Love in the Dark

Chapter Nine

In the end, sixteen men put their names on the list. Seth did not. He didn't want to leave Matthew behind, he didn't want to go too far from the city. When order was restored, he was going back. He would resume his duty as a police officer. But there was still something about the woman that intrigued him, some niggling memory that he couldn't grab hold of.

When Laura returned after another two weeks, she had both horses.

Pastor Bill wiped his palms on his pants. "Um, would you like to come inside?"

"No." She said flatly, tightening her grip on the leads of the horses. Clearly, she didn't trust the people with her horses. "Bring the men outside, I will interview them here."

Pastor Bill went inside and came back with sixteen men and women. Laura's eyes bugged a little when she saw how many people had applied for the position she had advertised. She scratched at her eyebrow and asked all of them to stand in a line, facing her. She walked slowly down the line asking each of them questions.

"What is your name?"

"How long have you been in this camp?"

"Have you ever worked on a farm?"

"Do you know how to hunt?"

She continued down the line until she got to George. She stopped and stared at him for such a long time, he started to squirm.

"What is your name?"

"George Kironi, ma'am."

She clasped her hands behind her back. "What was your occupation, before the Thing happened?"

George swallowed. "I was an accountant."

"I see. Do you have any experience that would be useful in the wilderness?"

"No, ma'am," he said, and just when she was about to move on, he shot out a hand and stopped her. "But I can learn."

She looked down at his hand on her arm in surprise, her brow wrinkled in confusion and surprise. "I'm sure you can, Mr. Kironi." She shook off his arm and continued down the line. George felt his heart sink. She wasn't going to choose him.

She continued to question each man and woman in turn until she had given each one just a minute or two of her time. She went back to PB and conferred with him quietly. Finally, she stepped forward in front of them.

"Thank you everyone for your interest. I only regret that I can only take one person today. I have chosen Mr. George Kironi."

George felt his mouth go slack in shock. She met his eyes, and he felt a strange tingling sensation go through him, almost like DeJa'Vu. Some people made discontented noises and murmurings around him. Why had he been chosen?

"Mr. Kironi, if you will please pack up and prepare yourself, I'd like to leave in fifteen minutes. We have a long journey ahead of us."

George hurried into the church, to the pew where he had his backpack and his rolled-up sleeping bag stashed. Laura was handing over another batch of supplies to the pastor. George stood aside and watched her pass a case of canned salmon, more rice and beans, and cartons of Cream of Wheat.

She eyed him as she rearranged the packs. "Ready?"

"Yes ma'am."

She propped her hands on her hips. "You are going to be working beside me day in and day out. You can't keep calling me ma'am. You may call me Laura."

"Of course... and please call me George," he smiled nervously.

"Good. Have you ever ridden a horse before?"

"No."

"Well, this will be fun." The tone of her voice said it would be anything but fun. "All you have to do is hold on. Your horse will follow mine, let her do all the work. Okay?"

"Uh, okay."

"Fine. Face the horse. Left foot in the stirrup." Following her directions, George found himself dangling precariously off the side of the horse. She gave his backside an impatient shove which sent him awkwardly into the western saddle. She adjusted the stirrups to fit his legs while he clung desperately to the saddle horn. Every time the horse shifted her weight, he felt like he was going to fall off.

"Relax," she hissed. "It's a long ride. If you are tense the whole way, it will only hurt more."

"Hurt more? Why is it going to hurt?" George hissed back.

She swung easily onto the bay stallion. "You are going to use muscles you've never used before. You are going to rub and chafe skin in places you've never rubbed before. They don't call them saddle sores for nothing." She flashed him a rare grin, and moved her horse out toward the road.

Five and a half agonizing hours later, George fell off the horse in the yard of a little hunting cabin. He was trying to swing his leg over and drop gracefully to the ground like his new employer, but his stiff, sore body was not cooperating, his foot got hung up on the stirrup, and he ended up on his back in the mud.

Laura rolled her eyes at him and took the lead of his horse, headed for the little corral in the back. She hadn't gotten far when the door to the cabin banged open, and a little girl flew out. "Mama! You are back! Did you bring home a new friend?" The little girl launched herself at Laura, wrapping her arms around her waist and squeezing her tight. Then she looked around her at the man who was sitting in the mud. "Is that him?"

Laura cleared her throat. "George, meet my daughter, Zahara."

George groaned as he got to his feet. "Hey Zahara." He tried to force a smile through his pain and discomfort, which now included cold, wet pants. Laura was unconcerned about him though, her focus was on caring for her horses, stripping of the saddles and packs, brushing away the sweat marks, shedding off great gobs of hair as she went. Zahara helped too, putting flakes of hay in their feeders and adding a bit of cracked corn to their feed dishes. When the horses were settled for the night, she took their supplies and headed for the cabin.

