Page 52 of Coyote

Coyote sat up.

"No."

"Tell me the truth."

"You didn't."

I looked at my fist. My knuckles had whitened.

"I could have."

"You stopped."

"You were scared of me." I dragged both hands over my face.

"Don't," he said. "Don't decide what I'm supposed to feel and leave before I can tell you."

My hands fell. "I need to check you."

He let me run my fingers over his face, his jaw, the side of his head. No swelling. No split skin. No blood. My hand shook against his cheek.

Coyote caught it. "You weren't seeing me," he said.

"That doesn't make it safe. It could happen again."

He shrugged. "Maybe." He shifted closer, still holding my hand. "Then next time, I wake you from where you can't reach me."

"There shouldn't be a next time."

"There will be another bad dream. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not for a year. But there'll be one. And I'll survive it. Just like I did this one." Coyote's thumb moved across my palm.

"You shouldn't have to plan around me. I don't want to hurt you."

His face held no fear. Only the hard practicality he brought to fences, wounds, and men who needed killing.

Coyote opened his knees. "Come here."

I lowered myself carefully and put my head in his lap, and he ran his fingers through my hair, petting me.

Nimue returned while we sat there. She slid over Coyote's ankle, crossed my arm, and settled against the warmth of his thigh. He barely seemed to notice her, content to keep stroking my hair until my hands stopped shaking.

After a while, Coyote stood up and reached for his jeans.

"You're leaving?"

"I'm getting food."

"You packed food."

"I want meat."

He pulled on his clothes and laced his boots. Coyote slid his knife into the sheath on his belt as I sat up.

"You don't have to run away from me."

He looked at me over his shoulder. "I'm going because I need to move, and I want to kill something small enough to cook. I'm not running from you."

I searched his face. "Where?"