Caleb only nods, his eyes hard. He puts a hand on Ash’s shoulder. “Come on. You can sleep in my tent tonight.”
“She doesn’t have to leave.” I smile at Ash, or at least give it my best attempt. She doesn’t smile back.
“It’s fine,” she says. “I’ll go with Caleb.”
Once they’re gone, I finish washing the blood off Bishop’s face and neck. I can’t get his hair clean, but I run the damp rag through it anyway, push it back from his forehead. His face is pale, but the rest of him is more golden than the last time I saw him, his lips slightly chapped, his fingers rough with calluses he didn’t have before. He’s been out here for a while. But he still looks strong, even with a battered face.
I know we’d both probably be more comfortable if I slept in Ash’s cot, but I can’t bear to leave him. I kick off my shoes and take off Bishop’s, too, and blow out the lantern. Then I climb over him as carefully as I can and stretch out in the small space between his body and the tent wall.
It takes my eyes a few moments to adjust, moonlight spilling in through the thin material of the tent and illuminating Bishop’s face. I can’t believe he’s here. I can’t make sense of it. Was he put out? Did he follow me? I entwine my hand with his and push my face into the hollow of his neck and shoulder. He smells of blood and sweat and, as always, a faint hint of sunshine. If not for that, I might think I was dreaming. I wonder what it means that I’m glad he’s not awake, that I can have him next to me without having to actually face him. I match my breathing to his and let the rhythm lull me into sleep.
I wake with my head on Bishop’s shoulder, my hand flat on his chest, right over his thrumming heart. It takes me a second to realize he’s awake as well, his fingers twining through the ends of my hair. My heart stops and then races. I don’t move, but my breathing must give me away.
“Ivy.” The soft rush of air from his mouth slides across my temple. “I know you’re awake.” His voice is hoarse, deeper than I remember.
After I was put out, in the few stolen
moments I allowed myself to imagine seeing him again, I pictured racing toward him, grabbing him and never letting go. But now that the moment is here, I am frozen. It seems impossible for us to go back to what we were, not with everything that’s come before. I gather my courage in both hands and lift myself up on my elbow so I can see his face. I want to say something, words that will explain my deceit or express my sorrow or beg his forgiveness, but one look in his steady green eyes, eyes I told myself I’d never see again, and everything inside me clenches, clamps down so that nothing can escape.
He just stares at me, his gaze taking in every inch of my face, skimming over cheeks and lips and finally settling on my eyes. I drink him in the same way, wince at the raw cut on his cheek, the bruise blooming on his jaw. My hand hovers and falls away. I don’t know how to touch him anymore, not when he’s watching me.
“How are you feeling?” I ask. It is the most unimportant thing I could possibly ask him and the only thing I can think of to say.
“I’ve been better,” he says. “But I’ll live.”
“They brought you here, after…” My voice trails off.
“Friends of yours?” Bishop asks.
I nod.
“The one with the crossbow really knows how to pack a punch.” Bishop pushes his fingers lightly against his jaw. “Guess I should count myself lucky he didn’t just go ahead and skewer me.”
The conversation is so mundane, so ridiculous given the circumstances, that it makes me want to weep or scream or laugh hysterically, every possible emotion rising rapidly to the surface. “What…” I duck my head, have to look away for a moment to gather myself. “What are you doing out here?”
His fingers tighten in my hair, not pulling, just urging me to look at him again. I do. We study each other in the stillness. In some ways he seems more a stranger to me than he did when we were first married. He has to be angry, bitter, but I can’t see it in his face. Only that familiar, calm acceptance in his eyes.
“You didn’t believe me,” I whisper finally.
“I didn’t believe you,” he confirms with the slightest lift of his lips. “Or at least, I didn’t believe you for long.”
Of course he didn’t. I don’t know why I’m surprised. He always could read me like a book.
“It was my father’s idea,” I tell him. I want to hide my face again, don’t want to say these words with his eyes on me, but force myself not to be a coward. And part of being brave is admitting my own culpability. It would be so easy to let Callie and my father take all the blame. But I was a willing participant, for far longer than I should have been. “But I went along with it. The whole time we were married, even before that. It was always the plan.” I notice my hand has curled into a fist in his shirt, and I make my fingers relax. “But I couldn’t do it. Not to you.”
“I know,” he says, and I marvel all over again at the faith he’s always had in me. The sheer belief that somehow hurts worse than doubt. His hand leaves my hair and settles against my neck, his thumb fanning across my cheek. I lean into his touch without thinking about it, heat exploding low in my belly. “Your hair is lighter,” he says softly. His hand moves, his thumb skating over my bottom lip. “You have more freckles.”
The air between us is suddenly so thick I cannot breathe, my chest aching with pressure. “It’s the sun,” I say on a strangled exhale.
He nods. Pulls me forward with gentle pressure until my forehead rests against his. I close my eyes against the burning sting of tears. His breath feathers across my cheek, heating the skin like a flame.
“Did they put you out?” I whisper against his mouth. I can’t imagine why they would, but I don’t know why else he’d be here.
“No. I came to find you.”
I shake my head a little, negating his words. It makes no sense to me that he would take this risk, when my own father and sister, my blood, would not. “How did you even know where to look?”
“I’m the president’s son, remember? I’d heard rumors about a group near the river, southeast of Westfall. I figured it was as good a place to start as any.”