirk of his mouth. As I help him stand and take a sip of water from our canteen, a chilly wind stirs. Clay's body shivers. Then he throws his arm around me and shuffles forward.

We walk on the shoulder of the road. North, toward home and whatever awaits.

In the moonlight Rayburn and Clay crouch over two pieces of road map laid out on a boulder and squint at the jagged lines carving up the paper.

“Our approximate location puts us, uh, right about here.” Rayburn presses his index finger into a dimple on the map. Then he looks up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I think.”

“How d'you know that?” Clay's eyes narrow as he flicks a glance at Rayburn. “And how we know you on the straight and narrow now and not leadin' us right back in Breeders’ territory?” Clay's hand floats slowly toward the revolver at his hip.

Rayburn blanches, his pale face growing paler. “I, uh, I, uh…” His pimpled jowls jiggle as he watches Clay's hand near the pistol.

I step in. “He saved us, 'member? He saved
you
.” I put my hand on Rayburn's hunched shoulder and he flinches at my touch. “Ray stitched you up. If it weren't for him, you wouldn't be walking.”

Clay frowns. “I ain't walkin' so good.” The distrust seems to fade as he mulls over what I said. He leans over the map again. “Where you say we was?”

Rayburn, swallowing hard, peers over the moonlit highway. The blacktop carves through the desert like a hard black line, marred here and there by missing pavement or a burnt-out car husk. He points at the road, his chubby face scrunched up. “This road runs north and south.”

“I know that,” Clay says, jabbing a finger at the North Star.

Rayburn nods, blinking hard. “Yes, well, we're heading, uh, north and we've walked approximately ten miles, so that puts us here.” He pokes a finger into the folds of the map and the paper crinkles softly.

Clay pushes back his Stetson and peers down, frowning.

I know a pissing contest when I see one, so I stand up and brush the dust off my knees. Clay looks up at me. “Where you off to?” His frown fades as he gazes at me and the corners of his mouth lift slightly.

“You two don't need me to fight about where we're headed. We all know we head north 'til we find a town. No map needed for that.” Both men frown at me. I sigh and gesture down the ridge. “I'll see about Mama and Ethan.”

Clay nods, his good hand sliding up to stroke my calf. One gentle caress and he's back to arguing with Rayburn about the map.

I think about what where we've come from and where we're headed. With the Sheriff dead, there's no telling what happened to Auntie as his housekeeper. Clay's hell-bent on claiming his rightful place as leader of his pa's town, but all I want to do is get my family together under one roof. That and somehow keep Nessa Vandewater off our trail.

I walk down the little dirt incline to where Mama and Ethan sit side by side, their packs behind them to prop them up. Ethan's head rests on Mama's shoulder, her arm slung behind him. I sit across from them, draping my arms over my knees.

Mama smiles at me and runs a hand through her short dark hair. “Take a load off, honey lamb.” She pats her lap. “You wanna rest your head?”

“Nah, thanks.” I lift one of our plastic water jugs from where it rests against her pack. It feels dangerously light as it sloshes against my hand. I bite my lip and put it down. My throat is starting to feel like the desert floor, but I can hold out a little while longer.

When I set the jug down, I get a glimpse of Mama's bare feet peeking from under her pants. “Oh God, Mama!” I point at the open sores, red and weeping, where her shoes have rubbed the skin away. “Why didn't you say something?”

She shrugs, looking down at her destroyed feet. The skin on one heel looks like raw meat. She touches it gently with a finger. “Nothing to be done. Rayburn has some cream he said he'd give me when he gets done frettin' over that map.” The burned half of her face lifts slightly, the rutted skin rippling like a wrinkled bed shirt.

“We coulda stopped,” I say, digging in Rayburn's pack. I find the tin of cream, lift her right foot into my lap, and start applying. “I forget that you ain't been walking much.”

She nods, but says nothing. Her right hand strays to the Breeder's ankh, the cross with the oval head branded on the inside of her wrist. Her thumb rubs the raised flesh and her face darkens.

Images flash through my mind before I can stop them: a hospital bed with wrist restraints, a red-haired guard sliding his fingers up my leg, Betsy's ringlet curls bouncing from side to side as she fixes me with her sad, puppy-dog look. Betsy. Picturing her face is another punch in the stomach. Did the Breeders kill her? Did they put her under and take her to the plan B room because she helped me? I shiver.

