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If the Tashi’ne home gave Connor cabin fever, being stuck in Una’s place is like being packed in a shipping crate again. Even Grace, who can always find ways of entertaining herself, keeps asking with an “are we there yet” sort of persistence, if she can go out and do something.
“Just a walk. Maybe some shopping. Pleeeeeeeeeze?”
Only Lev seems unfazed by all of this, which Connor finds maddening.
“How can you just sit there and do nothing all day?”
“I’m not doing nothing,” Lev responds, holding up a worn leather-bound tome he’s been glued to. “I’m learning the Arápache language. It’s actually very beautiful.”
“Sometimes, Lev, I just want to smack you.”
“You already hit him with a car,” Grace tosses in from the other room. Connor’s response is a growl that doesn’t do much of anything but at least makes him feel a tiny bit better. He’s sure Pivane would say he’s connecting with his animal spirit.
“You forget that I was under house arrest for a year,” Lev points out. “I got used to semi-incarceration.”
Una spends most of her time down in the shop, either tending to customers or crafting new instruments in the workshop. The whine of drills and the gentle tapping of a hammer and chisel have become accustomed sounds. It’s when those sounds stop that Connor wonders what’s going on.
Two days ago, and then again yesterday, Connor heard Una locking up the shop, and he peeked through the blinds to see her leaving. He wouldn’t have thought much of it, except for the fact that she was carrying a guitar in one hand and her leather rifle case in the other. Where she might be going with both a guitar and a rifle did not take Connor’s imagination to happy places.
“Una has issues,” was Lev’s entire assessment of the situation.
Connor, however, suspects that it’s more than that.
Later that afternoon, she leaves again, and Connor decides to follow, against Lev’s warnings to just let her be. “We should be grateful she’s letting us hide out here. Don’t repay her by messing in her business.”
But he doesn’t have time to argue if he’s going to effectively tail her. He pushes past Lev, down the stairs to the shop, then out into the street, where he sees her turning the corner. There are people in the streets, but Connor wears a woolen Arápache hat he found in Una’s closet, so no one pays him much attention. Besides, it’s not like Una is seeking out crowded places. Even though the rifle is in a carrying case, it’s pretty obvious what it is. Wherever she’s going, she probably doesn’t want to be questioned about it, which, Connor reasons, is why she’s taking only the quietest side streets to get wherever it is that she’s going.
At the edge of town, Una lingers until there are neither cars nor pedestrians on the street; then she crosses to a narrow footpath that leads into the woods. Connor follows, giving her a long lead.
Although he can’t see her in the dense woods, the ground is soft from an early-morning rain, and he can follow her footprints. There are several sets of them. She’s been back and forth on this path many times over the past few days. About half a mile in, he comes to a building—if it can really be called a building. It’s an odd-looking structure, the shape of an igloo, but made of mud and stone. He hears two voices inside. One is Una, and the other is male—but doesn’t sound like anyone Connor’s already met on the rez.
His first thought is that Una is meeting a lover here for a secret liaison and perhaps they should be left alone . . . but the argument inside doesn’t sound like a lover’s spat.
“No, I won’t do it!” shouts the male voice. “Not now and not ever again!”
esn’t respond to that—he just moves around the room continuing his inventory. Bam glances off, wondering when the guard will be back. She came here because she considers it her job to keep an eye on Hayden, but she doesn’t like him—never did. Hayden’s the kind of guy who gets in your head, but only goes there to amuse himself.
He looks up from his inventory pad, catching Bam’s gaze. He holds it—longer than a glance, but shorter than a look. Then his attention is back on his pad again. But not really.
“You realize he’s going to get you all killed, don’t you?”
Bam is caught off guard—not by Hayden’s comment, but by how it infuriates her. She feels her cheeks flushing in outrage. She must not allow him to put thoughts into her head. Especially when those thoughts are already there.
“Say one more thing about Starkey, and the next sound you hear will be your head cracking like an egg at the bottom of the nearest mine shaft.”
Hayden just smirks. “That’s clever, Bam. I had never counted you among the clever!”
She scowls, not sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. “Just keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told, unless you want to be treated like a prisoner.”
“I’ll make a deal with you,” Hayden says. “I won’t say a thing to anyone else, but I get to speak my mind with you. Fair enough?”
“Absolutely not! And if you try, I’ll rip your lousy tongue out and sell it to the highest bidder.”
He guffaws at that. “Point for Bam! You truly do excel in disturbing imagery. Someday I may want to study under you.”
She shoves him—not hard enough to knock him down, but enough to push him back and off balance. “What makes you think I’d want to hear anything that comes out of your mouth? And what makes you think you know better than Starkey? He’s doing amazing things! Do you have any idea how many kids we saved today?”
Hayden sighs and looks to the stacks of canned food he’s been counting, as if each can represents another kid saved. “I won’t begrudge Starkey the statistics of salvation,” he tells her. “But I wonder what it will mean in the long run.”
