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Bonny's whining. A low, hurt sound and something in it has Kate's heart pounding before she's even fully awake. Before she realizes that Bonny shouldn't be here, in her hut turned house in the new Wild West. The cobwebs haven't cleared from her thoughts when Kate rolls to her feet and reaches for the Bowie under her pillow.
She slips on her boots (at the end of the bed, tops up, safer from scorpions and snakes) then pats the bed. Bonny jumps up, licks Kate's hand and whines again. In the dark, Kate runs hands over her while her eyes adjust. Nothing sticky, nothing hot or swollen, no flinches. The whine's not her pain.
Declan.
Even in wood-soled boots on hardwood floor, Kate's quiet getting out of bed. Much quieter than the throb in her ears or even the rising bile in her throat, which shouldn't be loud but is. It's loud and telling. Bonny's here and she shouldn't be. Kate knows the reason already, but she won't think it. It doesn't have to be true.
There's no one in her house. The door, ajar already from the puppy coming in, gets opened slowly, the pistol she took from her nightstand raised against anyone standing outside, and there's no one on the porch either.
"Sssst," she hiss-whistles at the puppy. "Come on, girl. Where is he? Show me." Bonny comes down off the bed and belly-crawls to Kate's side and that thought she's not thinking, the lie she's telling herself rises again. "Come on, girl. I can't help him if you don't help me find him."
The dog doesn't move. Just lays her head over Kate's feet.
She's not going to cry. She's not fucking going to cry. She's going to find Declan, tell him she loves him, explain why she's been spending more time alone lately, they're going to fix it, and it's going to be fine. "Bonny, heel," she snaps and the dog heels. Miracle of fucking miracles.
But three hours later - one trek to Declan's hut, one trek by Will and Magnus's, one trek to the Compound to her mailbox and the kitchen - still dressed in his belted sleep shirt and a pair of long underwear and boots - Declan's not found. Not a note. Not a word. Not a drop of blood. Not a sign of slightly graying hair and broad shoulders anywhere.
He's gone. Not missing, not hunting, not even mapping the new territory. Just gone.
Kate sits down on the steps of what used to be her hut, wraps her arms around the damned puppy and cries.
She slips on her boots (at the end of the bed, tops up, safer from scorpions and snakes) then pats the bed. Bonny jumps up, licks Kate's hand and whines again. In the dark, Kate runs hands over her while her eyes adjust. Nothing sticky, nothing hot or swollen, no flinches. The whine's not her pain.
Declan.
Even in wood-soled boots on hardwood floor, Kate's quiet getting out of bed. Much quieter than the throb in her ears or even the rising bile in her throat, which shouldn't be loud but is. It's loud and telling. Bonny's here and she shouldn't be. Kate knows the reason already, but she won't think it. It doesn't have to be true.
There's no one in her house. The door, ajar already from the puppy coming in, gets opened slowly, the pistol she took from her nightstand raised against anyone standing outside, and there's no one on the porch either.
"Sssst," she hiss-whistles at the puppy. "Come on, girl. Where is he? Show me." Bonny comes down off the bed and belly-crawls to Kate's side and that thought she's not thinking, the lie she's telling herself rises again. "Come on, girl. I can't help him if you don't help me find him."
The dog doesn't move. Just lays her head over Kate's feet.
She's not going to cry. She's not fucking going to cry. She's going to find Declan, tell him she loves him, explain why she's been spending more time alone lately, they're going to fix it, and it's going to be fine. "Bonny, heel," she snaps and the dog heels. Miracle of fucking miracles.
But three hours later - one trek to Declan's hut, one trek by Will and Magnus's, one trek to the Compound to her mailbox and the kitchen - still dressed in his belted sleep shirt and a pair of long underwear and boots - Declan's not found. Not a note. Not a word. Not a drop of blood. Not a sign of slightly graying hair and broad shoulders anywhere.
He's gone. Not missing, not hunting, not even mapping the new territory. Just gone.
Kate sits down on the steps of what used to be her hut, wraps her arms around the damned puppy and cries.
