“Put him on my cot,” I say once we’re through the entryway. The tent feels too small with all four of us inside, all the unspoken accusations taking up as much room as our bodies.
“I’ll go get some water,” Ash says, ducking out again before I can even say a word.
Caleb sinks down on Ash’s cot. His eyes, one glowing gold, the other virtually swollen shut, never leave me as I sit next to Bishop, brush his bloody hair off his forehead. “Is he going to wake up?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” Caleb says. “Although he may be sorry when he does.” He sighs. “He’s going to be hurting. He may have some broken ribs. And he took a pretty good knock to the head.”
I tear my eyes away from Bishop. “You didn’t have to do this to him.”
Caleb’s sitting slumped over, like he’s so exhausted he can’t even manage to remain upright. But at my words he straightens, points at me. “Don’t,” he says, voice harsh. “He wouldn’t listen to us. Wouldn’t do what we said. Just kept going after Mark, asking for you. Screaming your name.”
“He knows Mark, knows what he—”
“I asked you to tell me the truth, Ivy. I practically begged you.” He looks from me to Bishop. “I only had Mark’s word to go on out there, in the dark, with a strange man coming at us. I did what I had to do.” He pauses. “I could have killed him. I probably should have. But I wanted to hear what you had to say first.”
I want to be angry at Caleb, but I can’t blame him, not really. The one I’m really upset with is myself. I wonder when I’m going to stop making decisions that end up hurting Bishop.
“You ready to tell me the whole truth now?” Caleb asks. It’s a question, but I know there can only be one right answer this time.
“Yes,” I say. And so I do. In the dim glow of the lantern, I tell him every sordid, sad detail. I don’t spare my father or Callie or myself. My throat aches with the need to cry, but not a single tear falls. When I finish, I listen to Bishop’s breathing, hold his warm hand in my own, until I can look up without falling apart.
“Jesus, Ivy,” Caleb says when all my words are used up. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t know how,” I whisper. “At first, I wasn’t sure how close you were to Mark. And then, later, I was scared you’d make me leave if you knew the truth about my relationship with Bishop. I didn’t want to be alone again.”
Caleb’s eyes hold a kind of pity that I don’t want to accept. But there’s warmth there, too, so I’ll have to find a way to live with it. Maybe from Caleb I can’t have one without the other. “Everyone from Westfall who ends up here has been given a second chance,” Caleb says. “Why did you think we wouldn’t give you one?”
I don’t know how to make him understand. My whole life, I trusted my family without question. And in the end, they betrayed me. “I didn’t know whether I could trust you,” I say finally.
“Do you think we can trust him?” Caleb asks, eyes shifting to Bishop.
“Yes.” I don’t even have to think about it. “He’s not like me. He doesn’t lie.”
Before Caleb can respond, Ash comes back in to the tent carrying a small bucket of water and some rags. “I got some medicine from Carol,” she says. “For the pain.”
“Thanks,” I tell her.
Ash nods at me, but won’t quite meet my eyes. The medicine is a powder made from herbs, and Ash says if we can get Bishop to wash it down with some water, it should work. Caleb holds Bishop’s head up, slapping his uninjured cheek lightly. After a few seconds, Bishop moans low in his throat, one arm jerking upward to bat Caleb away. He doesn’t open his eyes, but just seeing him move is enough to send relief rocketing through me.
I manage to get his jaw open enough for Ash to spoon in the medicine, and I pour some water into his mouth, making him cough and gag.
“Do you think he actually swallowed any?” I ask.
“Hard to know,” Caleb says. “But it’s the best we can do right now.”
I take one of the rags Ash brought and dip it into the water. As gently as I can, I begin washing the dried blood off Bishop’s face. The tent is very quiet while I work; I can feel Caleb’s and Ash’s eyes on me, watching the way my fingers trace every line of Bishop’s face as I clean. But it doesn’t matter who is a witness. I can’t make myself stop touching him, reassuring myself that he’s here and he’s alive.
“We’ll have to talk more in the morning,” Caleb says finally. “Once he’s awake.”
“Okay,” I say, my gaze not leaving Bishop. “And I have to tell you some things about Mark. But not tonight.” I don’t have the energy to say anything more, don’t want to take my focus off Bishop.
“I’m not going to like it, am I?” Caleb asks wearily.
“No.” I wring out the rag, Bishop’s blood flowing over my fingers. I look at Caleb. “You’re not going to like it. It’s ugly.”
Caleb’s face tightens. “Did he hurt you?”
I think of my shoulder, still sore sometimes but mostly healed. The weight of Mark’s body pressing me into the dirt. The dead girl by the fence. And the little girl in Westfall. “Not as badly as he hurt other people.”