Page 11 of Scythe & Sparrow
I might have been abandoned here, left in a cage. Maybe my wings have been clipped. But I can still fly.
PRAIRIE PRINCESS
ROSE
There aren’t many people around the Prairie Princess Campground when the taxi drops me off on the gravel driveway, the driver waiting patiently as I wrangle my aluminum crutches out the car door and shimmy my way free of the vehicle. There’s only a smattering of motor homes. I guess it’s not super popular to camp in a flat grass field outside Hartford, population 3,501. The taxi drives away and leaves me to the sound of children in the playground, all three of them pinning me with unnerving stares, the metronomic squeak of the ancient swings a sad melody within the downtrodden campground. I pause long enough to give them a half-hearted wave. All three stop swinging in a synchronized, sudden halt of motion. They don’t wave back.
“That’s … yikes,” I whisper. “That’s just fucking weird.”
One of them tilts her head as though listening, even though there’s no fucking way she heard me at this distance, and then all three resume their swinging at the exact same moment.
“I guess at least I know how I’ll die.” I swallow the sudden tightness choking up my throat and start to hobble my way across the unkempt gravel, my leg throbbing. My RV stands out among the others strewn across the clearing. Big ol’ Dorothy might be closing in on thirty years old, but she’s pretty as hell, with polished chrome bumpers and a custom paint job of a flock of sparrows over a sunset of pink and yellow and orange. I’ve put every spare penny into Dorothy’s needs. She’s my year-round home. But this is the first time I’ve ever walked up to my RV and wished I had something more permanent. Maybe the kind of place where it’s not so easy for the rest of your home to just go and leave you behind.
“You’re just being sore. You’ll be back on the tour in no time,” I whisper above the clink and rattle of my crutches. “You’ll be fine on your own. You’re not afraid of the murder children. Because you’re a fierce, independent woman.”
And I believe that too. At least, I do until I stop at the door of my motor home.
“Fuck.”
It’s hot as Satan’s ball sack out here beneath the unobstructed prairie sun, and all I want to do is get inside so I can lie down and, let’s be real, probably ugly-cry myself to sleep. Problem is, I don’t know how to do that with crutches and a brace through a narrow door that’s two feet off the ground and a set of narrow steps on the inside. I’ve never thought about buying folding or temporary stairs to get in. It wasn’t something I ever needed.
My shoulders sag as I press my weight into the padding of the crutches, my body already protesting this foreign way of moving.
I’m blinking away exhausted tears when I hear a vehicle slowly roll to a stop behind me. I sweep a quick pass of my thumb beneath my lashes and then grip onto the handle of my crutches with renewed determination. I don’t need people staring. I hobble closer and slide the key into the lock and turn it. And then a large hand reaches above me and pulls the door open.
I startle, losing my balance as I turn, the sun blinding as I look toward the man standing behind me. He grasps my arm to keep me from falling. “I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice instantly familiar. He drops his hold on me just as quickly as it was given and moves back a step. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“McSpicy …?” I squint at him, my gaze darting toward the classic Ford F-250 parked nearby, my motorcycle strapped upright in the bed. “What are you doing here?”
“Scaring the shit out of you, by the looks of things. I’m sorry about that.” He glances toward the open door and the narrow stairs that lead into my home and frowns. When he turns his attention back to me, the intensity of his narrowed eyes burrows beneath my skin to heat it. “I heard you were released this morning instead of the afternoon, so I thought I’d bring your bike back and check on you. How are you doing?”
I could lie, if I just had a bit more in me to do it. But something about this man makes me want to tell him more than I should. Maybe it’s the way he watches me, his eyes fixed to mine, the door held open for me, his other hand lifted just a little as though he’s ready to catch me if I stumble.
“It’s been a shitty few days,” I say, my voice thinner than I hoped it would be.
Dr. Kane’s expression softens. His hold on the door relaxes a little and it creaks on its hinges. “Yeah. I can imagine.”
“I’ll manage.”
“I have no doubt.”
“Really? Because you sound like you havemanydoubts.”
He looks toward the motor home and shrugs. “I have doubts about the stairs.” When his attention returns to me, a smile tugs at one corner of his lips, his eyes a lighter shade of blue in the bright sun. “I don’t have any about you. I mean—your ability to look after yourself, of course.”
I bite down on a weary grin, though he doesn’t see it, not with the way his eyes dart to the shadowed interior of my motor home, then the gravel beneath us, then back to his vehicle as though he can’t wait to get into it and drive away.
“You should probably have some doubts about me, Doc,” I say, catching his gaze when it flicks back to me. “But I’ll still manage. Thanks for bringing my bike back. I’m afraid I can’t help you unload it, though.”
“I can do that,” he says, and I nod my thanks, gripping onto my crutch handles as I refocus on the entrance of my motor home. It’s going to be even hotter in there than it is out here. Dorothy’s been baking in the sun, but I’m desperate to peel off my leather jacket and strip down to my underwear and sleep until tomorrow. When I get to the step, I set my crutches against the side of the vehicle and grip the interior handle of the stairs. With the doc holding the door open, I hoist myself inside but hiss a curse when I bump my splint against the ledge on my way up.
“I’m good,” I grit out. Dr. Kane scrutinizes me as I pivot on mygood foot to face him, his forehead crinkling at my forced smile. I reach back out the door for my crutches, but instead of grabbing them, I knock them over like dominoes.
“Well,” I say as we both stare down at them where they mock me from the ground, both mostly hidden beneath the motor home. “That … wasn’t great.”
“Not a strong start, no.”
“I’ll manage.”
