The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(106)

“It’s part of how I resist. How I bite my thumb at it.” He reined Steady in, blocking Uvnee from walking on. “But I swear to you, Isobel Devil’s Hand. I did nothing with intent to harm the Territory, or those within.”

She studied him, her face blank, her eyes flat under the shadow of the hat’s brim, and something flickered in those dark orbs, a trick of the light.

Then she looked away, and he could tell himself it was nothing.

“Why do you think it wouldn’t let you go? Is it like that for all of us?”

“I don’t know. And no?—some come and go without issue. I’ve no idea why I’m so fortunate.”

She let the bitterness pass unremarked. “But you were here, and you were in Flood on my birthday and thought to offer me mentoring.”

He could see where she was going with that, even blindfolded in the mid-night. “I don’t believe in fate, Iz. We make our own choices.”

“Yes. And your choices led you there, on that day.” That suddenly, the blankness was gone, her face still somber but her eyes holding that familiar sharp spark of life, as though she’d finally bested him. “And that road led to this one, and this particular mess.”

He moved Steady out of her way, pressing his heels into the gelding’s side. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

Much to his dismay, he meant it. Even though she had never answered his original question.

Which of itself was answer enough.



Her heart had nearly stopped when Gabriel asked her, blunt as a bullet, if she’d killed the magicians. The words had coiled in her throat, but instead she had turned it back on him, pushing her own questions until he had no choice but to retreat.

She had known some of it before, half-told stories and confessions, a life left on the other side of the border, threads of it still tying him there. But the idea that leaving had made him so ill, that had been new. Disturbing.

She looked at the sigil in her palm, tracing the thick black lines and curves with a delicate finger. There were times she’d swear she could feel them, like a scar, but the skin was smooth under her touch now, the loops as familiar as her own breath.

And now, if she let it, she could feel that warmth in her bones, imagine the white traced with faint, glittering strands of silver.

Purest fancy. And yet.

Something moved within her. Something that did not carry the scent of the boss’s cigar or his whiskey.

Had she ever had the option to leave? If she’d left Flood behind her, followed her parents across the Mother’s Knife into Spain’s arms, or taken passage across the river into the States, or headed into the far north with the Métis, into English-held lands . . . Would she too have been driven back, sooner before later, ill and broken?

Had the choice she made been no choice at all?

And if so . . . had the devil known?



They made camp well before nightfall, choosing a spot on the bank of a wide creek, surrounded by scrub and berry bushes. They moved around each other smoothly, settling and grooming the horses, building a fire, settling their packs. The hum of insects was loud around them, and she spotted a pair of rabbits nearby, eyes wide at her before they decided she was no threat.

Somehow, the thought of trapping something held no appeal tonight. She picked a hatful of berries instead.

Among the supplies they’d taken on was a loaf of fresh bread that had been taunting them with its smell all day. Isobel cut two large slices off of it, then placed them on a flat rock she’d set just next to the fire, and left them to warm, while Gabriel cleaned the berries and added them to the meat he was simmering in the tripod pot. They’d not stopped for a mid-day meal, and Isobel’s stomach had been too upset with nerves to want any of the dried venison she carried, so even though she didn’t feel hungry, the tightness in her stomach reminded her that she would need to eat now.

They had another two days, at this pace, before they were back at the valley. Another two days before she had to face the haint—and its keepers—again.

Gabriel finished what he was doing, then sat back on his haunches and studied her until she felt the urge to check if she had a smudge on her nose or a leaf in her hair.

“So, what’s the plan?”

She almost laughed at that, except it wasn’t funny in the slightest.

“Isobel. Do you have any idea what you’re going to do once we get there?”

He sounded so much like Marie just then, for all that his voice was so much deeper, she broke into giggles. And once she started, she couldn’t stop. Hiccupping, painful giggles that formed deep in her belly, pushing up through her chest and into her throat, causing her to bend over and wrap her arms around herself, trying to make them stop.

Then warm arms were around her, drawing her against a broad chest, and the weight of something against the crown of her head, barely audible words of comfort against her ear.

“It’s all right. It’s all right, Isobel. Let it out. It’s been a horrible few days, hasn’t it? I know, it’s all right, there’s nobody here but us, you can cry, it’s all right.”

Slowly, the storm inside her wore itself out, leaving an aching emptiness behind. Her back ached, and her nose was snotty, and dinner had likely burned itself, but Isobel couldn’t bring herself to move just yet.

“I don’t know what to do.” The words were muffled against his chest, her hands fisted between them, nails digging into the flesh of her palms. “I don’t . . .”