Page 26 of Nomad

There was no arguing that. She’d gone from being a penniless runaway cowering in a rain storm to being queen of a safe shelter with food and an escort who was also the sort of protector people want when they need protection.

Cann opened the door and found the light switch using the light of the phone. Nothing.

“No electricity either,” Bud said drily.

“Stop your bellyaching. Women had children for thousands of years before Edison came on the scene.”

“Yes. But they didn’t have cell phones that need charging.”

Cann had to admit that she had a point. He found a box of matches and lit the oil lamp that was sitting on the rustic table. It wasn’t much light, but it was a small house. One room with a wood floor, bunk bed, table, two chairs, a rock fireplace, and a cowhide sofa that, oddly, would have sold for a lot of money in Beverly Hills.

Bud walked over to the kitchen sink and turned on the water. “Thank God for small favors,” she said when it came on. “Guess that means the toilet will work. Speaking of that. Will you please make sure ther’re no snakes in here so I can go to the bathroom?”

Cann was lighting a third candle. “Snakes, huh? They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”

“Somehow I doubt that. And that’s what people who are not afraid of snakes always say.”

He chuckled. “Okay. Snake hunt.”

“And I get the bottom bunk.”

He looked at the bunk bed. “You think the top will hold my weight?”

“Well, there’s a puzzle for you. Do I want to fall out of a second story bed or be crushed by an enormous biker dude?”

With a smile, Cann said, “Your choice,” in an infuriatingly cavalier way.

Taking the oil lamp by the handle, Cann shone the light in every corner and cupboard before proclaiming, “All clear, your highness. The premises is viper free.”

“Ok. If you’re wrong, you’ll have two deaths on your conscience.”

“You don’t know me well enough to think I have a conscience. You’re assuming.”

“Yes. I do. And no. I’m not,” she said as she took a candle and closed the door. Toilet. Sink set in a prefab cabinet. Clawfoot tub which, again, would no doubt bring big bucks in Beverly Hills.

When she came out, Cann was making the last unloading trip. He’d put her bag on the lower bunk and the cooler in the kitchen end of the room.

She looked around. “It’s kind of cold in here.”

True to Brant’s word, somebody had made sure the sheets were clean and there was a pile of firewood on the hearth.

Cann hesitated because chimney smoke is a long range visual signal that somebody’s in residence and there would likely still be enough coals to make smoke when the sun came up. But, he supposed, Brant wouldn’t have specifically mentioned having firewood stocked and left instructions encouraging him to make use of old school cooking and water heating if it wasn’t safe.

“All right. I’ll build you a fire. You hungry?”

She shook her head. “Just tired.”

While Cann banked wood for a fire, Bud climbed up to the top bunk. She sat on her knees and wiggled around a little.

“What’re you doin’?” Cann asked.

“Testing to make sure this bed will hold your ginormous ass up.”

He laughed out loud. “First, I do not have a ginormous ass.”

“Do,” she said as she climbed down.

“Do not. Second, I was just kidding. Of course the bed will hold my perfectly formed manly body aloft.”

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