Despite his pain, George knew he should make himself useful, so he took some of the things from her, and followed her into the cabin.

Immediately, he was blasted in the face with a feeling of warm comfort. The cabin smelled sweetly of cinnamon and other spices. Everything was clean and bright and homey. Although it seemed small on the outside, on the inside it was quite roomy.

There was an old wood stove in the corner, a counter with a sink and a tiny gas stove and oven. There were cupboards built above and below the counter. In the middle of the room was an old dining table with six chairs tucked around it. And an old, but comfortable looking sofa was tucked under a window facing the road, with a crocheted blanket draped across the back. Blue curtains framed all the windows. In the back of the cabin there was one full-sized bed, and then two sets of bunk beds.

"You can pick a bunk," Laura said, stripping off her damp parka. "The big bed is ours. I'll heat you up some water so you can get a bath."

She put a metal tub on top of the woodstove and used a pitcher to fill it about half full. Then she washed her hands and started making dinner. George collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs.

"Maybe they are right," George mumbled. "Maybe you are an angel."

Laura snorted. "I'm a single mom from Rutberg, George. But I can offer you some ibuprofen for those aches and pains. She rifled through a cupboard and came down with a bottle of pills. "The bathroom is back there. It's a composting toilet." George was too embarrassed to admit he didn't know what a composting toilet was. Instead, he took the pills and the cup of water she offered and tossed it back, praying for instant relief. His ass hurt. He thought there might be actual blisters at the juncture of his thighs. His thighs burned so badly he didn't think he could bend his legs anymore. Even his back was hurting.

But when she set a plate in front of him with potatoes, and an honest to God fried egg, he forgot all his pains. "You've got eggs? Where did you get the eggs?"

The little girl looked at him, tipping her head curiously. "From the chickens, of course," she said with a giggle.

George noticed that he had been given a smaller portion than the woman had served herself. She noticed him eyeing her plate. "You've been living on starvation rations for how long George? A couple of months now? You need to eat slowly and let your stomach adjust, or you'll just end up sick."

An egg had never tasted so good. The little girl chirped and talked about everything while she ate, and the woman nodded and offered an occasional comment. Then Zahara pinned George with her dark eyes. "Now that you are here, I won't always have to stay alone anymore. Isn't that right mama?"

Laura offered a tired smile. "That's right baby."

By the time they had finished eating, the tub of water on the woodstove was starting to steam. Laura hefted it off with a pair of potholders and carried it back to the bathroom, emptying it into the old clawfoot bathtub. She tested the temperature and added a few pitchers of cold water to make it bearable.

"Next time, you'll do it yourself," she said with a half smile.

"Oh, and take these," she handed him a rolled-up pair of sweatpants. "They are my father's, but they are clean and dry."

He hadn't had a bath since the Thing (as Laura called it) had happened. He'd tried to give himself a sponge bath now and then, but the fact was he was filthy and he smelled terrible. His clothes were stiff with dirt and sweat. There wasn't much water in the tub, it wasn't like a real bath, but George sat in the two inches of water and picked up the clean washcloth, and the bar of soap that had been left on the side of the tub, and went to work scrubbing every inch of himself. When he was done, the water was dark grey and there was a ring of dirt around the edges. He shuddered with embarrassment and opened the drain to let the dirty water out.

Being clean had never felt so good. He tried to clean away the ring around the bathtub with the washcloth as best he could. He dried himself with the clean, fluffy towel hanging behind the door, and slipped on the sweatpants. He looked at his face in the mirror over the sink and barely recognized himself. His face was gaunt, a wiry beard darkened his jaw, and his hair was a matted mess. In the morning, he would ask Laura if she had a razor. His eyes seemed to have sunk into their sockets. He looked far older than his twenty-seven years.

He opened the bathroom door, his dirty clothes rolled up in a ball in his hand. He stuffed them back into his pack. He would have to find out how she washed her clothes. For now, he was content to walk around bare chested in borrowed sweats. He took the bottom bunk of the bed farthest from the woman's bed, for propriety's sake. The bed had a real mattress, clean sheets, and fresh blankets. And a pillow. George slid between the sheets, letting his aching body sink into the soft mattress, letting his head rest against the pillow, with a groan.

Laura said nothing to him as she puttered around the cabin. She had lit a kerosene lamp that was now suspended above the kitchen table. It cast a gloomy light around the cabin, but it was enough for her to see what she needed to do to load wood in the woodstove, tuck her daughter into the bed, and set her gun just behind the headboard.

George wondered briefly if he should be worried about that gun. But he closed his eyes and let sleep take him anyway. If she shot him in the night, at least he would die clean, well fed, and warm.