Orion's Belt - A Dark Sci-Fi Western Romance

“Settle down,” I say, grabbing the back of her gingham dress to keep her in place. Last thing I need is for her to fall off the horse and make this rescue completely pointless.

“Quit yer wrigglin’.”

She does not quit her wriggling. I guess she can’t help it. I have to keep a tight grip on the back of her dress, the light fabric tearing under the powerful grip of my augmented hand. You can’t see it under the long sleeve and the glove I wear, but the difference between my two appendages is obvious. I wouldn’t be shredding fabric if I were using my meat paw, as Paris calls it when he’s drunk.

The bullets are still flying from above. I can tell they’re pissed. We just stole the show and their prey, fuckin’ jackals. There’s no time to hang around and get the girl settled properly on my horse. We have to ride. Now.

I spur Gus and we get the hell out of dodge, riding for our lives away from the train tracks and the men up above. We could stay and fight, but it’s a waste of lead and a waste of life and we don’t have enough of either to spare.

The girl is well protected, being in front of me, but her head is down toward my horse’s wither, so I don’t get much in the way of conversation out of her. The first few miles are nothing but a mad gallop. When we’re clear of the shooters, I haul her up to sit side saddle in front of me. She’s short enough that her head tucks in under my chin when she squishes down a bit, and together we ride back to camp, surrounded by my boys, nice and safe and sound.

Josie

He smells like hero. Sweat, musk, and muscle with a hint of gunpowder.

I thought my life was over. I had no reason to think that anyone was going to rescue me. When I was tied down, the bastard who did it told me he wouldn’t let nobody rescue me. Then he tried to stop these men, but the one with his arm wrapped around my waist with a grip like iron didn’t let that happen.

“Almost home,” he rumbles, his voice coming through his chest and into my body.

I’ve never been held like this, with a secure grip that won’t let anything happen to me. It’s everything I can do to stop myself from just melting into him like a lost little kitten, kneading his powerful body which grinds against me repeatedly with the motion of the horse.

We’re approaching a series of tents camped underneath low purple-leaved trees. It’s a rough encampment, messy. Not the sort of place men of the law bed down. That’s a good thing at this point. I’ll never trust a lawman again in my life.

A line of crates and rocks makes an impromptu border around the camp. It looks haphazard, but I doubt any of the placement is an accident. The rider slows his horse and I find myself abruptly let down onto my feet. The outlaw — I’m pretty sure that’s what he is — follows quickly, tossing the reins over his horse’s head, ground tying him as he turns to me.

“Alright, whats yer name?”

No, are you alright? Just a roughly barked, whats yer name. Hardly the kind of question a hero asks after he sweeps you off the train tracks right before you get turned into minced meat, but I guess I owe him an answer.

“Josie,” I say, rubbing my wrists where the ropes that tied me to the tracks cut into my skin. “My name’s Josie.”

“You got a last name?”

I stare at him, wondering how to answer that, if I answer it at all. He’s got eyes that glint like the sun in the blue sky, set deep beneath a heavy brow. His hair is dark and shaggy around his ears, and he has dark stubble around a hard jaw. He looks like every other criminal in the Patch rolled up into one big, broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped bastard.

I should be grateful to him. I am grateful to him. He saved my life. I owe him and his men everything that happens to me between now and the grave. But I reckon they’ll be taking full advantage of that fact if I don’t get the hell out of here soon. There are stories of what happens to women who join up with outlaws, and none of them are good. They like to share, do rough men. They’ll pass a girl around like a bottle of whiskey, using her until she’s drained.

“Mighta had one once, but I lost it a while back,” I say with an easy grin.

He doesn’t smile back. His expression is hard as nails. This is an interrogation and I don’t like it.