“Cold?” Mama asks, studying my face. She purses her chapped lips.

“Yeah.” I shift my eyes to the moon and try, try,
try
not to think about the Breeders.

I finish her right foot and reach for her left. Ethan stirs and blinks at me through his dark bangs. “I'm hungry, Riley. What we got to eat?”

I hate this question.
Not much
always seems to be the answer. I shrug and try to think of something light to say. “Rayburn baked a sugar rum cake, but he's letting it cool on the window sill.” I lift my eyes to my little brother. “I think Clay's got some ice cream under his Stetson, too.”

“Shut up,” Ethan says tiredly. Then his mouth quirks. “I got some chocolate in my pocket. Wanna see?”

I lean forward and muss his hair. “Don't even joke about chocolate less you really got some. I might get so crazy I eat you up instead.” I lean forward, grabbing for him, my teeth gnashing wildly.

He pulls back, squealing. The broad smile on his face warms my heart.

I go back to doctoring Mama's feet. The joking helps lighten the mood, but doesn't fix how skinny Ethan is. The shirt Clay found him hangs so loose it's like a skeleton’s wearing it. I dig a hunk of jerky out of the pack and toss it to him. He snatches the meat, frowns, and then sets to gnawing.

Rayburn and Clay shuffle over the ridge. Rayburn points at one half of the map and holds it out to Clay. Clay pushes it away, his face stern. When he turns to say something to Rayburn, he tumbles down in the dust, his legs folding under him, his bandaged hand out to brace himself. When he hits the ground, he cries out in pain.

“Clay!” I jump up and run to him. His jeans are covered with dust and there's a red spot blooming through the fabric on his thigh where I know his bullet wound to be. “You're bleeding.”

He pushes my hand away. “I'm fine.” Sweat glistens on his forehead and his face is white.

“Rayburn!” I say, feeling a nervous flutter in my chest. I point at Clay's leg. “He's bleeding.”

Rayburn kneels down. “We, uh, we need to get your pants off.”

Clay smirks. “Rayburn, you know you ain't my type.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Leave me alone.” He turns his gaze away, the pain tightening his features.

I shake my head, touching his leg delicately. Blood seeps through his pants. “Come on,” I say, holding out my hand. “We gotta get your pants off. He's a doctor.”

Clay frowns at my hand, but finally takes it. Throwing his arm over my shoulder, we limp to a clump of cacti, Rayburn following behind. Clay gives me a pained look and drops his jeans. Heat flares into my cheeks as my eyes stray past his blue boxer shorts. Then I see his leg and all heat drains out of me. The bullet wound Rayburn so carefully stitched back in the church has busted open.

Rayburn shuffles over and squints at the wound. “It isn't, uh, isn't healing.” He looks up at me and then at Clay. “It'll get infected if it doesn't close up.”

Infection out here means death. I grip Rayburn's arm hard. “What do we do?”

Rayburn runs a hand through his black curls. “I could suture it, but it'll only open up again. If he stayed off his leg for a week or so—”

“Not a chance on yer life,” Clay says, palming sweat off his forehead.

Rayburn sighs. “Then,” he blows out a breath, “the only chance is to cauterize.”

I snap my head to Rayburn in horror. “You mean
burn
his leg?”

Rayburn nods gravely. “I don't like it anymore than you do.” He begins twisting his hands together nervously.

“I'm fine,” Clay says, reaching down to draw up his pants. I put a hand on his chest and feel the sweat seeping through his cotton shirt.

I stare into his beautiful face, flushed with strain. “I can't let you die.”

His good hand reaches up to stroke my cheek. The softness of his gaze turns my world upside down. “Please,” I whisper.

He gives me a quick nod. Then he looks at Rayburn. “We got any whiskey?”

Rayburn shakes his head.

“God damn.” He unbuckles his pants. “Then let's get this over with.”

We build a fire behind a butte, hoping that it hides our light from the road. I tend the fire, flicking glances at Clay from time to time. He sits beside the flames, his leg out, his eyes distant. He knows as well as I do that this is going to be awful; he's got his cold-as-steel gunslinger expression set hard on his face. How can he be made of stone when right now my limbs are brittle as tumbleweeds?

