Catch a Falling Star (9 page)

She was worn out from
all the lies she'd been telling. She hated it and even though
she knew there would be more before they were out of the mess
they were in, she wouldn't lie to
him
anymore. Whether
he was ready for it or not, he was going to get the truth.

“My family's very
close.” She was holding on to the edge of the seat on either
side of her to help her remain still as he'd asked. “There's my
parents, my two older brothers and me.” Here was the first of
her lies to confess. “My brothers aren't expected home like I
told you. They disappeared during an Alliance conscription sweep
a couple of years ago.”

Another pause while
she held her breath then let it out slowly. “My mother died of a
lung fever last winter. Not long after, my father got sick.” She
kept her eyes on the knife and the boot. “When your Federation
and the Alliance brought their squabble to our sector, an
embargo went up on most inter-sector trade and travel. Among
other things, we've had to rely on what medicine and med
technology we already have on planet and it's not enough. It
wasn't enough to help my mother. It's not enough for my father.
He's dying.”

She paused, worried
that it was taking too long to get the boot off though she knew
she couldn't leave it on any longer. Still, she prayed her
father was still sleeping, which he'd been doing a lot more of
lately. She hoped he wasn't awake, waiting for her and wondering
where she was.

When she continued,
she changed her mind on what she'd been about to say. “You know
that story I told Farley about you being my contract spouse? I'm
sorry for dragging you into it. It was based on truth, believe
it or not, and the best I could come up with at the time.

“When my father was
told by the doctor how ill he was, he actually did contact a
broker for a husband for me. His name was Remmie Ayer. He'd
agreed to sell off his business interests on his home planet
then come here to take over the farm.”

She closed her eyes.
“Eventually he messaged, claiming the embargo was causing
problems for him, but by then my father was bedridden. When the
final message came with the news that he wasn't coming at all, I
couldn't tell Papa. He'd been fighting so hard, waiting for this
Remmie to show, and... I... I kept hoping Papa would rally and
beat the disease. I never told him about the agreement falling
through.”

Her voice got
quieter. “Then, four days ago the doc stopped by. He said it
wouldn't be long, now. Papa's organs are failing. That's when I
told my worst lie. I told Papa that Remmie was on his way. He
asks every time his mind is clear enough if my husband has
arrived yet and each time I tell him it will be soon. I know
it's bad of me, but I didn't want him to die thinking he's
leaving me alone. I wanted him to die peacefully, not worried
about me.”

She stopped,
realizing she'd been talking too much, telling him more than he
probably ever wanted to hear. She was also sure he thought she
was a terrible person for all the lies.

Her hand went to the
Fed pilot's shoulder to get his attention. “Miguel. Don't worry
about being careful, you won't make things worse by going
faster. It's just a sprain that I've been walking on for too
long and it's swollen, that's all. Just do what you have to to
get the damn boot off. I've left him alone too long.” She ran
her fingers through his hair then smiled, feeling unexpectedly
better after all her yapping. “If it'll help you, think of it
like a bandage; it hurts less if you just rip it off quick.”

Miguel raised his
gaze to hers, studying the shades of blue and the kind soul that
lived behind them. Easing the knife free of the boot, not
breaking eye contact as he set the tool on the floor beside him,
he then reached for her, collecting the weight of her hair in
his palm before taking her gently but firmly by the back of the
neck. Guiding her lips to his, he was just as gentle and just as
firm with her soft mouth.

She let him kiss her,
too confused by the unexpected gift to return it. She pulled her
head back and had to smile. “What was that for?”

“Distraction.” He
smiled back at her and tugged hard on the boot.

Her foot was freed
with far less fuss than she'd thought it would. She didn't even
have time to realize what he was doing. With a quick look of
surprise directed at the pilot, she pulled her leg up to peel
the stocking off so she could get a good look. It wasn't pretty.
It was swollen from the toes to just above the ankle with folds
in the puffy skin where the stocking had been pressed into her
flesh by the boot's constriction. Her toes and the top of her
foot were a dark red but she didn't pay much attention to them,
instead marveling at the deep purple bruising that mottled the
swollen flesh where her ankle should be.

