Chapter Three The First False Trail #2
His gaze moved to her.
“That one is complicated.”
“Very.”
The mark pulsed.
She reached for his hand under the table.
Not hidden enough to fool Hessa if she had been there, but Hessa was outside shouting at someone about saddle buckles, so it counted.
Torren’s fingers closed around hers.
“I do not want to become a man you have to fight for every step outside the door,” he said.
The confession was low.
Rough.
Willa’s anger softened at the edges without disappearing.
“Then don’t.”
His mouth almost moved.
“Simple.”
“No. But exact.”
His thumb brushed her knuckles.
“You could have lied.”
“About why I wanted to go?”
“Yes.”
“Would you have known?”
He considered.
“Not exactly.”
“Good.”
His brows drew together.
She squeezed his hand.
“I do not want the mark to become a truth trap either.”
The bond went still.
Torren’s hand tightened.
“No.”
“We have to be able to have privacy inside ourselves.”
He looked at their joined hands.
“Yes.”
The word cost him.
She felt why.
His whole life had been shaped by not knowing which parts of himself might become dangerous if left unguarded. The mark made closeness beautiful, but also gave him another place to fear intrusion, harm, failing to protect, failing to stop.
Willa lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles.
“We will learn badly.”
His mouth curved.
“Riksa will approve.”
“Riksa approves of very strange things.”
“She approved of the mark.”
Willa’s face warmed.
“After asking about my digestion.”
Torren’s eyes darkened with amusement.
“I left.”
“You fled.”
“Strategically.”
“Coward.”
“Only there.”
The mark warmed.
For one moment the mud, scout, Redjaw coins, and spring roads retreated.
Torren stepped closer.
Willa looked up.
“Are you threatening my productivity?”
“Yes.”
“Hessa will return.”
“Not yet.”
His mouth brushed hers.
Once.
A brief kiss.
Not enough to become fire.
Enough to remind both of them where fire lived.
When he pulled back, Willa had one hand fisted in his shirt.
His eyes dropped to it.
“You caught me.”
“You threatened productivity.”
“I did.”
“Consequences.”
His mouth came very close to smiling.
Then the east yard horn sounded.
Not the gate.
Not arrival.
Signal from the scouts leaving.
Reality, rude as ever.
Torren stepped back.
“Later.”
The mark pulsed.
Promise.
Willa released his shirt.
“Later.”
Hessa and Noll left within the hour.
Willa watched from the yard as they rode out with Brann and Orek at enough distance to look casual only to fools.
Hessa wore a brown cloak with the hood down despite the damp.
Noll’s horse looked as solemn as its rider.
Perrit departed separately for Northroad, carrying Pike Hollow’s message to Miri Saff and visibly regretting literacy.
Jory stood on a barrel near the fence, counting nails loudly.
“Forty-seven. Forty-eight. This feels punitive.”
“It is,” Riksa called from the doorway.
“Forty-nine.”
Willa pulled her cloak tighter as Hessa disappeared into the thawing trees.
The mark stretched faintly toward Torren at her side, comfortable because he stood close. Not comfortable because danger had gone. It had not.
It had simply learned to wear mud.
“What if the boot is real?” Willa asked.
Torren looked toward the road.
“Then Arlen came close.”
“What if someone from Pike Hollow did meet him?”
“Then we find out who and why.”
“You do not think so.”
“I think many things are possible and few are useful before proof.”
She glanced at him.
“That is almost Riksa-level practical.”
“Do not insult me in my own yard.”
Willa smiled faintly.
Then the smile faded.
“Hessa’s memory of the coin.”
Torren went still beside her.
The mark chilled at the edges.
Not shutting her out.
Pain again.
Old and hard.
“Yes,” he said.
“Do you believe her?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think your father—”
“I do not know.”
The answer came sharp.
Willa nodded once.
“Then we do not decide before evidence.”
His eyes closed briefly.
She felt the echo of her own lesson returning to her.
Exact.
When he opened his eyes, he looked toward the lower pass.
“If my father had Redjaw coin because he took it from a dead attacker, that is one thing.”
“Yes.”
“If he had it because he paid someone, owed someone, or was paid—”
His voice stopped.
Willa let silence hold the rest.
It was too large to force into words before it was ready.
“Then we find out,” she said.
Torren’s jaw flexed.
“And if I dislike what we find?”
“You will.”
His gaze cut to hers.
“That is not comfort.”
“No. But it is likely.”
After a moment, his mouth moved.
Not smile.
Nearly.
“Cruel marked woman.”
“Exact marked woman.”
“Also cruel.”
She slipped her hand into his.
They stood until the road swallowed Hessa’s party.
By late afternoon, the mud had begun to freeze again in the shaded parts of the yard. Willa spent the hours copying notes, avoiding Riksa’s attempts to make her nap, helping Selka sort witness statements, and listening through the mark for any change in Torren’s attention.
It came near dusk.
Torren was at the east fence when the bond tightened.
Not fear.
Alarm.
Willa rose from the table.
Selka looked up.
“What?”
“Something.”
A horn sounded from the lower trail.
One long.
Return.
Then one short.
Wounded.
Willa was moving before anyone spoke.
Riksa appeared with her bag.
“Do not run.”
Willa slowed because falling in mud before reaching the wounded would be both useless and embarrassing.
The lower gate opened.
Noll rode in first, face grim.
Brann followed.
Orek behind.
Hessa sat behind Noll on his horse.
Blood on her temple.
Willa’s heart slammed.
Torren reached the gate in three strides.
“Whose?”
Hessa lifted one hand irritably.
“Mine, but not enough for drama.”
Riksa shoved through.
“I decide drama.”
Hessa tried to dismount.
Noll simply lifted her down.
She glared at him.
“Do not make that a habit.”
“Bleed less.”
Willa nearly laughed from sheer relief.
Nearly.
Then she saw what Brann carried.
A boot wrapped in waxed cloth.
Black mud caked thick around the sole.
Hessa’s eyes found Willa.
“Dead mud,” she said.
The yard went quiet.
Hessa touched the blood at her temple and looked toward Torren.
“And an arrow from the reeds when we found it.”
Torren’s eyes went black.
Willa felt his fury surge, but under it, colder:
The trap had expected them.
Hessa smiled without humor.
“First false trail.”
Noll’s face hardened.
“Not first.”
He looked at the boot.
“Just the first we caught.”
Willa stared at the wrapped mud, at Hessa’s blood, at the thawing yard, at Torren’s hands curling and then opening.
Spring had opened the roads.
And someone had already learned how to make Pike Hollow’s own ground speak against it.