She continued to fuss with herself. She wore full cowboy dress, with a long duster, angora chaps, and supple leather gloves to hide her machine. Her hair was pinned up, hidden beneath a flat-brimmed Stetson, and she wore a red kerchief to hide her long, slender neck and the Adam’s apple missing from her throat. Alistair wore a black kerchief over his mask and a blond, shaggy wig that made his skin look paler than usual.
They housed their borrowed Wintu horses at the livery yard and asked for a room at the Roaming Inn. When the Fairfields had first arrived in Rogue City, Nigel had set up a demonstration of Emma for today in the old mining caves at the edge of the dome. It would’ve stirred up too many questions if he were to cancel last minute. Because of the demonstration, they didn’t have to worry about running into the family at the inn. Westie and Alistair told Nigel they were going to check on the Wintu and would be gone for the day, knowing he would never approve if they told him what they were really up to. After everything that had happened the day before, Nigel was too flustered to be suspicious.
The Roaming Inn might have had the nicest rooms in Rogue City, but they were hardly nice. One could pick up a stubborn case of pant-rats without the coin to pay for the better rooms. Westie assumed the Fairfields had taken the best rooms, so she asked for the second best. In her deepest voice, she told the innkeeper she and Alistair were brothers just passing through.
Alistair settled the bill while Westie waited in the lobby. The Roaming Inn was run by a family of werewolves. There were paintings of wolves on the walls. Clumps of shed fur covered the wood floors and were tangled in the rugs. The whole place smelled of wet dog.
A young werewolf boy, naked as the day he was born, stood in the middle of the room aiming at a rose design on the rug before unleashing his bladder.
Westie frowned. “Maybe you ought to housetrain your pup,” she said to the woman behind the counter. The woman snapped her jaws in reply.
Westie jumped back. Alistair grabbed her arm and pulled her up the stairs toward their room.
“It would be best not to draw attention,” Alistair said.
Westie pulled out of his grip. “Fine.”
The room was spacious, with a large bed and a mattress that stank of piss. If their room was second best, she would hate to see the worst. She tossed her satchel onto the quilt and was attacked by a cloud of dust and the lingering scent of mold.
Alistair flushed crimson. “One bed?”
Westie shrugged off her duster and continued to peel away the layers until she was rid of the heat.
“Relax, Alley. We’re not sharing the bed. We’ll be out of here before you know it.”
“Do you have the key to the Fairfields’ rooms?” Alistair had the red gingham curtains pulled to the side and was staring down at the main strip.
Westie dug through her satchel until she found it. “Right here.” She lifted the key to show him.
They had a plan. They were all set to go, and yet she had a horrible feeling all tangled up in her guts.
“Don’t lose that. If anyone finds that key, it will lead them straight to the foundry. I had to pay for it on Nigel’s account,” Alistair said.
She took a breath, shook it out, then gazed at Alistair. He looked sinister. There was a thrill in that dangerousness, but she knew better of the man beneath the mask, willing to risk his own life for the good of everyone. If Nigel lost everything because they were caught, Alistair would be completely on his own. He was no longer a young boy. No one would foster him without an allowance. No one would be there to fix his machine were it to break. And once he was out of jail, no one would hire a mute except outlaws and desperate ranchers.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do this,” she said. “There’s too much at risk.”
He dropped the curtain and stepped toward her until they were face-to-face. He took the hat from her head and pins from her hair so that it was an auburn waterfall around her shoulders. He used to love touching her hair when she was a child. He said it looked like copper wires. It was innocent the way he had touched her hair then, but now, in that rented room, it felt like more.
She drank in his touch, lingered in it, remembering back when they were young and still close. She’d spent every waking hour with him after his wounds had healed, teaching him to read and developing a language of their own with their hands. She’d loved living in that blissfully silent world with him. Even after Nigel made the mask, Alistair hadn’t used it much at first. Westie had preferred it that way and liked how he’d always touch her to get her attention.
She was so lost in the memory that she reached up and caressed his hand without even thinking. Alistair reeled back as if she had struck him.
“I’m sorry!” she said, desperate to make it right. “I didn’t mean—”
“We should get this done,” he said, flustered.
We all know you’re in love with Alistair, but he won’t have you. Isabelle’s words stayed with Westie like a greasy meal in her belly.
“Yeah, I suppose so.”
She cleared her throat and chewed up her pride, then gathered her satchel and the key before they slipped into the empty hall.
Alistair put the key in the door of the Fairfields’ rooms. With a click, they were in.