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was willing to fight to the death to take the damned apples along with him in the first place, and who professed to disliking horses in general in the 62

    Carole Cummings
    second, the nightly surreptitious gift-giving was awfully damned funny. And he’d more-or-less forbidden Dallin from hobbling them, wanting to know how Dallin would like it if someone tied his feet together, and insisted on long pickets instead. Since they were out of thicker forest and there was no danger of one of them wrapping herself around a tree, Dallin hadn’t argued.
    He grunted a little and rubbed at his face, scratching the bristly growth on his chin.
    “Why don’t you shave that off?” came from behind him. Wil’s voice was soft and low in the dark, a mild note of amusement.
    “What,” Dallin wanted to know, “it doesn’t make me look rugged and fierce?”
    “It makes you look like you’ve got fleas, because you can’t stop scratching at it.”
    Probably true. He hadn’t grown a beard since he was in his teens and trying to prove he could, and he’d remembered days ago why he’d shaved it off immediately thereafter.
    Dallin smirked over his shoulder and shrugged. “I’d thought perhaps it might be useful, once we got out of those places where we wanted to be recognized.”
    “A disguise?” Wil snorted. “P’raps if you shaved off a foot each of breadth and height. Otherwise, you stand out more than I do, beard or no.”
    “Well…” Dallin scratched again—he couldn’t help it.
    “True, I suppose, but it at least makes me feel like I’m doing something to disguise myself, how’s that?” He turned back again, narrowing his eyes. “You don’t shave at all, do you?”
    He’d been wondering about that for days; every time he thought to ask about it, there was always something more pressing going on.
    Wil didn’t answer, just struck his gaze out into the 63

    The Aisling Book Two Dream
    darkness and gave it a wide sweep. “What’re you doing up?” he wanted to know. “It’s hours yet ’til sunrise.”
    Dallin sighed and stretched his neck. Back to the non-answers again. Or maybe Wil just didn’t know.
    Considering that the few things he’d been told were weighted heavily with skewed truths and outright lies, Dallin thought that was the more likely speculation.
    “Dreams,” was all he said.
    “Hm.” Wil walked slowly over to stand in front of him, rifle held across his torso like he’d been born to the stance. Dallin could just make out the lift of a dark eyebrow in the glow of the dying embers, the hint of a smirk. “Looking for some sympathy, Constable?”
    “From you?” Dallin almost let a dour laugh escape but shook his head instead. “I wouldn’t presume.”
    He couldn’t imagine the sorts of dreams Wil had to live through every night and then forget every morning, just to maintain his unique sanity. Let alone what went on before. Expecting sympathy from him wouldn’t just be thoughtless; it would be obscene.
    Although, Dallin would have to tell him about the dreams soon, explain what he’d seen and put forth his theory. If he’d really been watching someone else’s last moments of life, and not merely hallucinating and letting his mind run wild, Wil should know that he hadn’t been abandoned all these years, as he obviously thought—in fact, he had a right to know. Except, how did one tell someone that his own enraged denial and belief that he’d been betrayed was in fact what had perpetuated that betrayal? How did Dallin explain that the lack of the trust and hope that had been beaten out of Wil seemed to have been exactly what had prevented help from finding him?
    You don’t. At least not in the middle of the night when the man’s standing over you with a loaded gun.
    64

    Carole Cummings
    Or when he’s almost comfortable in your presence for a change, and making stupid jokes at your expense.
    Almost smiling.
    “All’s quiet, then?” was all Dallin said.
    Wil nodded. “Look what