Page 3 of Buck Wild Orc Cowboy
Max’s shoulders squared, his feet rooted on the linoleum floor. “We're leaving now? We're running?” No panic in his voice. Just calm. Ready. Like we’d practiced.
I reached out and fixed his glasses, nodding once. “Yup. Today’s the day.”
He inhaled, held it a second, then let it go. I wanted to cry. Not because he was panicking, but because he wasn’t. My twelve-year-old son had been waiting, dreading this moment as long as I had.
His gaze shot to the door. “Back staircase?”
“Yeah.”
I lifted the bags.
He took one. “I'll take them.”
Oh. Yes. He wasn't a child any longer. As tall as me at five-seven already, I still sometimes forgot he wasn't the little boy with haunted eyes who didn't laugh anywhere near enough. Thesadness had fled his gaze a few years ago, and I hated to see it thriving there again.
Soon. We'd escape to a place where Melvin would never find us, and this time, our new start would stick forever.
“Be right back.” He raced to his small bedroom, his sneakers thudding on the hall carpet, and returned with a few more books and his worn, stuffed teddy, one of the few things left from before. His cheeks pinkened as he stuffed it into his bag and zipped it closed again. Straightening, his solemn gaze met mine. “I’m ready.”
I opened the front door enough to peek down the hall. Empty. The building was always quiet at this time of day, and I didn't hear anything from the stairwell.
We moved fast.
One floor up. We took the steps slowly and kept to the side so they wouldn’t creak. At the top, we opened the door to the fire escape. After making sure the alley was empty below, we started down. Our sneakers clanged on the metal treads, though we did our best to remain silent. At the bottom, we leaned against the brick wall and studied the area again, empty except for an overturned wooden crate and a pigeon pecking at something near the dumpster.
We hurried along the alley and half-jogged the seven blocks to the bus station. Windows smudged. The inside smelled of stale fries and bleach. The ticket booth didn’t accept cards, which was fine because I didn’t dare use one. I’d pay for everything with cash.
I passed over my fake ID with an even faker smile. The woman studied it before handing it and our tickets to me.
Boston to Hartford. Hartford to Philly. Overnight bus from Philly to Kansas City. Then a final stretch by train to a tiny township at the edge of nowhere, where a stagecoach, drawn byan orc cow, of all things, would take us the rest of the way to Lonesome Creek.
We boarded the bus, quietly taking seats in the rear, keeping our heads down, not peering out the window. Max didn’t complain or say a word. Even when the bus jolted and someone's bag toppled from the overhead bin, landing on the floor with a thud by his foot, he only winced and went back to his reading. Escaping into a world where people had honor and the bad things died.
Every transfer, I kept us moving. Max remained at my side. Whenever we rested, he slept curled in his hoodie, his head resting on my shoulder.
I stayed awake. Just in case.
Three days. Four bus stations. Two seedy motels that took cash. I used my fake name every time in case anyone thought to check. By the time we settled in our seats inside the stagecoach headed for Lonesome Creek, the one pulled by a beast the size of a minivan with curled horns, clawed hooves, and even fangs, I could barely keep my eyes open, let alone gape at the creature.
“Whoa,” Max said, staring at the sorhox. “It's big. Green. And those horns.” He almost sounded eager, and I'd bet if the orc—a real, freaking orc! --offered to let him pat the creature, ride it, even, my son would leap at the chance.
Its eyes were wide and too intelligent when it looked my way. Terrifying, yet somehow majestic.
“It won’t eat me, right?” Max asked in a half-whisper.
“No.” I watched it blink slowly and nudge the orc adjusting its harness. “Not unless you forget to say thank you.”
That earned me a grin.
The driver, an equally green, hulking, dark-eyed orc dressed in cowboy boots and a leather vest, had only given us a grunt and a nod when I identified myself. We climbed aboard the creaky vehicle that looked like it had plunged out of the 1800s WildWest. But was too modern inside to be a restoration. At least the seats were comfortable, and we were the only ones on board.
The orc lifted our bags onto the roof with ease, then gave Max a once-over. “You’ll like it in Lonesome Creek, youngling.”
“Youngling.” Max blinked, then nodded. “I hope so.”
I didn’t let myself breathe until the stagecoach started moving.
We rode in silence. The sky turned gold, outlining the mountains in the distance, blue-gray and jagged, the tallest with a touch of white at the peak. When we left the main road, stately trees lined the dirt trail and birds coasted on long, lazy thermals above.
