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She had closed up and refused to talk for the remainder of the night, forcing him to simmer in his own rage. He hated to admit it, but he had wanted to think Ivy wasn’t like that. That she wasn’t capable of murder. But, like his mother, she had killed for her own personal reasons. For that, he could never understand. He could never forgive.
Hell, why couldn’t she just tell him what happened? More importantly, why did he need to know? That, he knew, was what truly bothered him. He couldn’t separate himself from this crime.
Needless of his rage and suspicion, he had not tied her up that night. Knowing what he had done to her with his last restraint, he couldn’t bring himself to it. If he was being sincerely honest, maybe there was a small part of him that wished she would escape. He was getting too close to this prisoner. Emotionally close.
Eventually, overwhelmed with exhaustion, he drifted off to sleep. Though not for long. Something woke him. Prying open his exhausted eyes, he blinked in surprise to see Ivy looming above him. For some strange reason, he felt no panic. Instead, an unusual calm settled over him.
“Ivy?”
“Shh.” She placed a silencing finger over her lips and stared at him in the darkness.
He stared back, a tiny frown tugging his brow low. Then she moved and straddled his body. Again, no fear entered him. Only need. Hell, he wanted her. The realization was staggering. More so due to the depth of how much he did.
Her hands reached out and ran along his arms until she cupped his face. She was leaning so close, Sam could see the turmoil in her face. Could see the pain in her eyes. The urge to reach out and comfort was overwhelming. Lifting his hand, he touched the side of her face. Her eyes fluttered shut.
Sliding that same hand behind her head, he gently drew her close. When her lips touched his, he thought he never tasted anything so perfect. She returned his kiss with an aching sweetness. Then, as if hungry, she delved deeper, kneading his lips like that of a starving woman. Sam responded with his own unadulterated yearning.
His hands came up and wrapped around her, drawing her closer. But he felt her pull back. Felt her withdrawal.
Sitting up, she stared down at him, a sad, almost pitiful look crossing her face. Then she offered him the merest smile. Its innocence tugging at him.
Her arms fell back behind her and Sam gazed up at her in bewilderment, torn between pushing her away or drawing her near. Then a dark shadow crossed over her eyes, turning those frosty blues to a devilish green. Her sweet smile turned almost cunning-like as he realized she was lifting her arms over her head.
“Ivy?”
Too late, he saw the iron poker clutched between her hands. Watched as her eyes lit with green venom. He let out a horrified bellow the same moment the poker came crashing down on his skull.
“No!” Sam jerked upright. His eyes flew open and he stared into blackness. The night was still.
“Sam?” Ivy’s voice in the darkness drew his gaze to the area she slept. “What’s wrong?”
It took him a moment to focus. He blinked rapidly several times. He’d been dreaming. Christ.
Raising a hand, he ran it through his hair and along the back of his neck. It troubled him to realize it was shaking. Thank God for the darkness so that she was unable to see the revealing weakness. He steadied his breathing and glanced at her silhouetted form in the darkness. She had not visited him in his sleep. Nor had she tried to escape. This last thought was what had him coming back swiftly to consciousness. She had not left.
Whether she realized it or not, Sam was slowly gaining her trust.
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
A hesitation filled with silence, then he heard her movement and knew she had lied back down on the cold earth. Not anywhere near Sam.
* * *
By mid-morning the following day, they had not covered nearly enough miles as Sam would have liked. He knew Ivy’s ankle was the cause. It was slowing them down. They would be spending another night out in the wilderness again if they didn’t reach a town soon.
Behind him, she fell for the umpteenth time. He turned and watched her struggle to get back on her feet. He wanted to go to her, help her, but his dream still haunted him.
He headed down an embankment and she followed. They had covered about fifty feet of ground when the forest unexpectedly produced a small cone-shaped structure. It was made out of eight vertical wooden poles and two large hoops keeping the frame secure near the top. Standing close to seven feet tall and about a meter or so in depth, it looked like an oversized bird cage.
“What is it?” Ivy asked next to him.
“A shaking tent.” He took a step closer. “It’s missing its rawhide, but it’s definitely one.”
“What’s a shaking tent?”
“It’s used by a shaman Indian when seeking power from the spiritual world.”
“Indians?” The panic in her voice had him turning and looking down at her. She looked paler, almost gray and he knew her ankle was troubling her horribly. His insides constricted painfully. He hated admitting it to himself, but it tore at him to see her in so much pain. The sooner he found them a horse, the better.
