Free The Believers (The Breeders Series - Book 2) by Katie French Page B

She's lying on her side, turned away. Slowly I walk up, bend over, and place my hand on her frail arm.
    She jumps and I yank my hand back. As she rolls toward us, I see her burned side first, the diminished ear, the rippled skin of her cheek. When I can see her fully, my heart sinks. I was expecting her to look better than I'd last seen her, but instead she’s worse—nearly translucent skin, dark circles under her eyes, sharp cheekbones that look cut out of stone. Her trembling hand seeks out mine and she lifts a smile to her cracked lips.
    “Darlings,” she croaks.
    I kneel by her cot and take both her hands in mine. Her knuckles protrude like walnuts beneath her skin. “How… are you feeling?” I swallow over the lump in my throat.
    My mother nods and runs her tongue over her chapped lips. “Okay. How're you?” She reaches a hand out to Ethan. He’s a statue beside me, his eyes the size of dinner plates. I place my hand on his arm. If only I could spare him this.
    “We're…okay.” I flick my eyes up toward the Middies who float around, checking temperatures and changing bandages. I thought they were supposed to fix her, not make her worse.
    As if reading my mind, she answers. “I'm feeling better. They're giving me fluids and I need to rest. The time on the road was hard on me.”
    I study her face. How can she be feeling better? She looks like a corpse.
    “The baby?” I manage, nodding to her stomach beneath the scratchy blanket.
    She drops her eyes. “It seems to be faring fine despite my...” she pauses and swallows “difficulties.” Is that bitterness in her voice? Did she ever feel this way with me? Like I was a burden?
    “Mama,” I say, leaning close, my elbows resting on the saggy cot, “we'll get you out. If these people are making you worse, we'll find a way to—”
    She cuts me off with a shake of her head. “No, darling. We can't chance that right now. You stay and eat and rest up. Auntie can wait a little bit longer.”
    Auntie. There's the pang of worry again. With the Sheriff dead, who knows what's happening to her. Just one more problem to add to my heap. My mind returns to the human moaning I heard in that crevasse.
    A Middie shuffles up, an aging woman in loose cotton pants and a tunic with only a single gold bracelet glittering on her wrist. Her face wrinkles into a look of displeasure as she scans our group.
    “Really. That's enough. You're not supposed to be here anyway.” She fixes a disapproving gaze at Mage who shrugs her narrow shoulders.
    “Please,” I say, facing the Middie, “is there anything you can do for my mother? She looks...” I can't finish. I clasp my hands together and will myself not to choke up.
    The Middie turns her eyes to my fragile mama. “She needs rest. I assure you she has the best care here. Trust us.” She places her hand on my back and leads me toward the door.
    I whip around and crouch down to grab my mama’s hand. Her eyes meet mine, and for a moment I think one or both of us might cry.
    “I'll come back. Every day. I'll make sure they're doing what they need to do to get you better.” My eyes flick down to her stomach. “Both of you.”
    My mama nods, her eyes wet. “Don't worry about me. Take care of Ethan and the others, but don't worry about me.”

    CHAPTER EIGHT
    There’s a special place in hell for whoever assigned me laundry duty. My fingers are wrinkled white raisins and my body aches from kneeling over the wash tub. The smelly undershirt I'm holding goes back into the sudsy tub and then I scrub it on the washboard. I've already nicked one knuckle on the board leaning out of the washbasin. Eying the jagged edge, I know it's just a matter of time before I rip open another.
    Plunge and scrub. Plunge and scrub. Mage sits beside me twirling a wadded-up shirt through the soapy water in a figure eight. As the Messiah's daughter, her plunging and scrubbing are mostly for show. She chats with the other women stationed around us in this