Storm Girls (The Juniper Wars Book 4) Aaron Ritchey (read a book .txt) 📖

on me. It felt so warm and good that I sighed. God was dead, but the sun would do. It sounded like a LeAnna Wright lyric.

A shadow moved over me, blocking out the warmth. Something was above me ... something big. I was chilly again, and I ran from the cold by sleeping.

I didn’t know what stood over me on that lonely road.

And I didn’t really care.

(iii)

The wind had stopped, the sky had cleared, and the sun was setting. The whatever above me did block my sunlight, but it also blocked the wind, for that I was grateful. Colorado wind has a way of not playing fair.

“Prolly should look to see what’s above you, Cavatica,” I whispered to myself.

And myself agreed.

I turned over to lay on my back.

Standing over me was a horse. But it wasn’t just a horse, it was a horse I knew.

The whole sky was eclipsed by the dark coat of Pilate’s Arabian stallion, Windshadow, who’d dashed away during our first fight with Renee Vixx and the ARK soldiers seven months before.

He’d somehow shaken off all his tack and saddle and must have been roaming free for months.

The stallion dropped his nose to nudge me.

“Let me be,” I whispered. “I got big plans to die on this highway. Go away.”

He nudged me again. I smelled his skin, the wild smell of his flanks where he’d brushed through the sage, and the deep odor of the wet mud on his hooves.

His scent brought me back to life and gave me energy enough to stand and lean against him. I pushed my face into his side.

“You’ve come to help me, haven’t you? Even you would sacrifice your freedom to help in our quest, our sacred duty, like what Pilate said.”

The ice inside broke some. Only my love for horses could do it, could make me feel again. Touching the animal, the rough, hairy hide under my hands, the breath and snorting and the clop of his hooves on the pavement, it all brought back a little sanity to my troubled mind.

Horses. My salvation. Even my thirst seemed to lessen. A tear slid down my face. The ice inside me was breaking up. I didn’t have any more Skye6 to let me ice-skate over it; no, that ice was cracking. The dried stick of my heart was going to be exposed.

No. Not yet. I had to stay cold until I got my job done.

But I knew the ice inside was growing thin. Sooner or later, it would melt, crack, slide off my heart, and I’d have to feel the deaths of my sisters and the shame of my betrayals. It was only a matter of time.

I climbed on top of Windshadow. I turned him back to get the hockey bag and the damp X-Men comforter. I hung the duffle over my shoulder and used the comforter as a saddle blanket. I used my knees to guide him, and Windshadow didn’t mind much. I was so thin now I prolly didn’t weigh much more than a broom. My hip bones protruded plainly, and my breasts were all but gone.

When I was eating too many cafeteria cookies at my fancy academy in Cleveland, I’d dreamed of being thin, and now I just wanted Gamma sausages, their scorched and doughy tortillas, and a big bowl of Aunt Bea’s green chili. I had no idea what had happened to Aunt Bea, our hires, the crew of the Moby, our dogs. Micaiah most likely had been captured. Pilate had to be dead.

I didn’t really know what had happened to any of them. But I wanted Aunt Bea’s green chili and refried beans burping in a pot and her homemade tortillas she’d get up before sunrise to pat and make, so full of lard they were greasy and so wonderfully doughy. Yeah, Aunt Bea’s tortillas were far better than hog tortillas.

And I’d top off that queenly meal with a Coca-Cola, right out of a bottle, just out of the ice.

Then I had a happy thought, happiest thought I’d had since those halcyon days in our Robber’s Roost outside of Green River, when Micaiah had emotions, and he had aimed all of his passion at me. I’d get to see my ranch again. It might be full of June Mai Angel outlaws, but it would still be wonderful to walk the wrap-around porch of our blue house, overlooking fields of yellow grass, and Mama and Daddy buried in the ground just to the south.

Maybe Howerter would forgive us our debts out of kindness. If not out of kindness, maybe out of respect for the impossible thing we’d done.

Night fell, and still Windshadow walked on, as if he knew what I needed and wouldn’t rest until he found it. Like he, too, had my single imperative.

With a fat moon rising up from the western horizon, another windmill pump was visible in the distance. Windshadow trotted over to it.

The rusted tub under the spout of the pump was full and overflowing. Even though I soaked the sleeves of my coat, I scooped handfuls of cold water to my mouth. Then I filled both the Mountain Dew and the Coke bottle from the hockey bag.

Windshadow took his fill of water and ate every last bit of grass from around the tank.

I stood and petted him, so grateful. I slept beside the tank, my whole world damp and cold, but I had water again, sweet water. And while I was slipping down into a deep starvation sleep, I knew Windshadow had food, and he would be doing all of the walking anyway.

In the late afternoon of the following day, I realized I was starting to recognize the stretch of I-70. I’d been on it before, heading toward Burlington, heading toward home. Winter had paused, and it was back to being autumn; the air was warm.

Even though my scrawny butt was aching, and my back had joined in the fun, I was feeling good, better, best I’d felt in weeks, though I was