"So you're calling my brother a liar?" Dalton says.
"No, I'm actually not. I grew up with the biggest liar you could hope to meet--my stepfather. I know when someone's bullshitting, and I can tell your brother isn't, which leaves me . . ." A helpless shrug. "I don't even know. I just don't. Obviously he saw someone out here who looks like me. Same size or whatever."
"It was you," Jacob says. "Those jeans. Those shoes. That shirt."
"Then I . . ." Brady trails off and looks over at me. "I do not know what to tell you, Detective. I just don't know."
"Any identical twins we should know about?" I ask.
His lips tighten. Then he says, "I realize you're being sarcastic, but at this point, I'm starting to wonder myself. The only thing I can even think of is that my stepfather sent someone out here who resembles me, dressed like me. Which makes me sound like a raving lunatic. So I've got nothing, Detective. Absolutely nothing but my solemn word, with a promise that if you find out I'm lying, you don't need to shoot me. Walk me to one of these mountain gorges, and I'll swan-dive. Save you the bullet."
55
Jacob leads the way. Brady is right behind him, with Dalton and Kenny following. I'm lagging back with Storm. I've given her food from my pack, and we've found water, but she's exhausted. Like a small child who senses this is not the time to complain, though, she troops silently beside me.
We're heading toward the First Settlement. That's what Dalton told me, murmuring, "I'll work it out," and "Only thing we can do." Which is correct. We cannot risk Edwin finding out that we have Brady and didn't bring him. He would execute Wallace for that--he must, to keep the respect of his people.
So I'm lagging behind, and I'm thinking. I'm not thinking of how to get out of this without handing our prisoner over to people who'll execute him. I need to work through something else first.
We've been walking in silence for about thirty minutes when Dalton falls back with me.
"You know one of the best things about having you?" he says quietly, and I have to replay his words, so out of context here.
"Having someone," he continues. Then he pauses. "Yeah, that didn't come out right. Sounds like I'm one of the guys from town, desperate for a woman, any woman."
I manage a chuckle. "You've never had that problem."
"Yeah. But you know what else I've never had? A partner. Not just for sex. Not just for work. Not just for friendship. Someone who is all that and more. Lover. Colleague. Friend. Even using those words to describe other people? Seems like they should have different definitions altogether."
"I know."
And I do. I'm just not sure where this is coming from, if he's unsettled by what's happened and looking for distraction.
He continues. "Even 'partner' is a shitty word. Sounds like a business arrangement. The other day, when you said you were my wife, that . . ." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "It sounds lame, but that means something to me. We don't get that in Rockton. My parents--the Daltons--they were a couple, but I've never heard them use the vocabulary much. To me, husband or wife means . . ."
He takes his hands out of his pockets and flounders, as if looking for a place to put them, finally settling
for taking Storm's lead in one and my hand in the other.
"My dad always used it," he says. "My, uh . . ."
"Birth father."
"Right. In the First Settlement, he used it a lot, and my mom would call him her husband. That was because they were reminding people--warning the men to leave her alone--but I didn't realize that at the time, so husband and wife, that seemed like their special words. And they were . . ." He shakes his head. "Fuck, they were in love. The kind of stupid, crazy love that makes you run into the forest when someone tries to separate you. Dumb kids. But they made it work, and they were partners--real partners--in everything. I told you Jacob says they died together, in a dispute with hostiles, but I wonder if maybe just one was killed and the other didn't . . ." His hand clenches mine, reflexively tightening. "Just didn't try very hard to get out alive after that."
We walk a couple of steps, and I say softly, "I don't know much about your parents, but from what Jacob has said, I don't think they'd have left him alone if they had a choice."
A moment of silence. Then he nods. "Yeah, you're right. If one could have made it back, they would have. For him. For their . . ." He swallows. "Fuck."
His hand grips mine so tight it hurts. Here is the discrepancy he cannot resolve: that the parents who didn't rescue him from Rockton were not parents who would ever shrug and say, Well, that's one fewer mouth to feed.
"The point," he continues, "is that this is important to me. What we are. You and me. One of the best parts is that I don't have to do this on my own anymore. Yeah, I know, I've always had help. But it's just been that: help. People who listen to me and do what I tell them because they trust my judgment. But fuck, you know what? Half the time I'm not sure I'd listen to me. Now I have you. Someone I can talk to, share with, confide in, ask for advice and, yeah, someone who'll tell me if I'm full of shit."
"Uh-huh."
"So my question is, Casey"--his gaze slides my way--"is that just me?"
"I don't understand."