“Am Isentimentalover it?” he asks, repeating my words again, since he still seems to be at a loss for his own. “Don’t you think it’s a little late to be asking if I’msentimentalover something you took?”
“You really don’t like to answer direct questions, do you?” I push, needing more to go on.
“Probably about as much as you like to provide direct answers.”
“Oh, trust me, I would prefer nothing more than to be directwith you.” I’m standing in front of him now, little more than a foot of space between us. “Does that watch mean something to you? Is that why you still had it even though it’s broken?”
“Notice that, did you?” he asks, not bothering to put space between us once more. “Before or after you tried to sell it?”
“I didn’t try to sell it,” I correct, wanting us to understand each other on this front at least. “It was never my intention to profit off you.”
“Sure,” he says, disbelief evident and, frankly, unsurprising given the people he’s riding with. Which is why I remind myself to be patient before opening my mouth to argue. I’ve waited this long. I can wait longer.
“Did someone give it to you?” I ask, a slight pain in my chest when I also suggest, “Perhaps a loved one?”
At the question, there’s a sadness in his eyes that even the dark can’t hide, but he covers it quickly. “Would it matter?”
“Yes,” I say, suddenly desperate to know despitejusttelling myself to be patient. “If it holds special significance…if it’s special to you—”
“I got it from a trader in Sante Fe two years ago,” he interrupts, starting to turn away. “Wasn’t worth what I paid for it then and it certainly isn’t worth all this, so I tell you what, why don’t you just keep it?”
“If it wasn’t worth it,” I ask, barely containing the urge to follow him as he gets closer to the street, “why buy it in the first place?”
“Because I wanted a watch like that.”
“Why did you—”
“To track the fuckin’ time,” he snaps, pivoting to face me at the mouth of the alley. “I wanted a watch, and that’s what I could afford.” He lifts his hat, tugging at the strands, the same tell he had back in the saloon. In the stable. “Not all of us just take what we want. Thatdirectenough for you?”
Before I am able to answer, he’s already gone.
I don’t sleep again, still too busy mulling over everything that happened in the alley. Debating with myselfpreciselywhere I lost control of the conversation as well as the situation as a whole. It’s better than the things that usually keep me awake, but even so…
There’s something about Cypress that makes me feel off-kilter, and it’s not simply his irritating tendency to share every stray thought that crosses through his head. It’s also that he never responds in the way I think he will. It’s that I’ve threatened him twice (with varying degrees of success) and in both standoffs, he’s made no attempt to retaliate or to defend himself. Even with the watch…
But would I have robbed you if youhadn’tcalled me a thief? There is a question that will keep you up at night.
I reallyhatethat he gets to be right, because it fuckin’ did. That questionhadkept me up last night, but not nearly as much as another one had.
Why was he so afraid of the knife?
My pistol he’d walked right up to, practically lined himself up in its sights for me, which is why I’d thought to try a different approach. But the knife—thathadscared him. Enough to make him not just nervous but afraid. Really, truly afraid.
In those few moments when I first held my knife to his throat, I’d seen it in him. Sure, I’d felt it in his heartbeat thundering beneath my palm, in the crescent-moon cuts he left in my skin, but more than anything, I’d seen it in his eyes. I’d seen a man who not only knew of death but also knew precisely what he looked like when he came to collect.
I’d seen the weakness, and just like I’d been taught to do, just like I had taughtmyselfto do, I’d exploited it. Or at least, I’d tried to. But the more I attempted to throw him, the more he’d dug into me.
Then he’d fuckingflirtedwith me, and I’d jumped back as if he’d scalded me with a red-hot branding iron.
God, why does he keep doing that? Can’t be normal, can he? Surely it’s a sign of some severe imbalance to make advances at the person trying to kill you, regardless of if that person actually means them and regardless of how effective—
Not that his advancesareeffective. Entirely ineffective, I’d say. Goes without saying that Cypress is not the type of individual I would ever take an interest in. He’s…well, he’s a fucking thief, and that’s more than enough reason.
It’s been a while for me is all. That’s what this is. It’s been a while since I’ve had someone, and undeniably, heisattractive. Charismatic. Sharp-witted. Could even say funny…in a way that isreallyfuckin’ irritating.
Anyone would react the same way. My reactionisnormal, even if his isn’t. I am fine. Even if he isn’t. I am not the problem here, and there is—
There is a handkerchief that isn’t mine on my bedroll. To bespecific, there is a black,silkhandkerchief tied up like wrapping for a goddamn Christmas present on mygoddamnbedroll.