Olive held the hem of her skirt, stretching it out and twisting it the way little girls did when showing off a pretty dress.
“Well, partly because my mommy would be cross if she knew I took earrings from a dead girl. I’m not allowed to take things from the people we kill.” She smiled. “I do anyway. But mostly I didn’t tell because you and I are friends. I don’t squeal on my friends.” Olive’s gaze slid sideways to meet Westie’s, a challenge. “We are friends, right?”
Westie knew that if she didn’t play Olive’s game, it could mean Alistair’s freedom. She shrugged on her poker face and swallowed the clot in her throat.
“Of course we are,” she said. It almost sounded believable.
“Besides,” Olive went on, seeming satisfied by her answer, “I hate that gold. It made us ugly. It’s all Mommy cares about now. Before we were rich, we used to live off the land. My papa was happy then. Now we have to parade around in these stupid clothes.”
Olive pulled at her dress, tearing the skirt.
Westie wasn’t sure if she could keep Olive’s secret. The girl was clearly deranged. She enjoyed killing things and took too much pleasure in her craft to just walk away from it. And what of the future? Olive seemed content with killing and torturing small animals for the time being, but what if she grew bored with it? Would she graduate to larger animals, creatures, or maybe even children? It was an addiction, a disease, just like Westie’s alcoholism.
“Olive, if we’re gonna remain friends, you’d best never hurt an animal again.”
Olive looked down at the willow switch in her hand. There were no willow trees around. The beating had been premeditated. She’d brought it with her. Olive tossed away the switch with a dismissive shrug. “It was tiresome anyway.”
A lie, Westie knew, but it would have to suffice. Noon was drawing near. Folks would be leaving church and . . .
The sudden, horrible clarity of what she’d done stopped her short. She put her hands to her head, panic surging through her veins. Once the owner discovered the robbery and Westie’s favorite brand of whiskey to be the only thing missing from his store, he would tell Nigel, and Nigel would certainly put the clues together. As if Nigel needed another check on his list of reasons to be disappointed in her. She needed to find an alibi and quick.
“We should go. It’s getting late. We can take my horse back to town,” Westie said.
They took a shortcut. There was an old bridge crossing the river that would take them right to her horse. She wasn’t sure if it was still usable. The bridge had been feeble the last time she’d crossed it as a child, but it was worth a try and wouldn’t take them any farther out of their way than they already were. The dog followed them at a distance, keeping a steady eye on Olive the entire way.
“Look!” Olive said. She was crouched next to the riverbank, pointing to the ground where a lizard was sunning on a rock. “It’s a blue belly. I hear you can pull off their tails and they’ll grow back.”
“I reckon the lizard wouldn’t like that.”
Olive reached for the lizard, taking it in her grip and exposing its blue underside. “I don’t care. It’s just a dumb ol’ lizard.” She giggled as it squirmed to escape.
Not even a half hour had passed and already Olive had forgotten her promise.
“Don’t you pull that lizard’s tail, you hear,” Westie said. “You made me a promise, and a person’s worth is only as strong as their word.”
Olive looked over her shoulder at Westie, her eyebrow raised, smirk on her lips, the kind of look made of mischief.
“Words are just sounds a mouth makes. They don’t mean anything.” She looked down at the lizard, ran a finger along its prickly back, and gripped the tail.
Westie raised her voice. “I swear to the Almighty, I’ll blister your hide, Olivia Fairfield. I don’t care who you tell about the gold.”
Olive’s smirk slid into a smile. “We’ll see about that.”
Westie watched helplessly as Olive gave the lizard’s tail a quick yank and tore it off. The lizard writhed in her grip, snapping at her fingers. Olive only laughed when she dropped the lizard and it scurried away with the rest of its life.
It wasn’t as if Westie had never seen an animal hurt before; she had, plenty of times. She’d hunted with Bena as a girl, stuck her fair share of hogs, even taken down a buck or two, but she did it to eat, to feed a tribe. It was done with respect and gratitude. Watching Olive beat a dog and pull the tail off a lizard for no other reason than to be cruel took more stomach than God had bestowed upon Westie, and so she turned her back on the girl and walked away, the dog following behind.
“Where are you going?” Olive called after her.
Westie swallowed back the words that would void the truce between her and Olivia. “I’m going home. You’d best do the same.” Before I change my mind about our deal, she thought.
“I don’t know the shortcut across the river.”