She set her foot down
when she began to feel the tingling return of circulation. Right
behind that came the pain of that same returning blood flow and
she bit her lip as she put her weight on it to test it. She
noticed that the ankle area was still mostly numb, but she knew
that wouldn't last. While it did, she had some things to do.

Smiling brightly as
if she wasn't experiencing the agony her waking foot was
treating her to, she leaned forward, partially out of the chair
and kissed Miguel. “Thank you. Now, out of my way. I have to get
some Freeze-It on this so I can function.” She rose a little
more from the chair, her hands on his shoulders and her eyebrows
raised as she waited for him to move.

He shook his head and
laid both hands on her shoulders as he rose, easing her back
into her seat. “I will get it. Where is it?” The foot looked
bad, swollen at least twice the size he was certain it should
be. That she'd been walking on it at all was a marvel.

She didn't answer him
right away, instead looking down at her foot again. She wanted
to stand so she could get the blood flowing faster but instead
found herself transfixed by the sight of the darkly bruised
ankle area. It seemed to her that even as she watched it, it was
ballooning out even more, no longer looking like it could even
be part of her body. If it weren't for the wild race of pins and
needles coursing through the foot and lower half of her leg, she
wasn't sure she'd believe it was.

With a sigh of
resignation, still watching the ankle with fascination, she
pointed toward the stairway. “On the wall opposite the stairs.
There's a medkit. Punch in 0-7-20.”

She'd wait 'til he'd
gone to fetch the Freeze-It to get up and get busy with what she
had to do. It seemed easier than wasting time arguing with him.
She was sure once he saw she could walk, he'd relent.

Miguel left her in
the chair, his mind a-whirl. He was wasting time here with this
woman when he should have been scouting the area looking for a
likely extraction point. But, he supposed, holing up for a
couple of hours shouldn't matter. The IFPG, the Integrated
Federation of Planetary Governments, the people he worked for;
they'd send a team when they felt the danger to their pilot was
at its lowest.

Reaching the kit
fastened to the wall like a pop-out safe, he tapped the sequence
she'd given him and hurried the rectangular door open to begin
digging through the supplies. The woefully inadequate supplies.
Frowning, he removed the only two packets of Freeze-It inside
and then glanced back over what was left. A couple of med vials,
a small wound stabilizer and a few swatches of gauze. How long
was that supposed to get her by?

In the kitchen,
Lyrianne waited until Miguel was out of sight to gingerly get to
her feet. Using the large island counter to support most of her
weight, she opened the stasis cabinet, pulled out a prepared
packet of stew, enough to feed her for a week, and popped it
into the Happy Chef for Farley.

As the autochef was
humming cheerily, she reached into the cold cabinet beside the
sink, hopping on one foot, to get a bottle of Fizzy Ade to go
with the stew. What she pulled out instead was one of the last
bottles of her father's moonshine. She contemplated - for a
brief moment of insanity – giving it to Farley then shook her
head firmly. That would not be a good idea.

Instead of returning
it to the fridge unit, she stopped, lifted it back up then
released the stopper. She took three long pulls of the clear
liquid inside. It was deceptively innocent looking considering
its potency. Her eyes were watering and her throat and stomach
burned. She was no drinker but she was hoping it would provide
her with enough of a pleasantly buzzed numbness to get her
through everything else she had to do before she could start
coddling herself. After getting the sparkling fruit juice she'd
intended to grab in the first place, she leaned against the
counter, staring at the homemade skull and cross-bones label, a
sad smile on her lips.

“Do not look so sad,”
Miguel said from the doorway, returning with the two small
packets she'd requested. “It is not a good look for you, eh?” He
smiled and joined her across the room, turning to lean against
the counter. His arm touched her shoulder and he handed her the
packets held between two fingers.

“You should not be
standing,” he lightly scolded, his eyes following hers to the
warning label. He cocked a brow and gestured at it with his chin
where a nice dark bruise had formed. “That does not look so good
to drink. No wonder you look unhappy.”

