She hastily packed a change of clothing, and her most valuable possessions. A few books, some jewelry that had been passed down to her, a small music box and three framed photos of her family. She scribbled a quick note, telling her family she loved them but couldn’t do what they wanted.
Her throat tightened as she lingered in the doorway of her room. She glanced back at Darby and Davie sleeping so peacefully. They wouldn’t understand, and it would break their little hearts. She hoped Clive and Brandon would understand, and she prayed her mother would forgive her.
With the fear of failure spurring her every step, she crept from the house and out to the barn where Adam’s silver gelding waited. The horse was more spirited than Bluebell, the old mare she normally rode, but he was amenable to being led away from the barn by the reins. She planned to walk him down a dirt trail that cut through the woods and wait until she was far enough away from the house that no one could possibly hear the clop of his horseshoes.
When they entered the woods, she hesitated. Solder pulled against her, as if to remind her of the plan, and she decided he was right. There was no going back.
Chapter Four
Swift savored the first step off the transport ship. Despite all the gravity and environmental systems on their ships, they couldn’t ever quite replicate the real thing. He filled his lungs with the sweet, clean air. There were notes of dirt and grass that ignited memories of his early childhood and his wild years at the Academy. Running, laughing, wrestling, mud, rain, campfires—all the things he hoped to someday experience again.
As he fell into step with the other men who had come to Grab today, he surveyed the outpost. It was medium-sized with buildings designed to fit the surroundings. That was one of the tactics the architects on the colony planning committees used to make their insertion onto new planets less upsetting to the locals. Here, the buildings were crafted from timber except for the hangars and secure facilities. Even the fence was low-tech.
Outwardly, at least. There were layers of invisible protection around the outpost. Not that it was likely to be needed. This part of the planet was far away from any major population centers, and the culture was more agrarian and simpler. The people here worked hard, from dawn to dusk, roughing up their hands and breaking their backs to farm and raise animals. It was something Swift respected about them, dedication to work and to their communities.
After they were greeted by the outpost commander, they were led to the staging area where the Grab would begin. There were multiple white tents for processing the newly collared brides. Over the last year, Risk and other medical officers had implemented a more streamlined intake procedure. They were more worried about infection control than Splinter plants these days. Two Grabs prior, there had been a woman brought onto a ship in the fleet that had a cough that none of the soldiers or airmen were vaccinated against. It had caused a minor shitstorm, and since then, the women were tested before running and after being collared.
The women.
Swift jockeyed for a position at the front of the group so he could get a good look at the women in the holding pen. Most of them had been chosen by the lotteries held within their villages. Curious as to whether there were any volunteers, he relinquished his position at the front and weaved through the crowd to the officer in charge of the Grab.
“Flint?” Swift approached the outpost commander. “Do you have a minute?”
“Only one,” Flint replied with a frown. “What do you need?”
“Are any of the women today volunteers?”
“Four actually.” Flint checked his tablet. “9, 12, 17 and 21.” He glanced up from his tablet. “21 showed up this morning outside the gates on a horse. Looked like she was running from something.”
“Something?”
“Someone,” Flint corrected. “She has a fat lip.” Flint looked at his tablet again. “If you want a volunteer, I’d suggest 9 or 17. They seem more like your type.”
“My type?” Swift wondered what his type was according to Flint.
“Blue eyes, blonde, slim,” Flint clarified. “Least, that’s the type I’ve seen you with most of the time.”
“Because that’s the most popular genetic profile for poppies,” Swift reminded him.
Flint shrugged. “I’m not a matchmaker. I’m only making a suggestion.”
“Noted.” A junior officer approached Flint, and Swift took his leave. He returned to the holding pen and took a better look at the offerings. All of the women were in the drab gray uniforms handed out at check-in. At one time, the women ran in whatever they were wearing when they showed up, but after Venom and other men lodged complaints about the women being too cold or wet, uniforms had been provided.
Almost all of them wore skirts, and it was odd to think they planned to run in them. On the ship ride to the surface, he had read through the cultural differences briefly. The culture in this part of the planet was extremely modest. Women stayed home and raised children. Men worked outside the home. Large families were common, and a shocking percentage of their women died before fifty, usually from childbirth gone wrong. Education was lacking, and the file warned that there were higher than average chances that a bride would be illiterate.
His gaze ran along the right sleeves of the gathered women. He was looking for the numbers Flint had given him. His gaze lingered on 9 before skipping around to find the next one on the list. He scanned the crowd and noticed a woman braiding the hair of another. It was the sort of nurturing behavior that he wanted in a mate.
She was taller than all of the other women. By his people’s standards, of course, she was still rather short. Women on Prime from the pure bloodlines were six feet on average, some nearly tall enough to look their men in the eyes. Here, on Calyx, the women were very petite from a mix of genetics and malnutrition.
Not this one. She had glossy dark hair arranged in a simple braid that reached down to her lower back. She looked strong, sturdy. The short sleeves of the shirt gave him a good view of her arms. She obviously worked hard, probably on a farm. His approving gaze followed the curve of her wide hips and full bottom. He couldn’t help but imagine what was under her skirt. He sure as hell wanted to find out.
When she turned toward him, Swift inhaled sharply. She was beautiful with dark eyes to match her hair. She struck him as earthen and natural. She immediately helped another woman who wanted her hair braided. She seemed at ease helping others. He suspected she was an older sister used to caring for younger siblings.
Would she be a good mother? He cared about that more than anything. He wanted his children to be raised by someone with the same heart as his own mother. He wanted his sons and daughters to know the unconditional but fierce love of a mother.
It was hard to tell with only a minute or two of observation, but he had a good feeling about this one. She finally turned enough for him to see the number on her shirt. 21. The volunteer who rode in on a horse. The one who was running from someone.
Maybe he could persuade her to run toward something, toward the chance to build a new life with him.
He kept a close eye on her as the minutes counted down to the beginning of the race. She managed to braid the hair of two more women before consoling another who seemed absolutely distraught. There was an unspoken rule among the men that any potential bride who cried like that would be left alone and allowed to reach the safe zone at the other end of the course. From there, she could choose whatever path she wanted. She could return home to her family or take one of the transport ships to the colonies that were arranged by the Red Feather.