Free Law, Susan Kay by Traitorous Hearts Page B

wished they were pearls.
    He shoved the necklace into the leather pouch attached to his
belt, grimacing at the cold dampness. His clothes had, for the most part, dried
out by now, but the leather remained moist. His shoes squished when he walked.
    A gun boomed, the sound only partly muted by the distance. The
common was nearly deserted; everyone was still out at the meadow, watching the
shooting competition. Jon took advantage of the quiet to walk slowly through
the town. Much as he needed to rejoin his company, he was strangely reluctant.
    Was she still there? He'd looked at her after his final shot.
She'd still been smiling at him, but not with encouragement and joy. With pity.
    Pity, damn it! See? her eyes seemed to say. That wasn't
too bad. You almost did it. Next time you'll be closer. It was probably the
same way she looked at her favorite puppy when it pissed on her shoes. That's
all right, darling. Next time you'll get it right.
    He clenched his fists, his nails biting painfully into his palms.
Somehow he had to rid himself of this compulsion about Beth. He was supposed to
be gathering information. Plotting strategy. Looking for traitors. Not mooning
around like a lovestruck adolescent in the grip of his first passion.
    Jon slowed his steps by the hollow near the schoolhouse. The pigs
were still wallowing away, grunting happily, munching on a pile of corn someone
had given them, apparently to keep them out of the way for the day. They
squealed merrily and twitched their mud-caked, spiral tails.
    "Well, at least someone's having a good time," Jon
mumbled under his breath, continuing on around the school. He paused when the
sound of voices drifted to him; childish voices, taunting, calling, jeering.
And one young voice desperately pleading. He slipped quietly around the corner,
knowing it was none of his business but unable to help himself, remembering too
well what it was like to be the one against many.
    A slender young girl was surrounded by half a dozen jumping and
capering small boys. She was tall, gawky, with a mop of brilliantly red hair
completely unrestrained by the two blue ribbons tied in it. Her nose was nearly
the color of her hair, and Jon could tell she was on the verge of tears as she
twisted and turned, trying to snatch something away from the nearest boy.
    "Give her back!"
    "You want her?" the boy, his own hair so blond it was
almost white, jeered. "Then use those long sticks of arms and get
her." He tossed a gray ball to the other side of the circle.
    The girl nearly stumbled over her feet as she whirled and ran
toward the boy who'd caught the ball.
    "I hear cats always land on their feet." The second boy
tossed the tiny puff of fur into the air again. "How high do ya think we
can throw her before she don't make it?"
    "Please, just give her back," the little girl pleaded,
her voice choked.
    "Yeah?" The boy held the kitten in one hand high above
his head. "How you gonna make me, carrot?"
    "Yeah," added the boy next to him. "She's a carrot.
Long and skinny and orange..."
    "I'm not orange! I just want Pickles. If you don't give her
to me, I'll—"
    "Hello."
    The boys jumped abruptly, turning guilty faces toward the
newcomer. They visibly relaxed when they saw it was Jon.
    The towheaded boy, apparently the self-appointed leader of the
gang, puffed out his small chest and stepped forward. "I know you."
    "You do?" Jon said mildly.
    "Yeah. You're that stupid lobsterback. The one who shot the
tree."
    "I'm Jon. What are you doing?"
    "Aw, nothin'." He shuffled his feet. "Jes'
playin'."
    "Oh." Jon grinned. "That's good. Thought maybe
you'd hurt the kitten."
    "Naw," he said, an innocent look on his face. "We
was just teasin'."
    "Good." Jon crossed his arms over his chest, towering
over the boys, who came barely to his hip. "Because, y'know, little
kittens and girls and other things that are small and alone sometimes got big
fathers and uncles and friends."
    "Jimmy," whispered another little boy, poking the