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Slowly, she took off her pack, set it aside. “Lana Bingham. I was a chef. I am a witch.”
“I got the second back in the coop when you gave me a little punch.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Just a little. Bet you’ve got more. A chef? Why am I cooking?”
She let out a breath, took in another, then crouched by her pack. She took out herbs, a tomato, a pepper, a couple of spring onions. “Would you like an omelette?”
“Sure.”
“It’s a nice stove. It’s a nice kitchen.”
Her voice shook again. He could see as well as hear her fight to steady it. “How do you get the gas?”
“Gas well.”
“A what?”
“Natural gas well.” He gestured vaguely toward the window. “It’s piped into the house. We’ve got gaslight, gas stove, gas every damn thing. Some wind power, too.”
She washed her hands in the farm sink, then the herbs and vegetables. “I need a few things. More eggs, a small bowl, a whisk.”
“I’ve got it.”
After heating the skillet, she put on bacon. She took a chef’s knife—serviceable—from a block, pulled over a cutting board, and began chopping while it sizzled.
Cooking. Normal. How could anything be normal?
And yet, chopping herbs, she felt more herself than she had in weeks.
“You were in the army.”
“Yeah, for about ten years. I’d had enough, but I got out primarily because my mother got sick. Cancer. They needed help around here while she was fighting it. She fought it, beat it. And then … Well, fucking Doom.”
“I’m sorry.”
They worked together in silence for a few minutes. He got her the can he used to store bacon grease, the plastic tub he used for kitchen compost. And watched, mildly in awe, as she cooked.
“How long have you been on the road?” he asked her.
“I don’t know. I lost track. It was the Fourth of July when … I left.”
“About six weeks. Where’d you start?”
“We were in a place we called New Hope, in Virginia. I think south of Fredericksburg. Where am I now?”
“You came a ways. This is Maryland, western.”
“What are the mountains?”
“The Blue Ridge.”
“Are there other people?”
“Some. There’s a town—more a settlement now. We do some trading. I was taking produce in. There’s a mill. They’re making flour. Got some sheep, a loom. A blacksmith, a butcher. You work with what you’ve got.”
She nodded, folded the egg over the vegetables. “Is there a doctor?”
“Not yet. A vet assistant’s as close as we’ve got.”
She lifted the omelette onto one of the plates he’d set out, cut it in half, slid half onto the second plate.
“Are there any Uncannys?”
“A few sprinkled in. Nobody has a problem with it. Do you want that milk?”
“I hate milk, but yes, it’s probably good for the baby.”
He got out the jug, poured her a short glass.
They sat at the kitchen counter, a classy and mottled gray granite. The first bite had her closing her eyes as her system absorbed.
He took a heftier bite. “Okay, you were serious about the chef deal. I haven’t had anything close to this good in a hell of a while.”
Calculating, she ate slowly. “If I could stay for a couple of days, I could pay you back with cooking. And we had a garden in New Hope, so I learned how to garden. I could help there. A couple of days should be safe.”
For both of us.
“Then what?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought about anything but moving, getting away, keeping the baby safe.”
“When’s she due? You said she, right?”
“Yes. The last week of September.”
“You figure to deliver her on your own, on the road?”
She knew how it sounded, had worried about it constantly, but hadn’t seen a choice.
“I hope to find a place and … do what I need to. I won’t let anything happen to her. Whatever it takes, nothing’s going to hurt her.”
“There are women in the settlement—houses scattered around.”
“I can’t … I can’t risk so many people. The Purity Warriors, you don’t know.”
A pretty park, a happy celebration. Bodies scattered, smoke rising. Max’s blood soaking the brown earth.
“Yeah, I do. Some of them came through the settlement a few weeks ago. They didn’t get a warm reception.”
Fear jumped back into her voice. “They were here.”
“From what I hear there are some of them traveling around, looking for others who think like they do. Like I said, they didn’t find that here.”
He ate, considered. Between the Purity Warriors, Raiders, and general assholes, the road wasn’t close to safe for a woman alone. Add in that that woman was due to give birth in about eight weeks.
And fierce or not, she apparently had a target on her back.
He scooped up the last of his eggs, turned to her. “You should think about staying here. You can take over the kitchen, that’s for damn sure. You should think about staying at least until after you have the kid. Four bedrooms upstairs. I’m only using one.”
“They could find me. Eric—”
“That’s the brother?”
“He’s mad with power. There’s something about my baby, something special. Important. I don’t know. But Eric and Allegra want to kill her.”
“Well, if she’s special and important it’s just more reason to get her here safe. I don’t like people who start trouble, start wars, look to generally fuck things up. However they’re built, I don’t like it.”
“You don’t even know me.”
After nudging his empty plate aside, he shrugged. “What the hell difference does that make?”
Nothing, nothing he could have said would have reassured her more.
“I’m so grateful. And I’m so tired. I’m just so tired. Can we take it a day at a time?”
“Sure. You can pick a bedroom. It’ll be clear which one’s mine.” He rose, started to clear.
“I’ll do the dishes. Part of the deal.”
“Next time they’re all yours. No offense, but you look pretty done. So go up, pick a bed, tune out. I need to get the produce into town. You ought to take my parents’ room. It’s one of those master deals. Got its own bathroom.”
“Simon. Thank you.”
He carted dishes to the sink. “Can you make meatloaf?”
“If you have the meat along with what I’ve already seen, I can make amazing meatloaf.”
“You put that together for dinner, we’re square.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOU
R
Lana found the master suite with its four-poster bed at the top of the stairs. A duvet of deep forest green covered it along with four thick shams in the same color edged in a quiet and dull gold that matched the walls.
His parents had died here, she remembered. He’d put their room to rights again, cleaned what must have been heartbreaking, cleared the room of all signs of illness.
Even through a gnawing fatigue, she recognized that his caring to restore the room to how his mother certainly would have wanted it said something about the son.
A man who’d given her food and shelter. It made her think of Lloyd, what he’d said at that first full community meeting.
Still, she locked the door behind her, adding a charm to block entrance. She didn’t consider it overkill to carry a chair over and prop it under the doorknob.
She wanted to sleep, just wanted to go away for a while. On clean sheets, with pillows, under a duvet of forest green. Thinking of his mother, she considered the dirt and grime she carried from the trail, and stepped into the adjoining bath.
She wouldn’t disrespect the woman whose home offered sanctuary by besmirching her bed.
Here, too, he’d put things to rights. A stack of fluffy towels on clean, if dusty, counters. Setting aside her pack, she opened the glass door of the shower.
Shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, even a woman’s shower razor. As her own supplies had dwindled, Lana ignored the niceties as she stripped down. She’d use
