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“I knew you were lying,” he says after a long moment. “I think I knew the whole time. Even at the end. But I was so hurt, so angry. I let myself believe you were really going to kill me, because in some ways that was easier than believing you still didn’t trust me.”
“It wasn’t about not trusting you,” I say. Unshed tears burn in my throat. “I was trying to protect you.” I pause and Bishop just waits, his eyes searching my face. I’d forgotten what it was like to have all that focus solely on me, to be the recipient of such undivided attention. My chest aches from the fierce pounding of my heart. “I don’t…I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” I say.
“We have to, Ivy,”
I shake my head. “Not now. Not yet.”
“All right,” Bishop says. “But soon.” Even with a hint of frustration weaving through his voice, his patient acceptance stabs at me. That he should be so forgiving after everything when my own family was not, condemning me as easily as they would a stranger.
“They let me be thrown out,” I say, my voice thin. Somehow my mouth is making decisions my brain has not approved. “Like I was garbage.”
I can see the moment he catches up, my words slotting into place. Sadness passes across his face, bleeds into his eyes. Not pity, though, just an understanding. Like what happened to me, happened to him. And maybe that’s love, too—feeling the other person’s hurts like your own.
“Yes,” he says simply. I’m glad he doesn’t try to make excuses for them or convince me it’s not as bad as it seems. I would think less of him if he did. “But that says everything about them, Ivy. And nothing about you.”
I know he’s right, but knowing the truth of something, deep down, doesn’t lessen its impact. Doesn’t stop that little voice telling me that maybe if I’d been a different kind of girl, maybe if I’d been able to change, they would have loved me enough to fight for me.
“Did they ever, after I was gone…” I look away, clear my throat. “Did they ever talk about me?” I keep my gaze on the empty camp, the spots where tents used to stand, and the grass is trampled flat and dry. I tell myself my eyes sting because of the wind.
“I didn’t see your dad much,” Bishop says. “Callie came around a lot. At first.” He pauses. “She talked about you.”
“None of it good, I’m guessing.”
“No, not much of it. She tried to talk about you with me. But I didn’t want to hear what she had to say. I knew none of it was true.”
“Some of it probably was,” I say, thinking of the day I married him, how I spoke my vows knowing I planned to kill him. How I smiled at him with murder in my heart. “She was trying to get close to you.”
“Yes,” he says again.
I swing my eyes back to him, my stomach hollow. “Did it work?” I remember Callie’s hand on his arm, her pretty face tipped up to his. I know firsthand the power of Callie’s persuasion, the tricks she uses to get what she wants, so slick and sneaky you don’t realize what you’ve given up until she’s already holding it in her hand.
He gives me a small smile, his eyebrows cocked. “What do you think?”
Selfish relief flows through me. “I think you hated each other.” I know for a fact Callie hated him, probably was thrilled I was out of the picture so she could finally have her chance to ruin him. And I think he probably figured her out fast. Bishop’s so good at seeing what’s behind the surface. And once you really know Callie, there isn’t much to love.
He takes a step closer to me. “She was a pretty good actress. But I’m better at reading people than she is at faking it. And I didn’t have any interest in playing her game. All I cared about was finding you.”
The breeze lifts his dark hair off his forehead. He moves even closer, reaches out, and runs his knuckles across my cheek. Before I have to decide what to do, step closer or move away, he drops his hand, bends and begins gathering up the tent. We work together to fold it. Bishop stacks the wooden tent poles while I pack the last of my clothes. Once we’re done, we sit in the cool sunlight and wait for what comes next.
Chapter Eleven
I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to live within four walls. To not fall asleep to cicada song and the wind in the trees. To not wake with the chatter of birds and the sun already burning through the thin material of a tent. The town Caleb and Ash and the rest of the camp move to in winter is situated almost on the banks of the river. A small collection of houses strung out like weather-beaten rocks, their clapboard exteriors all faded to a uniform, dreary gray. The stores that once ringed the tiny town square are in even worse shape; only what was once probably a restaurant is used at all. It still has a counter with a few intact stools, and Caleb says people gather there sometimes when spending another snowbound day in their own houses is too much to bear.
The house that Caleb and Ash share is on the outer edge of town, which doesn’t surprise me. Same as with the tents, Caleb likes the ability to move fast, to be the first one to sense a threat or sound the alarm. None of the houses in the town can be considered in good shape, but they are all more sound and welcoming than the ones in Birch Tree.
It takes us a good two days of cleaning to get the house free of dust, aired out and ready for living. Some of the upstairs windows are still intact, but downstairs Caleb has fashioned shutters over the empty holes. There’s not a lot of natural light, but the shutters will keep us safe and protect us from wind and snow come winter. The kitchen is used mainly for storage, but the fireplace in the living room is large, and Ash tells me that’s where they cook most of their meals. In the winter, meals aren’t communal, although everyone is willing to share food if necessity demands it. Caleb’s bedroom is off the living room, and there are two additional bedrooms upstairs. One for Ash and one that Bishop and I share. Ash never offered to let me sleep in her room, and I never suggested it. It never occurred to me to sleep anywhere other than next to Bishop, which considering the state of our relationship is probably strange. The bed Bishop and I share is bigger than the cot, but we sleep curled even closer to each other, most of the extra space left empty.
The first few weeks in town are spent preparing for the coming winter, each morning just slightly colder than the one before. We all go out hunting some days; others just one or two of us go and the rest stay behind and can fruit or make jerky from earlier catches. At night we gather around the fire in the living room, huddled on the ancient sofas, their dust-encrusted surfaces covered with blankets we brought from camp, and talk. Well, Ash does most of the talking. And Bishop joins in. Some nights I think Caleb and I don’t manage to say a word, the two of them filling the awkward conversational gaps that Caleb and I leave behind.
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Bishop’s frustration has become a palpable presence between us, his patience stretching thinner with every passing day. He rarely mentions Westfall or his family, but I know he must miss them, worry about them now that he’s gone. I wonder if he balances what he’s gained against what he’s lost. I hope not, because I doubt the end result would weigh in my favor.
Today, Caleb and Ash have gone out to set more snares, and Bishop and I are working side by side in the kitchen, wrapping up jerky for the winter ahead. Bishop cuts the jerky into strips and I roll the strips in cloth, tying the ends tightly. We don’t talk as we work, and the silence isn’t easy. It boils and crackles with all our unsaid words. The air between us is thick with tension, a powder keg of emotion that I know is set to explode no matter how hard I try to defuse it.
I concentrate on our task, my eyes lowered. Dim sunlight flows in through a crack in the shutters and lands on Bishop’s hand, lighting up the gold band on his finger. “Why are you still wearing that?” I ask.
Bishop looks over at me, follows my eyes to his wedding band. “Does it bother you?”
