Page 27 of Nomad

It was her turn to laugh and she did it in the most scoffing way possible while secretly thinking that he did, in fact, have a perfectly formed manly body.

She slid under the covers.

“What’re you doin’ now?” he asked.

“Going to bed. Why are you so nosy about everything I do?”

“You’re goin’ to bed in your clothes?”

“It can’t have escaped your attention that you met me on the run.” Even though it was true that she had been a runaway, something about her use of the phrase ‘on the run’ struck him as hysterical. Probably because it conjured images of bad men in badlands. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

“I have a change of clothes and that’s about it.”

He nodded, feeling more serious. He’d been with Molly long enough to know that women are particular about hygiene and cleanliness and having the appropriate thing to wear for the appropriate event. He suspected that Bud usually wore pajamas or some version thereof and that doing without was part of her sacrifice. He had to admire the kid. She was committed to keeping that baby safe. She was probably gonna make somebody a good mama.

“Okay. Maybe it’s just as well. Those quilts don’t look all that warm.”

He separated a bottled water from the plastic casing and set it down by her bed.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, gripping the quilts so that they were pulled up over her chin. She was so unused to thoughtfulness directed at her, much less small kindnesses such as that and wasn’t sure what to do with the feelings that came up in response.

“You’re welcome,” Cann said matter-of-factly as he turned away to set the screen in front of the fire.

Despite being in her street clothes and in a strange place, Bud slept through the night. That was an event that had been a lot less common since she’d been pregnant. She woke to the sounds of Cann rekindling the fire then scrambled up and hurried toward the toilet before it was too late.

The relief she felt from emptying her bladder was almost a pleasure in itself.

She looked in the mirror and wished she’d thought to bring her bag in with her. She cracked the door open.

“Johns?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you hand me my bag?”

He glanced toward the bed where she’d stowed her bag under the bottom bunk. “No good mornin’?”

After a slight hesitation, she sniffed and said, “Sure. Good mornin’,” trying to remember if she’d ever before in her life, even once, been expected to utter a courtesy considered so common by so many.

After pulling the bag through the crack in the door, she brushed teeth, washed face and tamed the wild hair. By the time she was finished with that she was, to her amazement, smelling bacon cooking.

When she drew near, she saw that Cann had set an iron skillet off to the side of the fire after forming a section with just the amount of heat he needed.

“Want coffee?” he said.

Her eyes traveled the hearth until they found the pot. It looked like it might have been red at one time, but had been blackened and encrusted with the flame and soot of many such mornings without modern convenience. She briefly wondered who the other people were and why they had sought refuge in the small rock house on the Mexican border.

“Yes,” she said in a voice that sounded too rough to be hers. She cleared her throat. “Is there something I can do to help?”

“Yep,” he said without looking up. “Go get us one of those rolls of biscuits out of the cooler.” As he was using a fork to turn the bacon over, the grease made a loud popping noise. Cann hissed and brought the heel of his hand up to his mouth. “Christ. That hurts.”

Bud hurried to the cooler and grabbed a handful of ice. When she returned she slapped it on Cann’s burn.

“Here. You hold this. I’ll take care of the bacon.”

Cann looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. Sometimes she didn’t seem like a kid at all. Dutifully, he took the ice in his big hand and held it on the burn.

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