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She glanced at the tent again. She could lead Ollie out into the woods and leave him. Since she knew for sure he wasn’t a Northman like he’d claimed, it evened out her chances of escaping. A Northman’s skills in the woods were legendary and ruthless. Ollie wasn’t either of those things—he was rather soft of hand. Well, he might be ruthless, though she had yet to see evidence of it. But she didn’t intend to wait for it. Especially if he was a collector.

Except she couldn’t reconcile the persistent nudge in her gut that told her she was wrong. That she was reading everything incorrectly. What did she actually know? He’d been near death, next to his dead horse, with no weapons. Nothing to help him survive in the wilds. He hadn’t even been dressed for survival in the wilds. What collector wasn’t prepared? Add to that no women, no carts, no tools for collecting. It didn’t mean they didn’t exist, but it was a factor to consider. He hadn’t been—even with his current broody behavior—disrespectful, just unruly. He hadn’t been in a rush to get back to any cache he might have lost when he went into the water. These things didn’t prove he was a collector one way or the other, though she did have to wonder how a man who hunted women for a living might exhibit ways of being that were less respectful. She pictured Four Tankards and his audacity. That was how she could imagine a collector. Ollie was no Four Tankards.

She dropped wood into the fire. Sparks jumped into the darkening sky and burned away into ash, drifting in the smoke toward the woods. Ultimately, she’d do what she needed to do for her survival. Disappear.

A sound made her look up at the tent as Ollie emerged, dressed in an ivory shirt, dark breeches, and boots. Since the dark was stretching around them, the fire didn’t offer enough light to see his features clearly.

“May I join you?” he asked, his voice reticent.

“You’re a free man.”

He moved across the space, one hand wrapped around his torso, the other pressed to his ribs. It had probably hurt, putting his clothes on.

Tarley hated that she felt bad about it, warning herself to be cautious and wise.

Ollie bent to set up one of the chopped logs as a seat, grunting as he did, unable to muster enough strength and coordination with one of his arms to get it moving in the proper way.

Tarley sighed, stood, and walked over to the chopped log. “Here.” She pushed and twisted until it was sturdy in the dirt.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She returned to her seat across the fire.

They sat in silence, and Tarley refused to break it, willing to sit in the awkwardness forever. She didn’t know him, even if she knew he was lying. Trusting him wasn’t part of the deal. It didn’t matter how pretty he was. Besides, he appeared content to sit in the silence as well, his eyes on the fire.

Eventually, she stood to get the sticks she’d gathered to whittle into skewers for roasting the fish she’d caught. When she returned to her seat, the sticks gripped between her arm and her side, with her knife in hand, she felt Ollie’s eyes on her. Continuing to ignore him, she concentrated on her job, setting a switch in her lap and using her knife to pare down an end into a sharp point.

After some time, annoyed by his silent attention, she finally snapped, “What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Carving skewers. For dinner.”

“How did you learn all of this?”

She scoffed, lifting her eyes to look at him. “You care?”

He seemed surprised, leaning away just a touch, smoke from the fire drifting between them. “Just making conversation.”

“Oh. Is that what this is?”

With his face glowing orange-gold in the light, his brow furrowed. “What else would it be?”

She shook her head and looked back at the stick. “You didn’t seem open to conversation a bit ago. Something change?” Too irritated at best to maintain her concentration—which she knew better than to do!—she slid the knife, but lost her grip on the stick. The dagger sliced through the meat of one of her fingers, and she hissed a breath. “Shit.”

“Tarley?”

She dropped everything with a thud in the dirt— stick and knife—and stood, drawing her bleeding hand toward her body, pressing her other hand around the wound to staunch the blood as she turned away from the fire. “Fuck.”

“Tarley?” He was close now, at her shoulder.

“Leave me alone,” she snapped, angry at herself for being so careless. A wound out here could be a matter of life and death.

“Let me see it.”

“Don’t! Just stay back. I don’t need your help.”

“I know that, but–”