“Small room,” he said. “Easy. Tight space here.”
“That your idea of a joke?” Meaning the image.
“I didn’t do it. Didn’t do it. Haven’t even made my mark up there. Swear to you. Didn’t make me damn happy either. Throw a blanket over it.”
She got a breath or two. Thought about <blanket > and didn’t do it. She was calmer. She calmed the mare, who was still throwing off <warning.> Chang was doing the same, shaky and still <mad.>
It was cold on this side of the room. He wanted <her giving him blankets.> He wasn’t going close to her horse. He had enough trouble keeping Burn still.
For a moment things stayed as they were, balanced on a knife’s edge of Chang’s temper and his nerves. Then he felt the anger unwind, slowly, slowly, into a quieter disturbance. A few more breaths.
She shook at the mare’s neck, wanting <easy, relax,> and thought <him at fireside, wrapping in blankets.> She was shaken and upset. She wanted—<quiet.>
He understood—he didn’t expect her to get that much steadiness back, not that fast. He wished he’d thought to cover that damned thing.
“It’s stupid,” she said, shaky-voiced. “Not that good a drawing. I ate your damn supper, I’ve no right to chase you off your own fireside.”
He wasn’t sure. Burn wasn’t sure. Burn snorted and got between them, with him holding onto Burn’s mane most of the way. But he ducked past Burn’s neck, <not sure> about the offer. Flicker had her ears laid back. He wasn’t confident the woman was all that steady.
“I knew,” she said, “God, I knew, I just—”
—hadn’t let it get loose, he thought, and stayed where he was as she made another effort and took a furtive wipe at her eyes. She turned deliberately and stared at the image on the wall. Stayed that way for a long moment, then patted the mare on the shoulder, jaw tight, eyes aswim with moisture, and went back to the fireside.
He stood there. He didn’t know what else to do. She straightened hers, she straightened his. The horses were confused at this flapping of blankets and shadows, uneasy, not knowing clearly what the disturbance was. <Rogue horse> had been in her mind and his. It wasn’t good.
She finished tidying up. Stood there in front of the fire and lost her battle. A man’s face was in the ambient, and she couldn’t breathe—he couldn’t, and then the mare was coming at him, scored a nip on his sleeve as Burn snaked a neck past, defending him.
He cast about for a broom, a stick—and she dived in and grabbed the mare’s mane—he flung himself in Burn’s way, shoving at his chest, she was shoving at the mare—holding, pushing, <back, back, back, quiet> until they had a perilous quiet established. The bottle had gone spinning across the hearth, unbroken. The blankets were almost in the fire.
She was shaking. He was. They had it broken up, stood there reassuring horses until everything was quiet, inside—while the wind kept screaming its two notes into the spooked, treacherous dark. She wanted <him by fire,> wanted <humans sitting down, wrapped in blankets, wanted <horses quiet, beautiful horses> and he put his own agreement behind it. <Quiet Burn. Nighthorses together. Humans sitting. Warm us.>
Dangerous as hell. She was scared. He was scared. There were scars on the walls. There was blood drawn, minor nips, but it wasn’t a time to push the horses. She put a cold hand in his, they made a tentative peace, pats on the shoulder, a demonstration of nonhostility while the horses were bickering and threatening each other. She’d pulled herself together. She’d used her head. He turned a pat into an arm around the shoulders, a quick, comradely squeeze with nothing behind it but thanks for her good sense, but she flinched away from it, and the ambient was still queasy.
In what seemed a second thought, then, she caught his arm and had him sit by the fire, shoved blankets at him and wrapped herself in her own. Her hands shook, holding the blanket under her chin. <Sun through evergreen,> she was sending, a calm-sending. <Sun through branches. Sun through branches, gentle wind.>
“I’m fine,” she stuttered. “F-F-Fine.”
A fool would breach that calm-sending. He said with feeling, “It’s all right, woman. Just breathe.”
“Didn’t have a choice about being in here. They’re dead. They’re all dead. I th-thought I was handling it. Th-Thought Vadim at least—m-might have made it. He was the best. He was the best, but he—” <Kid in red coat.> “He’d g-go after that damn k-kid. Him and Chad. Both.”
He didn’t want to stir it up. But he asked himself <Woman and man leaving village,> and it couldn’t help but be a question.
She shook her head. “No.” <White. Moving white. Covering the whole world.> “Flicker. Flicker got me out. Wasn’t thinking. Left my damn g-gun. I didn’t do too well.”
“Doing damn all right, woman. You’re alive.” He was <glad> of her calm. He was glad of her life after the thing he’d just felt. He felt the shakiness still in her, knew there wasn’t a way in hell to reach into a woman’s private thoughts and patch anything, no matter if he wanted to, no matter how good his intentions—couldn’t prevent her doing what she’d do, wasn’t right to want to. If he’d learned one thing from Aby, that was true.
He’d not held on to her. He’d not tried to change her.
And she’d died.
She reached out and laid her hand on his knee, shook at him to get his attention, her face glistening with tears, <throat tight> as his was. “Name’s Tara,” she said, pointed reminder.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Aby?”
You couldn’t hear words in the ambient. He didn’t know how she came up with the name. But <Aby> was in her imaging, too. <Aby in the high country. Aby and somebody like Westman and herself riding together, in the winter snow.>
“You knew her,” he said.
“A lot of years. Last winter. When she stayed over. You’re that Stuart. Her Stuart.”
He nodded. Wanted more of that image. Desperately wanted the missing pieces of Aby’s life. The questions he couldn’t answer.
“She’s dead?” She hadn’t known. “What in hell happened?”
He threw it into the ambient. It was easier than talking about what words didn’t say anyway. <Rogue-feeling. Truck going off. Aby—>
“I saw the wreck.” <Truck on the rocks. Tilted. Dead.> “I’d no idea—God.”
“So I’m going after that thing. Get it stopped.”
“By yourself?” Then <rogue-image.> “Like hell you are.”
“I’d rather,” he began on <you going to village.>
She shook her head, <seeing him,> now, <Guil in firelight.> “Two of us. That much more chance.”
He wasn’t happy about it. He wanted her safe. Didn’t want any more dying.
“I need a gun,” she said. “You can’t use two at once.”
“Woman, —”
“Name’s Tara.”
“Guil,” he said. “My guns.” That was damn selfish. He was being a jerk. But he wasn’t getting killed, either. “I’ll hand you one for backup. When it matters.” He’d admitted she was going with him. He didn’t see anything else to do but give her a gun and send her off alone. Which meant she’d still hunt it.
“All right,” she agreed after a moment. “All right.” She wasn’t mad. She didn’t blame him. Damn brave woman, he thought, going out there not knowing if she’d have a gun if he was incompetent.