Page 39 of Dustwalker
“You are correct.” One corner of his mouth lifted. Ronin took his coat off the back of the chair and pulled it on, his metal fingers demonstrating their dexterity as he buttoned it. “Lock the door behind me.”
He picked up his backpack and rifle, slinging them over his shoulders as he moved toward the front entrance.
“Wait!” Lara called as his hand settled on the knob.
Ronin looked over his shoulder.
“My sister, Tabitha. You said you’d look for her.”
He nodded.
Brow creased, she hesitantly stepped toward him. “You don’t even know what she looks like.”
Again, that silent stare. Lara’s mouth went dry. Was it because of the way he looked at her, or because she missed her sister?
“She’s about this tall,” Lara said, holding her hand a few inches over her head, “with short black hair, brown eyes, and darker skin than mine. And, uh…a little…curvier than me.” Especially if all was well and Tabitha was being fed by a bot. “Has a nasty scar on the back of her left hand. She dances…used to dance. At Kitty’s.”
If anything about that description was familiar to him, he made no sign of it. Her hope dwindled.
“When did you last see her?” Ronin asked.
“A couple months ago.” Lara dropped her gaze to the floor, trying to pull up Tabitha’s face from her memory. Why was it so hard? “She snuck a visit to our shack to tell me she was okay, that she was being kept by a bot.”
“Isn’t it likely she’s still with that bot, then?”
“Yes, but…I don’t know where, and I haven’t heard from her since. I’m worried about her.” She met his eyes. “I miss her, and I just want to know she’s all right.”
Was he capable of sympathy?
No, he was only doing this because it was a condition of their deal.
I don’t need his sympathy. Just his help.
“I’ll ask around, if I can,” Ronin said, “but don’t expect anything right away. The gearheads and their leader don’t seem to care much for curiosity around town.”
Lara pressed her lips together and nodded. He’d agreed to try. That was all she could ask, and it would have to be enough.
“Lock the door, Lara,” he said softly, and then he was gone.
She stared at the closed door for a time, and then, finally, stepped forward and locked it. Pressing her forehead against its cool face, she smirked.
He called them gearheads.
For some reason, it reminded her of the night before, when he’d spoken to the gearheads at the gate.
There is an agreement in place.
She knew those words had been meant for her—to put her at ease.
Perhaps Ronin was the one bot she might eventually be able to trust.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ronin knew the building had a different name, long ago, but the bots of Cheyenne simply called it the clinic. Outwardly, it was a relic of bygone era, sitting on the north side of the district and separated from the residences by a broad street. Its brick face and tiled roofs would’ve been old even at the time of the Blackout, and Ronin doubted its bell tower had sounded even once in the last two centuries.
It was well-maintained, like everything else in the bot district, though off-color bricks had been utilized for some of the exterior repairs.
Gearheads stood outside the main entrance, conversing in low tones. They didn’t so much as look at Ronin when he walked past them. Though Warlord dipped his hand into everything in Cheyenne, the clinic operated freely, offering repairs to all bots.
