Cover painting by Angela Taratuta. Chapter artwork of Jesse by Diego Candia. All graphics by me.
Book 1: The Green, Book 2: Lynch's Boys, Book 3: The Road Home, and the Riders & Kickers Anthology are available on Amazon under the name Regina Shelley. So if you hate waiting for chapter posts and/or want a more polished read, the finished product is available now.
If he was being honest with himself, Jesse would have to admit he was more than slightly surprised at actually waking up. His feet were cold, his rope-burned wrists were sore and stinging, and twigs and pine needles jabbed into his bare hide all over his body. His stomach knotted with hunger and his skin prickled with chill. But he hadn't succumbed to cold in the night and died in his sleep. He was awake. He was alive.
He shifted in his tight, itchy cocoon of debris, stretching. The hot rocks he'd rolled into his makeshift shelter had cooled, but they'd kept him warm enough to survive overnight. He pushed out the wadded plug of pine needles and leaves near his head and wriggled through the opening, wincing as the brush pile scraped against his skin. The sky was purplish gray, a rosy blush appearing on the horizon, and the thought that if it rained, it would most likely mean the end him gave him a grim twinge of worry.
Gettin' dressed ain't gonna be fun. He shivered as the cold air hit him, gritting his teeth and grabbing his damp trousers. Oh shitfire, that's cold. First order of business...build a fire and get my damn clothes and hair completely dry before my balls shrink up into raisins and stay that way. Second order of business...I gotta find something to eat, I'm starving. This ain't the worst time of year to find myself stranded out here with nothin', but it ain't the best, either. He glanced at his damp flannel shirt and scowled, instead opting to simply throw his still-wet leather coat on and button it up,
Jamming his feet into his wet boots, he headed back to where he'd made the fire the night before and set about to re-building it. When he'd gotten it going, he sat down in the dim grayness of the breaking dawn, sighing with pleasure as the fire's heat soaked into him, evaporating the cloying dampness out of his hair and trousers. The fringe on his coat warmed and dried, drawing the water out of the heavy leather. He held his shirt over the low flames, blessed heat seeping into his fingers. I might actually survive this.
The pinkish orange dawn was sprawling across the sky by the time his shirt was dry enough to put back on, and he'd gotten most of the water out of his coat by the time he could feel the faintest breath of warmth from the rising sun. He knew his boots would be a miserable affair, but at least at this point, his misery was confined to his feet. It ain't cold enough for frostbite, he reminded himself. It really ain't even all that cold in the sunshine. If I wasn't damp and hungry, and tired from trying to sleep naked in a brush pile, I wouldn't even feel it. He kicked apart his fire and crushed it out before headed down along the riverside, hoping for an easy crossing. Not knowing how far he was from the cave shaft he was seeking, he really didn't want to get another soaking if he could help it. I ain't even sure I know where I'm going at this point.
The river was a whirling, splashing maelstrom at this point, tearing past the jumbled rocks near the mountain in a noisy, bubbling spray. Jesse kept walking downstream, trying to remain aware of his surroundings as he scanned the water for an easy crossing. He was still chilly, but the higher the sun rose, the less biting the cold air felt. He needed food. He didn't know how long it had been since he'd last eaten, but he knew he was lightheaded from hunger, and a faint pain throbbed in his forehead. Early spring like this...nothing much to eat right now. Not even pine nuts. He pulled his coat closer around himself and kept walking, scanning the trees for nests that might contain eggs.
"Lily...I'm gonna get back to you," he whispered. "Please be alright." He tried not to dwell on it, not to think about her still being back inside the cave, or about the last time he saw Saint. Is he dead? The image of his friend unconscious and helpless on the floor of the saloon after Miss Loveless had hit him from behind with a barstool came unbidden to his mind again. If he is...I'll never forgive myself.
The river had spread out wide, sending long, splayed fingers across the rugged landscape. The hiss of white water whispering across rocks and shallow pools filled his ears and he stopped walking, surveying the crossing. He'd maybe get wet to the thigh, at the deepest of it. It's not like my boots are dry to begin with. He sighed, and carefully stepped onto the slick rocks, shifting his weight and trying each footstep as his feet slipped and the stones beneath him rolled and tilted. He went as far as he could on them before stepping reluctantly down into the sandy bottom. Icy water once again filled his boots, soaked into the bottoms of his pants legs. He gasped with cold, forcing him forward as the current sucked at him with a surprisingly powerful grip. His feet felt heavy, and he fought to remain upright as the water snatched at his striding legs, threatening to topple him.
Water surged around his knees, pulling hard at him. He realized that when he lifted his foot to take a step, he was unable to remain upright on one leg long enough to walk. The water surging past him was a relentless force and he flexed his legs against it, fighting for balance. One foot edged forward, and he gritted his teeth. The current shoved against him and he stumbled, the water taking advantage of his fall and rolling him like a bundle of flotsam among the rocks.
"Dammit!" The rushing current was far faster and stronger than it had appeared on the surface, and Jesse fought to stop himself, hands scrabbling along the slick rocks. The riverbank flew by as he banged against roots and stones, dragged along like a dead, waterlogged tree. Every time he stopped himself, the water felt that much colder as it rushed by, pulling his heat away with it. I can't believe this! Dammit! Shit!
He slammed into a tangle of tree roots along the bank, hastily grabbing at several branches before finding one that held him without breaking. The deepening black water along the outer edge of the river swept his feet from beneath him, and he fell hard onto his knees, fighting to maintain his grip as the water hauled at his body. As cold as the water was, hanging in one place as it poured past him felt even colder. Something swaying and soft was pressing against his back and he whirled around in the water with a hoarse cry, recoiling in horror.
Bobbing in the current behind him, Call-me-Richard Galloway, Esquire, hung in the branches of the swaying tangle behind him. His skin was the color of gray paper and his hands trailed in the water like vines. One eye was partly open, the sightless, white orb staring into nothing as the water rolled across his face. The raw, knife-scraped expanse of the top of his skull gleamed through the gaping, bloodless window cut into the middle of his scalp.
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