“
H
e’s coming to,” Sticks said. She held Abraham’s head in her lap. She petted the short grizzly beard building up on his face. “A good sign.”
The Henchmen stood inside the interior wall surrounding the Wound. A chill, gusty wind came up from the black mouth of the great canyon. Iris and the Red Tunics were mending the wounded with spells and stitches. Dominga and Vern had built a small fire.
Horace took a knee beside Sticks. His beard was caked in both the dried blood of the Wild Men from the Wound and his own. His arms were covered in bloody bandages. He stuffed some tobacco chaw in his mouth and pinched it between his teeth and gum. He sucked his teeth and said, “I hope he’s back. I hate it when he goes into the deep sleep. We have a mission.”
“Horace!” Iris’s voice carried with agitation. “Are you sucking on that chaw again? You know I don’t like it. Spit it out.”
Horace’s bald, bearded, and beefy face soured. “There won’t be any time for romance on this mission. I’d appreciate some slack.”
“There won’t be any romance after, either, if you don’t spit that foul foliage out.” Iris gave him a demanding glare. “I mean it.”
Horace grumbled, took the juicy wad of tobacco out of his mouth, and flung it against the wall. “If it was my dying wish, you wouldn’t let me have it either, would you, woman?”
“No, I wouldn’t!” Iris said.
Horace sucked his teeth. He winked at Sticks and said, “I always leave a little bit to suck on. She’ll never know the better.”
Abraham’s eyelids snapped open, and he sat straight up. His eyes were alert, like a wary panther’s.
“Abraham, take it easy. You’ll get a head rush,” Sticks warned. The plain-faced woman touched his neck and rubbed it. “You might have a knot on the back of your head from where you fell.”
The swordsman quickly stood up, leaving Sticks and Horace gawking at him. The pair exchanged a glance.
“Captain,” Horace said, “it’s good to see you up and about. Can I get you anything? Food, perhaps. According to Melris, there won’t be any food to plunder down there.” He cast a look toward the dark belly of the cavern. “Just death, he says.”
The rest of the Henchmen were going about their business, tending to the fire and their wounds. Prospero and Apollo were leaning against the wall, eating strips of dried beef. Dominga and Shades joined them.
Sticks took Abraham by the hand. He pulled his strong fingers away. He cast a long glance between her and Horace. A shiver ran down her spine the moment they locked eyes. A fiery intensity grew on Abraham’s face. His eyebrows were knitted together, and his shoulders were pulled back. Even though he was looking with his eyes downward, his chin was still up.
She swallowed. “Let me fetch you a skin of water.”
Abraham looked as if he hadn’t ever seen her before in his life. He reached down and cradled her by the chin with his hand. He lifted her to her feet. His eyes looked over her bandolier of knives. His stare hardened.
The strength of his hand kept Sticks frozen in place. Immediately, she thought of the man that had possessed Ruger Slade before. He was a womanizing maniac who sent his men out like sheep for the slaughter. Her jaws clenched as she battled against the urge to tear her gaze away. This man was not Abraham, but she wasn’t sure exactly who it was either.
“Perhaps the two of you need a moment alone,” Horace suggested. “I’ll have the Red Tunics pitch you a tent and give you some privacy. The heat of battle brings out the lust in all of us in one way or the other.”
Slowly, Abraham turned his downward gaze on Horace. In a voice filled with tempered elation, he said, “This flower in my hand I do not know, but I certainly know you!” He released Sticks and caught up Horace in a bear hug. He lifted Horace up off his feet. “Handsome Horace, my, have you grown!”
The moment Horace’s toes touched the ground, he took two steps backward. With wide eyes he said, “I haven’t been called that in years. Captain?”
Bearclaw, Vern, Apollo, and Prospero approached with cautious looks in their eyes. All the rest of the party stopped what they were doing, including Shades, who slid in behind the four warriors.
The wild raven locks of Bearclaw shook with a nod of his chin. “Do my ears deceive me? Has my old friend returned? Is that you, Ruger?”
“It is,” Ruger Slade said as he held his fingers out before him and clutched them open and closed. “For a spell, anyway.”
Vern stepped forward and said, “I don’t believe it. It’s a deception. It has to be.”
Sticks watched the men face off with one another. She wasn’t sure what to think. She’d never met the real Ruger, but this man certainly wasn’t Abraham. It wasn’t the demented soul named Eugene either. Her gaze slid over to the baffled Horace. “How can you know that it is him?”
“It’s him,” Horace said. “I can feel it in my belly. I see it with my very own eyes as well. I would know.”
Sticks’s heart sank. The thought of Abraham being gone created a cold void inside her. She cared for the man more deeply than she would admit.
Vern swiped his wavy blond locks out of his eyes and said, “Don’t get all gooey eyed, Horace. We’ve been deceived how many times before?” His hand fell on the handle of his sword. “This man might be as possessed as the others.” He pulled his longsword. “There’s only one swordsman better than me in this group, and that is supposed to be you.” He flipped his blade around. “Let’s see what you can do, Ruger.”