“Oh, I most certainly have a vision,” I reply, glancing down at my arm. “Though perhaps I’ll have to get my own gunslinger by my side to execute it.”
Maddock laughs, letting go of me as I get to my feet and reclining with a smile. “Let me know if you find a better one than what I have. Or at least one more agreeable.” He tips his head back against the chair, closing his eyes. “Although, you know, he doesn’t reallyhaveto be on your side. Not if you play things right.”
I pause, studying him closely. “Oh? Do tell.”
He shrugs. “All you really need is the name. Hardly matters if they’re standing next to you or…across from you.”
“Across from you? As in…you do plan to fight him?” I ask, needing to make sure I have it right. “I thought you said thatpeople looked to him as a hero? A king? What would that make you then?”
“Something new. After all, what better way for a new king to rise than by exposing a false one?” He surveys me, and I know I need to say something, do something. To react insomeway, but there’s a rare thread of panic wrapping around me, holding me in place.
“As I told you, Cypress,” Maddock says, hopefully mistaking my speechlessness as consideration. “The courage to remove obstacles. Also,” he continues, with a half-laugh, “wouldn’t mind not having to look at his self-righteous face anymore, you know what I mean?” He shakes his head, pleased with his own humor. “Well, I suppose I’ve kept you long enough. Thank you again for your help last night and for your conversation this morning. It’s not often I find someone who truly understands.”
“Oh, I understand,” I reassure him. “Have no doubt about that.” I grab my coat from the back of my chair. “Until tonight then.”
“Until tonight,” he says when I’m already halfway to the door. “I can hardly wait.”
And neither can I, it would seem.I’m running out of time.
I don’t think I dreamed last night.
I mean, I must have, but…I didn’t havethedream. And it’s almost disorienting waking up not because of the things waiting in the dark but instead because of the sunlight streaming in.
What is waiting, however, is the mustang. Who must decide he’s been patient long enough as soon as he sees me stirring, and who decides to help by tugging at the blanket over me and blowing a big puff of warm air into my face when that doesn’t seem to get me up off the hay bales faster.
“All right,” I tell him, lightly shoving his soft nose. “Give me a minute.”
He grunts in reply, although the shrill whinny piercing the air a moment later from the next stall over is a good indication that apparently, everyone is getting a late start today, and that some of us wake more happy than others.Christ…others.
I sit up, getting to my feet so fast I nearly get tangled up in the blanket that I belatedly realize isn’t mine. Anall-blackblanket.For fuck’s sake.
“Hey,” I hiss in the direction of the other stall while both horses look at me like I’ve lost my mind. Honestly, it’s really starting to feel like I have. “You over there?”
No response.
I sigh, take a glance around as I listen for the sounds of someone else in the stable, then try again. “Cypress, you over there?”
There’s still no response, and a quick check over the wall does indeed reveal that he has already left to…to do whatever it is that he does during the day.
I let out a relieved breath, glad to have a moment to get my bearings and to brush off the large amount of hay that has fixed itself to my person over the course of the night. I must have looked a mess when he left earlier, although I’m not surewhyI give a damn about what I would have looked like when he saw me.
However, this is also the moment I see the note fastened to the stall wall not two feet from where I’m standing. Right beside the mustang’s feed bucket so I couldn’t help but see it, but also right where no one who was simply passing by would spy it.
I grab the folded-up piece of fancy stationary that has my name on the outside. Almost surprised the paper isn’t black too, but then I suppose that would make the ink hard to see. At least he hassomedegree of practicality even if, when I open the note, Iamsurprised to find the writing so brief given its author.
“Simon?” I mutter, turning the paper over and then flipping it back when no additional context is revealed. “Who the fuck is Simon?”
“I’m Simon,” replies a small voice, the stablehand suddenlyappearing in the aisle as if summoned. “Was comin’ to make sure you weren’t dead. Kinda disappointed you aren’t. Never seen a dead body before.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “Appreciate the concern.”
“Your friend—er, your man—”
“Not my man.”
“Right, but you know who I mean?”
“The one that pays better than me?”