Rebel Heart Read Free

Molly’s family became landlords, it became notorious. Four generations of Pratts made it the only stop in this part of the world. Famous brawls, rogues plotting mischief in corners, the hectic jangle of music, drink rough enough to numb your hair and bad girls of all persuasions. He wonders if Lilith’s still working the room. She must be knocking on a bit.
    He’s never known the Lost Cause to be closed, day or night. Molly’s likely to be awake, even at this hour. She’s an early riser. Gets by on four hours of sleep with a catnap in the afternoon. She might even be working the bar.
    Jack pauses outside the door. His stomach’s jittery with nerves. He’s pondered, over and over again, what he’s going to say to her. How he’s going to tell her about Ike. And he still doesn’t know. He’s never had to do this before. He’ll just have to hope the right words come to him.
    To buy himself a moment or two, he knocks the dust from his hat. Flicks the pigeon feather stuck in the band. A little smile quirks his lips as he remembers the fuss Emmi made, choosing the perfect feather to beautify his battered old hat. He puts it back on. Tilts it to a jaunty angle.
    He takes a deep breath. He opens the door. He goes in.

    Molly’s behind the bar. She’s drying hoochers. The rusty, dented drinking tins and pots look even more harmful than the last time he was here. She’s working her way through a stack of them, like she’s got a crowd of thirsty drinkers waiting. He’s the only punter.
    She looks up. She can’t hide the little start of surprise. The quick flash of joy that chases over her face. And something else, too. Relief. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone. The mask’s back in place. The heard-it-all smile. The seen-it-all eyes.
    They’ve got history together, he and Molly. And it goes deep. But that joy wasn’t for him. Never for him the wild, hot joy he caught a glimpse of just now. No. She thinks Ike’s with him. He swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat.
    Well, well, she drawls, look what the wind blew in.
    She goes back to her work. Her long tangle of blonde curly hair’s tied back in a tail. She’s got distracting lips. Dangerous curves. Direct eyes. Travelling men make wide detours just to be in the same room as her. That’s the most that even the best of them can hope for.
    Molly Pratt, he says. Remind me, what’s a heavenly creature like you doin in a dump like this?
    Servin rotgut to scoundrels like you, she says. An if you call my place a dump agin, I’ll bar you.
    You barred me the last time, he says, an the time before that, an the time before the time before that. Remember?
    Oh, I remember, she says. Well, step in, don’t be shy. Yer hangin back like a virgin on her weddin night. Siddown, have a drink, pull up a stool fer Ike. Where is he? Settlin the horses?
    He doesn’t answer. He’ll work his way up to what he’s got to say. Have a drink or three first. Wait for the right moment. He goes to the bar, grabbing a couple of stick stools on the way. He settles himself, slinging his bark saddlesack on the floor, dumping his weapons belt on the bar. There’s sand everywhere. Piled in the corners. Drifting around his feet in the draughts from the door.
    There’s bad stuff goin on out there, Molly, he says.
    Welcome to New Eden, she says. It’s a brand new shiny world.
    A bloody world, you mean, he says.
    It’s always bin a bloody world, she says. Only nowadays, some people’s blood is better than others.
    What’s the news? he says. The Tonton sure ain’t what they was. What about the man in charge? You ever hear the name DeMalo?
    She shakes her head. He’s called the Pathfinder, she says. The landgrabbers – pardon me, Stewards of the Earth – they breathe his name like he ain’t even human. They say he makes miracles. That he’s here to heal the earth.
    You shouldn’t be here, he says. It ain’t safe.
    Well, it’s true, she says, the Tonton don’t like hooch an