Mama and Ethan wait for us over the ridge. They don't need to see this. I wish I didn't, but I know I'm not leaving.

When the fire's hot, Rayburn and I stand nervously to the side, staring at Clay's wound.

“What do we use?” I whisper, worrying my hands.

Rayburn holds up the revolver and shrugs. In the firelight, his expression has never looked so uncertain. He leans into me. “This might not work, OK? Burning the surrounding tissues could r-r-result in a bigger wound and cell death…” He sniffs and thumbs back his glasses.

In this light, Rayburn looks fourteen, not the twenty-two I know him to be. I place my hand on his slumped shoulder. “You told me this is the only way. Is it?”

Rayburn looks up at me, the firelight dancing on his dirty glasses. He nods.

“Then we do this. We do it quick and we do it right.” I squeeze his arm. “We do it for Clay.”

He licks sweat off his upper lip, turns, and strides to the fire. Then he leans down and begins heating up the barrel of the gun.

Clay looks over at me as I sit down. “I'll need somethin’ to bite down on.” His voice is so even it sounds like we're talking about the weather.

I nod and pull out the belt Rayburn gave me. Slowly, I hand the folded leather to Clay. “You sure?” I ask, grabbing his hand. “You sure you can do this?”

He nods, his blue eyes flashing in the firelight. “No other choice, right?”

I shake my head. “Guess not.”

“Then let's get it over with.” He flexes the belt in his hands. “You hold my arms? I don't wanna accidentally clock Rayburn while he burns me.” A smirk lights his face. “Or maybe I do.”

“You can't clock Rayburn.” I try a smile, but it feels false. Rayburn crouches by the fire and grips the revolver handle wrapped in a huge wad of cloth. The barrel glows a menacing red. He stands up and walks over, eying the barrel like it’s a snake ready to spring.

Clay swallows hard and looks up at me. “You got me?” he says, a small tremor sneaking into his voice. His eyes are suddenly wet. Afraid.

“I got you,” I say, taking his hand. Holding it like it's my only lifeline to him.

He pulls me in, his lips pressing into mine. The kiss burns through me like a fever, heating my insides. His lips yield softly and I taste his fear, but also his resolve. If this is what he has to do, he'll do it. Like he's always done.

We pull apart. I caress his cheek once. Rayburn kneels down and Clay shoves the belt between his teeth and bites down, then gives a quick nod.

I hear the sizzle of skin before the smell of burnt flesh hits my nose. I squeeze Clay's hands. His eyes lock into mine and we're together in this awful moment.

Then he starts to scream.

When Clay can walk again, we continue up the busted highway. Each mile feels like a hundred. Mama limps so bad I wince every time I glance at her. Clay's no better. His leg, though no longer bleeding, is swollen and blistered beneath his pants. He needs rest or he'll drop dead.

Toward dawn, as the light is graying, we find a dusty shell of metal that used to be a roadside restaurant. Beside it sits a little four-pump gas station and service shop. The diner's broken sign reads Restaur in big block letters that look like they lit up at one time. The rest of the word lies in broken chunks out front. As we shuffle up, Clay draws his gun. No telling who might be holed up inside. We slink cautiously to the front and peer in. All of the windows have long since blown out, but the metal roof is mostly intact. Tables—their Formica tops wrinkling and peeling back like apple skins—are strewn in the corners. Sand has blown in and completely covered one side and most of the floor. A rusty metal stool glints in the gray light filtering through the holey roof.

“Stay here,” Clay whispers. He limps up the broken concrete steps and slips inside.

I wait with the rifle pressed to my breastbone, my heart pounding against it. The first rays of sun are turning the east pink. With the Breeders looking for us and the heat index into the hundreds, we can't travel during the day. If we don't get off the road, we're toast. This had better be the place.

“All clear,” Clay says from the doorway. He takes off his hat and wipes his brow. “I'm gonna check the service station just to be sure. You all go ahead and get comfy.” He nods toward the diner and then limps off.

I blow out a breath. “All right, folks. Looks like we're bedding down here for the day.” I shoulder my rifle and wink at Ethan. “Let's hope we find some grub.”

A search of the larder reveals nothing but a dried lizard carcass so long dead it's just a wrinkled husk, three empty cans, and some rotten shelving. The same story for the nearby gas station. Just drained gas cans, rusty tools, and heaps of trash.