The Cold Eye (The Devil's West #2)(24)

“Just a bit,” he told them, letting them lip at his palms, hoping for a treat. “Just a bit longer, can you do that, hmmm?”

Steady leaned against him, Uvnee looking over the gelding’s neck, and he decided the risk of them bolting was likely over, assuming nothing else crashed down at them. Returning to Isobel’s side, he checked the job she’d done, then nudged her aside, showing her how to apply the rest of the salve over the wounds, the pale blue paste drying quickly on the skin.

“It will keep flies out, too, while they scab over,” he told her, then frowned at her hands. “Is that my shirt?”

“Hush, it’s the one you tore last week and never got around to repairing. Now sit down and take off your jacket and let me see.”

Gabriel eased himself out of her grasp. “After we get—”

“Now”—and Gabriel found himself sitting on the ground and letting her check his bandages. Fortunately, nothing seemed to be bleeding again, the remaining scabs white and firm, the scarring pale red and fading.

“You’ll live,” she said, relief making her voice crack.

The mule had wandered a few steps closer to the horses, the three of them calm, although they kept a distance between themselves and the corpse, pressing against the outer ring of trees as far from the rock as they could get.

“It must have had its den there,” Gabriel said, following her gaze to the rock. “That’s what we smelled when we came into the clearing.”

Isobel had recovered the loose feather, twining it back into her braid, smoothing the strands down with nervous hands. “I led us right to it.”

“No way you could have known,” he said. “Cats are sneaky bastards, quiet and smart. You don’t know they’re hunting you until they’ve decided to attack—but mostly, they won’t, any more than a bear or Reaper. We’re not their preferred meal. This one was too ill, too hungry to be cautious.”

She wanted to believe him, he could see it in her eyes, but something held her back. He cursed the devil’s face for making her so responsible for things outside her control, but merely reached up to tug at her braid, drawing her with him as he went to inspect the corpse.

“I’ll own I’ve never seen one this big.” Gabriel bent carefully and lifted one massive paw up to examine it. “Male, doesn’t look like he lost too many fights before this one. If the quakes were scaring off smaller animals, no wonder he was desperate enough to try us. Good thing they’re solitary; would hate to think there was another around.”

“Just the thought makes me close to wetting myself,” Isobel admitted. “How are you so calm?”

Gabriel gave a choked laugh and held up his free hand, showing her the gentle tremor rocking it. “After, you’re allowed to panic. The trick is in remaining calm during an attack.”

“How do you learn to do that?”

“You don’t,” he said, letting the paw fall back to the ground. “Help me move this somewhere not here. I don’t want to move the mule tonight, if we can avoid it, and I’d rather not have a scavenger find its way in here while we’re sleeping.”

Assuming either of them slept at all that night.



Dragging the corpse out into the meadow took longer than expected, and smell lingered on their hands and clothing. Isobel had paused on their way back, plucking something from the ground and then handing him a handful of roots that, when crushed, gave off a light, greenish foam that, rubbed into his skin, made the smell fade.

“Catie used to break out in a rash from lye,” she said, wiping her own hands down. “She used to do this instead. Called it soaproot. I don’t know that this is the same plant, but it looks close enough.”

Isobel was talkative, fussy, but there was something she wasn’t telling him, her thoughts bound tight inside her head, those sharp eyes clouded in a way they hadn’t been just that morning. Gabriel was too tired to dig at it tonight, though. Isobel was a sensible girl: she would come to him in her own time, when she was ready.

They didn’t build a fire, but Isobel sketched out a circle with a charred stick and followed it with grains of salt to create a temporary boundary around their campsite, while he checked the mule’s wounds again and made sure they had enough water and grass within reach, then sorted through their supplies for a cold dinner.

“Cheese,” he said with triumph, then peeled back the cheesecloth. “Soft rind; it won’t keep long. Here, cut this into thin slices, fold it with the venison. Better if you can melt it, but still good cold.”

She looked dubiously at the combination, but her expression after the first bite was nearly blissful, and they worked their way through the meal without speaking, then settled their kits for the night, the horses and mule darker shadows against the trees.

“I’ll take first watch,” he said as she came back from performing her private acts on the far side of the horses—neither of them comfortable going farther than that, despite being reasonably certain there was no more threat nearby. “Get some sleep, Isobel.”

She removed her boots and wrapped herself in her blanket, laying her head on her pack. But he could tell that her eyes were still open.

“Gabriel?”

“Mmm?”

“If another quake hits, will the trees fall on us?”