He wandered out again and began picking up crushed beer cans and tossing them into the garbage. Rafe strolled up, holding up a wanted poster with Roman’s face on it.
“Dude, can you go into town today and get some more of these? We’re running out,” Rafe said. “Either that or we need a toilet paper run.”
At that, Roman flashed a fierce grin. It was the camp joke that they kept a steady supply of Roman’s wanted posters to wipe their asses.
Chapter Three
“Don’t worry, someone will hire me,” Chelsea assured Pepper, who didn’t look at all worried. Pepper never looked worried. The sun was shining and her stomach was full—what was there to worry about?
They were sitting on a bench on Main Street. First thing in the morning, Chelsea had shifted and killed several squirrels for her and Pepper’s breakfast. Now she was sipping a small cup of coffee, all she could afford. And that left her with nine dollars to her name and her stomach was rumbling. Carbs. She wanted carbs, damn it.
She’d slept in her car the night before. That morning she’d walked up and down Main Street asking at every single business, and they’d all nicely but decisively told her they weren’t hiring. Several of them had shared the fact that business was so slow they might not even be open much longer. Apparently the earthquake that had ripped through the area a year before had knocked out the local paper mill, and the paper mill had ended up relocating rather than rebuilding. Half the pack and most of the jobs had gone with it. Houses stood empty, and the local merchants were on their last legs.
It felt like Silver Peak was a dying town, but that couldn’t be right. She’d been so sure. She’d felt like her destiny was inSilver Peak.
She was starting to feel a cloud of gloom descend on her, and that couldn’t happen. She hadn’t taken her weekly dose of medicine that morning; she was trying to stretch it out.
She shut her eyes and concentrated hard.
She imagined blue skies and rainbows, and peacocks with glorious fans of tails, and tables and tables laden with pastries and pies, and she felt her mood quickly turning around again. Whew. That had been close.
“Can I pet your puppy?”
Chelsea’s eyes flew open and her gaze lit on a tall, sturdy-looking woman in her early twenties, with straight, shoulder-length brown hair. She wore jeans and sneakers, and no makeup. She was already bending over and holding out her hand to Pepper, who was sniffing at it with interest.
Good. Now there was someone else to talk to, and it was someone who liked dogs. There was something else for her to feel cheerful about.
“Sure,” she said. “Pepper’s not a puppy. She’s actually a fat, lazy old lady. Don’t do it, Pepper,” she added as Pepper shot her a reproachful look and let out a vengeful blast of flatulence.
Yep. Pepper understood her and was revenge-farting for good measure, Chelsea was sure of it.
The woman burst into a peal of laughter. “I’m Erika,” she said, kneeling down and scratching behind Pepper’s ears. Pepper closed her eyes and groaned in bliss. “Your dog is hilarious.””
“I’m Chelsea Wintergreen. Pepper likes you. You must be a nice person.”
“I love your dog. She’s a comedienne,” Erika said with a grin. Then she grew serious. “My aunt would kill me if she heard me laughing at dog farts. Her mission in life is to make me more ladylike. She thinks my almost-fiancé is going to leave me if I don’t class up.” She glanced up at Chelsea. “You look pretty ladylike. How do you do it?”
“Hmm. I do?” Chelsea considered that. She didn’t specifically try to make herself look ladylike, but she tended towards the frilly and the cheerful. She was wearing a flouncy green skirt trimmed with dark green lace, and a peasant shirt with ruffles at the neckline, and she had a big green flower barrette pinning back her curls.
She was a larger girl, and she remembered the matron of the foster home where she’d grown up telling her that bigger women shouldn’t wear bright clothes because it drew too much attention. The matron had been one of those bony women who always stared hungrily at other people’s food and got really bitchy around mealtimes.
For a while, Chelsea had tried to take her advice. She had dressed to be invisible, wearing dark, plain, dowdy clothes, but that had made her depressed. And that wasn’t good for anybody. So now she dressed how she wanted, and she figured that if anyone didn’t like how she looked, well, they didn’t have to look at her.
“And you remember to sit with your legs crossed.” Erika made a rueful face. “My aunt says that I sit like a trucker. She thinks it’s because I was raised by my dad. Are you staying here in town? You could teach me to be classier.”