Page 149 of Choice of the Cat (Vampire Earth 2)
"Yes, ma'am," Josh said briskly, despite the pain and fatigue in his eyes. The boy had changed from opinionated adolescent to dutiful outrider in a single night.
Danvers added, "It might take a while. The horses that had bolted during the mortar barrage are still being rounded up."
She smiled at her son's back. "I think they pulled out south." Her rosy features turned fierce. "We really gave them something to choke on. Oh, there was a pair of burned trucks, and one heavy tow-rig that looked like it plain blew up. Could be your Alice got in their camp when they were busy with us. Hope she didn't go up with their powder."
"She said she'd leave word if she could," Valentine said. "Did you see any markers, any piles of stones or wood?"
"No, but then the camp was a mess. She sure can cause a lot of trouble when she sets her mind."
"You could say that," Valentine agreed. "And now I need to find her."
"You've been up all night, son. Crossing the Dunes with Lord-knows-what still out there bleeding and angry isn't a job for someone who's half-asleep. You need two hot meals and some sleep in between before I let you walk out my gate."
He opened his mouth, but shut it again when Mrs. Hendricks planted hands on her hips. She jerked her chin down in a nod, putting the same authority in the gesture as a Chalmers tapping her gavel.
Valentine returned to the house-wagon, grateful to give in to the wisdom of her words. Jocelyn Hendricks sat on the wooden steps, a cup of something steaming in her hands that smelled faintly of whiskey.
"I put breakfast in there for you," she said. There were circles under her eyes. "There's so many dead. It felt... strange to make coffee and food with bodies laying in rows. I feel like everything should stop for a while, but the cows still needed to be milked."
She got up and opened the door for Valentine. He dragged himself inside and sat at the tiny table. Rolls and a slice of pie stood on the table next to a pitcher full of milk.
"I couldn't touch meat, let alone cook it. Sorry," the young woman said, opening a window.
"I'm not that hungry," Valentine said. He poured himself some of the still-warm buttermilk and drank. The rich taste triggered something in him, and he raised the glass, gulping it down. What did not go into his stomach went down his chin. He put the glass down with a shaking hand.
She stared at him, biting her lower lip. Valentine, in a fog matching last night's, couldn't bring himself to make conversation.
"Was this a bad battle?" she finally asked.
"No. You won."
She shifted her weight closer and brought up a rag to wipe off his chin.
"There's ... blood or something all over your clothes. From when you were in that truck, so I hear. Though it's already turning into a tall tale: they've got you jumping like a deer, practically flying.... Let me wash them for you; they can dry while you sleep."
He stood, still chewing, his mind taking in her movements, the taste of the food, and the little cabin, but not processing the information. He began to undress. She blushed and stepped outside, and he handed her the bundle through the window.
"Thanks, Miss Hendricks," he said.
"Jocelyn."
When he woke, Jocelyn was sitting on the cabin's tiny stool, oiling his boots. He either felt safe in the Eagle camp, or she had sneaked in during his deepest cycle of sleep: he did not remember her reentering the house-wagon.
"You're leaving?" she asking, getting up to show him his newly washed traveling clothes.
"Soon." He sat up, still wrapped in the blanket, and tried to blink the gum out of his eyes.
"To find your wife?"
"Wife? She's more of a guide. I suppose I rely on her better than some men do their own wives."
"I know it's none of my business, but do you and she-?" She trailed off, darting an embarrassed look at him'from her lowered head.
"No-we joke about it. Maybe under different circumstances I'd think differently."
"I had a boyfriend. He went on a drive to Denver, never came back. That was over a year ago now. I guess he wanted to see the city. I was hoping for a letter, a message, but he never explained himself."
"I'm sorry."
