Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 132512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Cole considered himself a hard man. But where was that tough bounty hunter now?
He didn’t have the heart to shove Ned back into the pantry, so he ended up bringing all the spare bedding and blankets close to the fireplace. Just to be on the safe side, he put the collar on an unresisting Ned and attached it to one of the kitchen cupboards, but when Ned started mumbling in his sleep, still shaking as if the frost wouldn’t let go of him, Cole slid under the covers beside him, trying to ignore the pleasant scent of soap. If he only focused on the here and now, he wouldn’t have to think that he was holding his sworn enemy in his arms and soothing his night terrors.
Chapter 9
Cole hated dogs. They were noisy, smelly, ate your food, and their behavior ranged between unpredictable and needy, with nothing sensible between. Having one named after him only added insult to injury, and knowing this Lars sometimes accidentally-on-purpose called Dog with the name Ned had given him.
But the joke was on him, because once the beast had decided Lars was on its side, it wouldn’t leave him and constantly begged for scraps and attention. Which was why Cole got to sit in the comfort of the house while Lars stood knee-deep in the snow and wasted his time throwing sticks so his new pet got some exercise.
Cole stretched in the armchair, sliding his feet toward the buzzing fire and stroking his harmonica before bringing it to his mouth. Playing came to him with the same ease shooting did, though nothing was wasted or damaged by the maudlin tune produced by his lips and hands. It filled the warm interior with sweet, hoarse cries that spoke of memories Cole had tried not to dwell on. But thoughts about old times lost were somehow more bearable when interwoven with music—like medicine served with a spoon of sugar.
After a while, his melody was joined by a whistle so perfectly harmonious with his own tune that he couldn’t force himself to stop playing though he probably should have. The source of the clean, even tone sat in the corner of the room, still chained by the collar, still bound, yet with a bit more color to his face.
Going off booze had done Ned a world of good, even though he’d probably have called it torture if asked. He spoke more coherently and seemed much more aware of everything going on around him. Cole hoped it meant he was also more conscious of the threat to his life, but it was hard to guess what went on in that auburn head. There was far too much hope in his eyes for Cole’s liking, but then again, Cole taking care of him through the pain and delirium of letting go of alcohol must have given him the idea that forgiveness wasn’t out of the question.
Ned was now a week into sobriety, and the hallucinations that had turned him into a shivering mess had released their hold over him. He looked more like himself too, with eyes that reflected light like a droplet of rain hanging from the greenest of leaves and more pink than sallow under the freckles scattered over his skin. And now he was whistling too. Could he still make all the bird sounds that had impressed Cole so many years ago?
He would have to stop playing in order to ask such questions though, so instead, he shut his eyes and went on, improvising a melody that reminded him of evenings spent with friends by the buzzing fire, of the smell of Bertha’s stew and flatbread baked on a hot stone. Of guitars and dancing.
Oh, he hadn’t danced in such a long time. It had been so sweet to grab Ned’s hand for a dance that first time, before they’d kissed, and hold him with so much unspoken promise.
Lars opened the door and stomped his feet to shake off some snow. Dog ran between his legs, and went straight for Ned with a happy bark.
“I’m glad to see our prisoner is entertained,” Lars said, not sounding glad at all. “Your harmonica playing isn’t bad enough to be considered torture,” he added and made a pinching gesture close to his mouth to signify that Cole’s whiskers needed waxing.
Cole looked up, annoyed that his moment of reminiscence had been so crudely stalled. “At least I’m not entertaining his mutt,” he said, scowling when Dog licked Ned’s face and, instead of recoiling, their prisoner leaned into the touch and whispered, as if he and the animal shared plans Cole wasn’t privy to.
“Nothing wrong with Dog. He’s not the one who betrayed you.”
The spiteful words were a needle prodding at Cole’s eye. He glanced at Ned, whose shoulders hunched as though he’d been kicked, and his crestfallen posture was a spark to light up the fire of Cole’s anger.