The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [78]
They parked next to a rusted wooden wagon, listing wheels half-buried in farmyard muck. Claire slid out of the truck, dropped to the ground and glared at the dust that swirled over her legs. She struggled to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry. She could taste the weariness and despair in the dirt.
“Never been off the pavement before, princess?” Grey said.
Her ears buzzed and eyes ached. “Never,” she said, venom lacing her tone. She slammed the passenger door closed.
Grey grabbed a crowbar from behind the seat and clattered into the back of the truck. Claire watched him pry at a thin board on the floor against the cab. A snap and an entire section of floor gave way, leaving an opening just large enough for a body to wriggle through.
Out of the darkness slid a slender teenaged girl, dark haired, a prim grey dress, ruffled at the neck. She held a leather monogrammed duffel and a wide briefcase. She turned around and reached in behind her. A small girl, maybe four, scrambled out. Her hair was the color of wheat, her face tear-streaked and her blue eyes red. A hand was shoved against her mouth, small sniffles escaped. She wore a blue dress that ended in ruffles above her knees; the fabric was wet below her waist.
The dark-haired girl scooped the young one up and strode across the truck bed. She ignored Claire’s outstretched arms as she clambered down and hefted her bags.
Grey reached deeper into the opening, turned back to Claire. “A bit of a hand here?”
Claire scrambled to his side. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see the compartment was just bigger than a bathtub. It smelled of sweat, urine and blood. Blankets had been tacked up along every surface. A man lay stretched on his back, his arm and shoulder swathed in bandages. His eyes were closed.
“He’s passed out. We need to get him inside.”
Claire shimmied inside the opening and reached for the man’s shoulders. With Grey half in, tugging on the man’s legs, and Claire at his head, they slid him out feetfirst.
Grey handed her a key and motioned toward the house. A medieval looking thing, but the heavy front door screeched open. The small windows next to the door didn’t offer much light. Claire lit the nub of a candle that sat on a table near the door.
The inside wasn’t nearly as decrepit as the outside. Not too long ago, someone had taken a stab at making it livable. A small front room, chairs along the wall. One doorway opened up to a kitchen with a wood-burning stove and a cupboard, the other to a small bedroom, empty but for a low cot along the wall.
Claire turned back to the girls, created her most reassuring smile and waved them in, the little one still sniffling. She handed the candle to the oldest and hurried back outside to Grey. Between them, they hauled the man inside, depositing him on the cot.
He was surprisingly heavy. Stocky but not fat. His cheeks were drawn, but his face was young and strong and reminded her of her brother, Willy.
“I’ll try to help him if you’ll bring in the box of supplies and settle the girls in.” Grey started to peel away the bloodied bandages. He was unbuttoning the man’s shirt as she left him.
Claire pulled closed a tattered curtain across the doorway. The two girls faced her, hands gripping each other. A united front against, it must seem, most of the world.
“Hello, I am Evelyn,” Claire said with her warmest smile.
The older girl scrutinized Claire before she spoke. “I am Marta Decler. This is my sister, Anna.”
Marta was slender, almost fragile. Her lips were the only part of her that looked soft. They turned down into a pout. Her eyes were guarded and dark. She stared up at Claire through thick coal black eyelashes.
Anna was soft where Marta was thin. Plump pink cheeks, round dimpled knees, her big blue eyes dripped tears. She sniffled again. “I’m hungry.”
Claire shut her eyes, steeling her nerve. Pa must be snickering in his grave, she thought. “Well, then. Let’s see what we can find.”
Marta changed Anna’s dress while Claire brought in a wooden crate