“God! Let me in! I’m not any damn rogue! Let me in, you damn coward! Open this door!”
Burn believed it. He began to believe it, telling himself it was still early in the season, there could still be a rider out, and he could find somebody frozen to death on his step.
It was a woman, he was sure it was a woman, by the horse and by the pitch in the voice when it cracked—and he’d no wish to deal with female horses or female riders; Burn was going crazy on him, Burn was going to go for the mare if he let them in—
“Open up!” Another thump of a fist. And he didn’t see what else to do. He set the rifle aside, drew his pistol for closer range—then lifted the latch, gave the door a shove, and put his shoulders against the front wall.
The door dragged outward with a gloved hand pulling it. Then a horse, as forward as Burn, forced her head in—surged through, a snow-blanketed darkness that met Burn in the middle of the room and dodged him in a perimeter-threatening dance around and around a second time as Burn sniffed after <female > and the mare gave him a surly, <cold, hungry horse > warn-off.
He’d glanced at them like a fool—anxious about the horse. He glanced back a confused eyeblink later face to face with a muffled, snow-mantled and angry rider—as the mare shook herself from head to tail and spattered the whole room with snow and icewater.
“Who are you?” the rider demanded to know, and slammed the door shut. A gloved hand pulled off the hat and ripped the scarf off a head of dark hair, a pair of dark eyes, a wind-burned and pretty face—which was no comfort to a man hoping he hadn’t just let two killers into the shelter with him and his horse. “What are you doing here?”
“My name’s Stuart,” he said, and didn’t put away the gun. “Out of Malvey district. Who are you? The proprietor?”
“Tara Chang. Out of Tarmin village.” Teeth were chattering. Hard. “Malvey’s a far ride. What are you doing up here?”
“The rogue killed my partner. I’m afraid it’s got your village.”
A tremor of distress hit the ambient, but not strongly. The situation at Tarmin was no surprise to her.
But it was about all her constitution seemed able to bear. The <anger > bled out and she walked over to the fire—sank down on the hearthstones in a precipitate collapse of the legs, head down, gloved hands in hair. “Hell,” she said, and the pain in the ambient drew the mare over to nose her rider’s back.
The gun didn’t seem so reasonable as it had. He wasn’t sure. He kept expecting an explosion, a sudden shift into insanity. But with none in evidence, he put the gun back in holster, carried the rifle back to the far side of the fireplace, the side he determined to sit on—and thought of <biscuits> and <tea.>
“Yeah,” she said. <Hungry.> Her eyes were pouring tears. She hadn’t gotten her gloves off. God knew about her feet. Or her horse’s.
<Salve,> he thought. <Warm nighthorse legs.>
She approved of that. She leaned and got the bottle of spirits— uncorked it and took a swallow.
You weren’t supposed to do that. It was stupid when you were cold, but she didn’t take another. He put on another pan of water to heat, and with a wary glance at the woman sitting on the hearth, eyes shut, cradling the bottle in her lap, decided he’d better fill water buckets again—his and the horses’.
Which meant the door opening, however briefly, and a cold gale swirling for a moment about the room while he packed one and then the other bucket with snow.
Burn didn’t care. Burn was nosing about the mare as he came back in, pulled the door shut, and set the buckets on the hearth.
Interested—God. “Burn, let her alone, you damn fool! She’s damn near frozen!” <Burn licking cold nighthorse legs. Beautiful horse. Nice nighthorse legs.>
Damn fool, he thought, and poured the woman tea in one of the shelter’s cups. “The water barrel’s frozen solid,” he said. “It’ll warm up by tomorrow, maybe.”
“Yeah,” she said.
“I’ll rub your horse down. She’ll be all right. Gloves off. Boots off. There’s aromatic rub and there’s snow for water.”
“Yeah,” she said, and started pulling gloves off with her teeth. He took the salve, of which he didn’t have but half left, and started in on the mare’s legs, while Burn licked the ice off the mare’s back. The mare nipped Burn. But not hard.
“God, save it,” he muttered to Burn. “There’s problems. God!”
Burn sent him <sex> and <warmth> and he got a feeling that he didn’t know words for, but it involved pushing himself on a woman when she hurt. The rider was upset, the mare was upset—
“Let her the hell alone, Burn, you damn fool, give her a chance to catch her breath.”
“Flicker,” Chang said from the hearthside. “Name’s Flicker.”
He caught the image. A lot like Shadow, only light, not dark. She was picking up the other business, too, and while neither of them was acutely embarrassed—she was no junior—he felt himself pushed and set upon by his own horse. In most respects he and Burn were a match. Not in this.
“Sorry,” he said, and squatted down, arms on knees, as far away from her as he could and still feel the fire. “My horse is a fool. You want to quiet it down?”
“They’re all right.”
“Are you? Hands and feet?”
“All right.” Her feet were bare. She wiggled toes, and meanwhile downed a piece of biscuit—she’d found them; chased it with spirit-laced tea.
She seemed to be. So he got up and got several of the shelter’s blankets down from the shelf, <intending wrapping up in them, intending sleep, him with his blankets, her with hers,> and he didn’t invite approaches. She and her horse seemed all right, he was entirely sorry he’d given her a hard go-over and kept her out in the cold—but wherever she’d walked from, those feet hadn’t been cold as long as his had, and Tarmin’s troubles weren’t just today’s event. A day ago—at least. She’d been somewhere safer than he had.
She mumbled, “Two days. I think it’s two days.” <Fire. Rogue-feeling.> She gave a shiver, and poured more of the spirits into the tea. Offered the bottle to him.
He wanted more awareness than that while he slept, though he was very glad to see she would sleep soundly.
She gave him a narrow look, thinking, <rapist.> Or that was the uncharitable way his mind interpreted it.
“No,” he said, taking offense. But her thoughts were skittering about so fast he couldn’t catch them, a lot about people he didn’t know, a lot about a camp he thought must be Tarmin, about a jail and an alarm in the night.
Not comfortable thoughts to sleep with. There was <anger,> when they got loose, and <desire to kill,> but he didn’t think—he didn’t think it was an unnatural anger, or an unnatural pain. It just resonated too well with his own, that left him touchy and on the edge.
She took a precautionary look toward the door, <checking the latch,> then wrapped her two blankets around herself, with a persistent thought about a man—a rider—<in this place. Anger. Two women, both riders. Both very young. Deep anger.>
<Fire. Shots going off.
<Wanting them. Here.>
He understood that, God, he wished he could put a damper on that feeling, smooth it down, ease the pain, distance the memories. It was her lost partners she’d looked to find when she’d smelled the smoke and come battering at the door.
<“Who are you?”> with so much anger—
<Rogue-feelings. Scattering. Wanting kill, shooting horse, horse with blonde child, wanting—this—wanting—this—>
Then it went away. Guil got a breath. The horses did, snappish and dangerous in a closed space.