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more welcoming.
    “Yes. My friend’s arm is broken, and … stuff.” Rattling off a list of Ian’s injuries didn’t seem like it would help. I might have to offer an explanation, and I didn’t have a lie handy.
    “You ain’t from town, or that militia bunch?”
    Militia? “Uh … no.”
    “Saints and shitpokes. Dumb-ass tourists. You from up north too.” The voice edged into feminine territory as some of the coldness wore off. “Were you climbin’, or huntin’?”
    “Climbing.” I seized the innocuous excuse, hoping Ian had enough sense not to contradict me. “We were checking out thecaves up there and lost our footing. He fell farther than me.”
    Ian stiffened, but he didn’t say anything.
    She—I was positive it was a woman now—sighed like I’d just confessed to not realizing the sky was blue. “S’pose you better come back to my place, then. It ain’t too far. Your … friend can ride Zephyr. You’ll have to walk.”
    I ignored the suggestive way she said friend. “What’s a Zephyr?”
    “My mule.” She turned and moved back into the trees.
    Ian shuddered and coughed. “A mule,” he murmured.
    “Sounds like fun.” I suppressed a grin.
    “Indeed.”
    “Come on.” I led him across the clearing after the mystery woman. She stood about ten trees in, fitting the shotgun into a holster mounted at the side of a rich brown, wiry-looking animal laden with stuffed saddlebags. The mule glanced up at us, blinked slowly, and went back to munching on a clump of green leafy-looking things.
    The woman kept her head bent enough not to show her face under the hat brim, and then she turned her back. She wore a thin black long-sleeved shirt, jeans faded to the color of mud, and men’s work boots. A sheaf of copper brown hair hung down her sturdy shoulders. “Mount up,” she said without facing us. “There’s stirrups and a saddle, so even green slicks like yourselves can figure it out. You ain’t got to guide him. He’ll follow me.”
    It took a few tries to get Ian up on the saddle. Zephyr snorted once, when Ian wobbled and grabbed handfuls of stiff black mane to keep from falling, but he didn’t buck or protest. I found the reins and wound them around Ian’s hand a few times. “Better hold on,” I said. “I don’t know if I can pick you up again.”
    Ian looked down at the mule and blanched. “Are you certain about this?”
    “Sure. It’ll be fine.”
    “Jus’ don’t put your fingers near his mouth. They look like carrots to him,” the woman said. “You set?”
    Ian groaned.
    “We’re good,” I said. “Thank you.”
    She made a sharp clucking sound and started walking. Zephyr swung from his feast and plodded along behind her with Ian swaying uneasily on his back.
    I stayed next to the mule. Whoever this woman was, she obviously didn’t want to get too friendly. I couldn’t blame her. Ian tended to make people uneasy, and I wasn’t much better.
    “Name’s Mercy,” she said eventually. “You?”
    “I’m Donatti. He’s Ian.”
    “All right.”
    She lapsed back into silence.
    At first glance, Mercy’s place looked like a few acres of trees had exploded and fallen back to the ground in random piles. An open-face shack with a log fence growing out of it apparently belonged to Zephyr. Just outside the far end of the fence stood something that looked like three doghouses stacked on top of each other. Two smaller buildings, each about the size of two toolsheds pushed together, flanked a small but thriving garden.
    The main house might have been a normal shape once, but irregular additions had been patched on until it resembled a deformed starfish. A wide, roofed porch ran the front length, where two screened windows flanked a rough plank door painted bright red. There was a small gray satellite dish on the roof. The huge, squat metal box on the right side of the house, with thick wires feeding in between logs, was probably a diesel generator.
    On the left, a curtained shower