Revenge and the Wild by Michelle Modesto

throb beneath her machine, and her skin prickled as though it were trying to shrivel away from her.
    The mayor sighed. “If we’re done with this, I’d like to introduce my guests.”
    A pig. That’s what the mayor reminded her of, with his sun-tender skin and the curly wisps of hair on his head. So why hadn’t the cannibals turned him into bacon already? Unless he’s one of them , she thought.
    “Nigel, my good man, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Lavina Fairfield,” the mayor said.
    Lavina Fairfield. Was that her real name? They had never mentioned their names in the cabin. Westie needed something definitive. Something that made her certain, that she could put in Nigel’s face and say I told you so .
    “This here is Hubbard, the head of the Fairfield clan and a fine cook, I might add.” Westie put a fist in front of her mouth, silently belched acidic fumes, and hoped she wouldn’t vomit. “This strapping young lad is their son, Cain.” Cain’s rat eyes studied Westie’s mechanical arm, his mouth puckered in disgust. “Of course you already met their nephew, James Lovett Junior.”
    And then there was James. Westie was unsure where he played into the whole picture. He hadn’t been with the family at the cabin. His presence stirred more doubt within her, a feeling she wasn’t too fond of.
    “And here is the youngest of the clan,” the mayor said.
    The little girl lifted her face. She wore a pink ruffled dress, with her flaxen ringlets sticking out of her bonnet. When she smiled, Westie felt unease wrap around her like a smothering embrace.
    “This little spitfire is Miss Olivia, but folks call her Olive.”
    All the names swirled around in Westie’s head like too much whiskey. She would never remember them all. She could hardly remember seconds after they were announced.
    Olive looked at her mother, who was staring curiously at Westie. The little girl frowned and strangled her doll. It was handmade, similar to the dolls Westie’s mother used to make her, and had a pink dress with a crisscross pattern all over it. The girl twisted its head until it popped off.
    “Oh no, Olive, look what you’ve done,” her mother scolded. “How many times must I sew this head back on?”
    “Don’t worry about that ragged old thing. We’ll get you a proper doll. I hear the general store here has a collection of lovely dolls made of porcelain with eyes that blink,” the mayor said.
    Olive threw the toy to the ground. “I don’t want a proper doll. I want you to fix this one!”
    The girl’s voice grated at Westie’s ears. It was all too much to handle. She needed to escape. She turned to Alistair, who had already recovered.
    “Fetch my horse, Alley. I’m not feeling so good.”
    Only when Alistair returned with her gelding and his mare did her stomach settle. Just as she was about to mount her horse, she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. When she turned, she came face-to-face with Lavina Fairfield.
    Westie took a deep breath and tried to keep the fear raging inside her from showing on her face.
    White powder settled into the crow’s-feet around Lavina’s eyes and the frown lines of her mouth. The powder was meant to make her look young and fresh but had the opposite effect. The scent of rose water coming off her skin reminded Westie of old people.
    “I hope this isn’t terribly intrusive, but may I ask how you lost your arm?” Lavina said.
    Westie hadn’t expected such a blunt question. It was rude of Lavina to ask. It would’ve been even ruder for Westie not to answer. Everyone around them watched, waiting for the answer.
    “It was a steamboat accident,” Nigel answered for her. Thetendon in Westie’s jaw relaxed. Nigel stood behind Bena, holding her shoulders. Whether it was for comfort or to hold her back, Westie wasn’t sure. “A sad story, really. You see, during my travels back East years ago, I was on a barge heading down the Mississippi when my crew and I came upon a sinking vessel. Westie