John ran his fingers through her hair: smooth, slow strokes, gently grazing her skin. It felt nice, being touched by him. Being held by him. It had been so long since sheâd been held like this, like she was the only thing in the world worth holding
âYouâre awake,â she muttered.
He didnât respond. He only went on combing her hair, and that was fine, more than fine, but why were his nails so long? And why were they so wet? A low snuffling reached her ears, and she realized that she could not tell his fingers apart, could not recognize where one began and the other ended. She started to sit up, and his fingers clamped down. Only his fingers werenât a they. They were an it. And they didnât clamp.
They bit.
Mariah pulled back, hot breath on her scalp, claws scrabbling on steel, and ripped herself free. She twisted around to look out the broken window where her head had been resting and witnessed the coyote scamper away into the brush, hair caught in its teeth. Something surfaced inside her then. It rose up from beneath the incredible weariness that had taken up residence in her bones, and it scattered hot sparks through her body. The little bastard couldnât even wait. She was one foot out the door, one small step away from done, but no, sorry, things just werenât moving fast enough for him, he wanted to have her right fucking now.
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Lug wrench in hand, she shoved out of the truck. It was much higher up than she remembered. Her legs folded beneath her, and she fell gracelessly into the dirt before rising to chase after the hair thief. The pickupâs headlights were off, and the way ahead was dark, but over the mountains, where the fire continued to burn, a deep red glow soaked the sky into shades of burgundy.
Mariah stumbled along with the lug wrench clenched in her fist, coyotes all around her . . . and then not all around her.
Their chatter faded.
They were running away.
âCome and get me, you cowards! Iâm right here!â She threw the wrench after them as hard as she could, nearly throwing herself over in the process. When it hit the ground a few moments later, somewhere far off, she straightened and blinked. A cool, strange tingle passed over her arms. That noise. The noise it had made. Had it . . . could it have? No. Not possible. There was nothing but dirt and weeds out here, and neither of those things could have produced such a sharp, ringing clank. She must have imagined what sheâd heard. Must have.
Mariah started forward again, much slower. Anger demands hurry, but hope requires caution. By the time she reached the spot where the wrench had landed, she was barely moving at all.
She picked up the wrench.
Kissed it.
Then she ran for the truck.
â½â½â½
The road was just there, like the sky, like the desert. No reason for it. No explanation. It simply was. One lane, unfenced, unmarked, its blacktop grayed by years of unrelenting sun. Mariah pulled the truck up off the shoulder and paused, considered which direction to go. But not for long. Turning left would take her toward the mountains and the fire. Turning right would take her away from those things.
She chose away.
What a fine word that was.
Away.