The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet 1)

But I couldn’t do that because the baby zipped up tight would drown in the wet canvas, thrashing like the fish Mclary caught in his pond.

She’d cried a few times in our night-time journey. Once, she’d whined due to me slipping up to my waist and getting her wet. Twice, she’d mewled like a kitten, hungry and tired. And at some point, as the straps of the backpack cut into my shoulders and I leaned more and more into her weight, forcing myself to put one more step in front of the other, she’d squalled loud and angry as if in protest for her conditions.

I’d elbowed her again.

She’d fallen quiet.

And we’d continued on until I couldn’t walk another step.

Rolling from my knees to my ass, I reached up with stiff arms and seized fingers to slip the backpack off my shoulders and scooted away to lean gratefully against the weathered boards of the shed.

The long grass kept us hidden. The light breeze kept us quiet. And the morning light revealed it was just us in the sea of rye that hadn’t been cut or baled in years.

That meant the farmer didn’t tend to his crops, and we were far enough away from the Mclary’s holdings to be safe for a few hours of rest.

I barely managed to unzip the bag and let little blue eyes and blonde hair free before slipping to my side and dreaming.

* * * * *

Three days.

Three days of broken sleep, sore limbs, and the never-ending need to run as far as possible.

Three terrible days of learning what a baby ate reappeared ten times worse a few hours later. I’d had the gag-worthy task of figuring out how to remove a wriggling annoyance from clothing and clean up a mess that needed a hose rather than dry grass.

I didn’t have a replacement diaper and didn’t want her getting my backpack and food disgusting, so I ripped up my only spare t-shirt and Frankensteined a covering for her squashed little butt.

On the fourth day of hard-won freedom, Della Mclary crawled from the backpack and waited by my nose until I woke from exhaustion. I hadn’t even thought of her wandering off while I slept, and her shadow hovered over me, creating horrors of farmers and enemies and guns.

My survival instincts, already on high-alert, lashed out, and I shoved her away from me.

She rolled away, silent with shock until she came to a roly poly mess covered with leaves.

And then she cried.

And cried.

And cried.

The code in the barn was to stick to yourself. No one got too close because no one wanted to risk getting hurt, either by Mclary punishing the friendship or because of the inevitable ticking clock that meant everyone left eventually.

Della had no such qualms.

She’d sat in her pink onesie, stinking like shit and chubby legs kicking in dirt, while her midget finger poked at my cheek; over and over until blurry sleep became blurry awake.

And now, I’d struck her.

I tore at my hair, not knowing what to do, itching to shut her up by any means necessary.

Crawling over to her, I cringed against the ripe smell and plucked her from the ground. Her weight felt heavier in my arms than on my back.

I twisted her closer, ready to slap my hand over her mouth, frantically looking at the horizon to see who or what had heard us, but the minute my fingers went near her tear-stained face, she clutched my index and sucked on it.

Her crying stopped.

Her sniffles and flowing tears didn’t.

But at least she was silent, and there was no way I wanted to shatter that miracle, so I sat with her uncomfortably, letting her do what all baby creatures did when seeking comfort—nuzzling and suckling, creating another layer of frost on my hatred rather than thawing.

“Why did you mess this up for me?” I growled. “Why couldn’t you have stayed with your awful parents?”

I would be so much better off without her.

I should’ve left her behind days ago.

We’d already gone through the food far faster than I’d planned. The cheese was gone and two cans of baked beans. I had one left.

I didn’t even know if babies could eat beans, but I’d smashed it up and fed it as a paste, and she’d wisely never refused anything I offered. Not after my threat the first time.

Feeling trapped and useless and totally unprepared, I rocked my nemesis to sleep, both our empty tummies cawing as loud as the crows in the trees.

CHAPTER FOUR

REN

* * * * * *

2000

EVERYTHING I HAD in the world now fit into two cargo pants pockets and an empty backpack.

I had no food or water.

I had no tent or blanket, no spare clothes, no medicine, no toothbrush or soap.

I’d done a terrible job at stashing away important things I’d need for this journey and regretted my stupidity on not planning better.