With a slightly
unfocused glance at him she smiled crookedly then shook her
head. She turned the bottle around to reveal another label. This
one was a drawing of a grinning, horned man-like creature. One
hand was on a naked hip, the other was down between the legs,
obscuring what it was holding.

“It's called Devil's
Piss. Apparently it's very good to drink since Papa made a
pretty good side business out of selling it.” She traced the
expertly rendered drawing. “He's a pretty talented artist...“
She grinned at Miguel as she revealed who'd made the label then
looked back at the bottle. “It's his secret recipe and this is
part of the last batch there'll ever be.” She set the bottle
down on the counter to accept the packets he held, coughing
lightly. “First time I've tasted it. It's not bad once you get
past the burn.”

Miguel’s eyes studied
her. Any other time he'd have laughed at the credible name and
graphic drawing but right then he felt only sympathy. It seemed
there was no denying her father would soon pass away, leaving
her alone with neighbors like Fat Farley for company. He was no
stranger to loss and knew no words he could provide would ease
her suffering so he didn't try. Instead he reached behind her
and took the bottle by the neck. Looking at the explicit image
without really seeing it, the pilot brought the opening to his
mouth and tipped his head back. The brew was like a volcano
spitting down his throat and he sucked air in through his teeth.

“Damn,” he wheezed.
“S'got a kick, don't it?”

Lyrianne nodded and
then giggled as her head movement caused the room to spin and
tip slightly before righting itself. “Yeah, I'd say so.” She
fanned a hand in front of her face then unbuttoned her coverall
by two more buttons. Her bare middle was now revealed to the
belly button, as was the luxury of her silk undergarment. She
didn't really think of what she was doing beyond trying to cool
off. “Really warms up the insides, too.” The two packets of
Freeze-It went into one of her leg pockets. She'd apply them
just before she went upstairs.

She set the now hot
stew on a tray with a packet of bread, adding a large mixing
bowl to empty the stew into, a big spoon, and a napkin. 
“Could you take the tray down for me?”

She began fixing a
tray for her father as she continued. “Oh, and a word of
warning... Don't let Farley get started talking about his family
- Everyone one of them is named Farley except his mother, by the
way.” She snorted at the absurdity of the Scruff family.
“There's Red Farley, Sissy Farley, Tiny Farley, Sweet Farley,
and, of course, their father, Black Farley. Don't ask. I think
it's some sort of family tradition thing.”

Placing a soup packet
into the Happy Chef, she then moved over to the old fashioned
wood burning stove to put the kettle of water on to boil. That
done, she leaned her back against the counter, her hands braced
on the surface as she faced Miguel again. “Anyway, he tends to
get very emotional and needy when talking about any of them
except his father, so escape quickly if he brings them up.”

The pilot was staring
at her incredulously, the tray in his hands but not because he
wanted it to be. Clearing his throat, Miguel provided her half a
smile before she turned back to her food preparation and he
added the bottle of Devil’s Piss to the tray. He hadn’t
recognized the unlabeled fruit juice on the counter and he was
too preoccupied to give it consideration as he backed out of the
kitchen to do as he’d been asked.

His sister joked he
was well-trained and there must have been something to it,
because what he really wanted to do was dump the heavy platter
on the floor and scoop this strange woman up to make off with
her, where no amount of duty or distraction could save her.

Chapter 7

Miguel was careful on
the steep stairs down into the cellar where only a single bare
bulb hung for light. The bulb itself was dusty, dulling the
illumination, and a feeling of nerves crept up the pilot's back.
He still had his pistol and wasn't afraid to drop Farley's
dinner if he had to use it.

“Fat man!” he called
out, ducking his head as he came to the bottom of the stairwell.
“I am sure you are hungry, yes?”

“I'm over here,
pretty boy. And, yeah, I'm hungry.” The deep voice boomed out
from the shadowy corner near the back of the open space where
the bed had been set up. Farley plodded over to the table and
scraped back a sturdy metal chair with a single unfriendly glare
directed at Miguel. The big man's face and hands were slathered
with an ointment he'd found in the bathroom, giving him an oily
sheen that seemed to emphasize his roundness.