The ever-present rifle was braced barrel-up to Wil’s left, knife at work against a whetstone between his up-thrust knees. His feet were bare and he’d shed his coat. By the way his dark hair glistened in the lamplight, he must’ve had a bath. Dallin squinted a little, noted the clean clothes and confirmed his theory. Good. At least someone had been taking care of him. He closed his eyes again. Mother—strange how the entreaty came to him so naturally— I’m sorry. I don’t think You’ve chosen very well. He would’ve snorted and rolled his eyes at himself, but it all seemed like too much work. More than half a lifetime spent assuming it all faerie tales and legends to make old men feel better about death, and now…? Well, now he was neck-deep in things he would have thought devotional dementia only several weeks ago. Had committed his word to protecting a man who seemed better able to take care of himself. What was Dallin doing here? What was he playing at?
