Badlands by Jill Sorenson Page A

mud.
    He was...sensitive.
    Shane had assumed that Owen landed the cushy security job because of his connection to the candidate’s daughter, not because he was a qualified badass.
    “My mistake,” he said with a hint of admiration. “It never occurred to me that he’d fight back in these circumstances.”
    “Why not?”
    “I didn’t think he had the balls.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    P ENNY KNEW WHAT Owen had done.
    She’d held her hands over Cruz’s ears in anticipation of the gunshot blast, and had kept them there to muffle the screams.
    She understood why he’d done it, too. A medical emergency was a serious diversion, affording them better opportunity to escape. These men would exact a bloody revenge on Owen if they got the chance, but she didn’t blame him for taking the risk. She knew he’d do anything to protect her and Cruz.
    Owen seemed troubled by his actions, his brow furrowed and his mouth drawn. She longed to put her arms around him, but she doubted he’d take comfort in her embrace. He would hold himself at a distance, as always.
    They fled the scene in a rush, traveling on a footpath that zigzagged across the mountain of dried mud. Owen kept his shoulders low, seeming to expect gunfire to erupt at any moment. The sun bore down on them like an oppressive force. It burned the top of her scalp and sucked the moisture from her lips. She could feel the heat of the earth through the soles of her stolen boots. The dry air singed her lungs, and it was only midmorning. She was walking in an oven. Cruz couldn’t keep up.
    Owen carried him for about a mile. When they reached a shady spot in an adjacent canyon, he stopped, looking back the way they’d come.
    “Do you think they’re following us?” Penny asked.
    “I don’t see anyone.”
    She sat down on a rock next to Cruz, offering him water. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes half-lidded. He gulped the drink, but his normal excitability was gone. As soon as his thirst was slaked, he slumped against her, drowsy. His forehead felt cool against her palm, which was a good sign. Cruz wasn’t used to this much strenuous activity, and he’d only slept six or seven hours the night before. He needed a nap.
    “What now?” she said, passing the canteen to Owen.
    He took a judicious sip. “We have to keep moving. There’s a spring near here. It might be a puddle this time of year, but I think it’s our best bet.”
    “Why? The water won’t be safe to drink.”
    “We can use it to cool down, though. Higher ground is easier to defend, and I can see someone coming from far away. The palm trees also give off plenty of shade. It’s a good place to rest until the sun sets.”
    “Then what?”
    “There’s an old railroad a few miles south. It leads to the 8 Freeway.”
    “The 8 Freeway,” she repeated, cracking a smile. He had a history with the 8. After escaping the earthquake rubble, he’d ridden a BMX along that route until he’d found some National Guardsmen.
    He didn’t smile back at her. “If we walk all night, we might get there. If not, we’ll rest during the day and try again.”
    “We’ll run out of water today,” she said, lifting the half-empty canteen.
    “Maybe not. There are water stations every ten miles or so.”
    “Water stations?”
    “This is a popular border crossing area.”
    She’d heard of people traveling from Mexico through the desert on foot. Now she could better imagine the difficulty. Before setting out again, they made some gear adjustments. She took off her boots to rewrap her feet. The scraps of fabric kept getting bunched up, and several blisters were starting to form. When she winced at the tender spots on her heels, Owen removed his socks and gave them to her.
    “Won’t your feet hurt?”
    “Not as much as yours.”
    His basic black oxfords looked well-worn and comfortable, so she accepted his socks. The combination of soft cotton and stuffed toes felt much better. She applied ChapStick to her lips and face,