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a small forest,” Brayden told Wil.
    It wasn’t until some feeling leached back into Wil’s arm that he blinked, frowning “We? I thought it was for the horses.”
    “Well, it is, but there’s no sense in us sleeping in the rain when we’ve made the thing as big as a small house.”
    Brayden’s demeanor was too casual, too blatantly cool.
    It tweaked at Wil, and he looked closer, noting the way 33

    The Aisling Book Two Dream
    the dark gaze shifted, like Brayden was… embarrassed?
    Ah. Wil got it now. Brayden hadn’t built the shelter for the horses at all—he’d done it for Wil. He was doing that nice thing again. As it was every time something like this happened, Wil was both touched and discomfited. And now he was embarrassed.
    “Why?” Brayden wanted to know. “Are you going to have a problem sharing with the horses?”
    Wil paused for a moment, blinking until the question sank in. And then he laughed out loud, almost doubled-over with the irony and the sheer relief at not having to deal head-on with the niceness thing. “Sorry,” he chuckled when Brayden’s brow twisted and he tilted his head. “No, really. But if you’d seen some of the places I’ve slept…” Wil swept a hand up and down the length of the structure. “This is very fine and more than I’d hoped for.” He smirked at Brayden in the dark. “You definitely have your uses, Constable Brayden.”

    “It’s best if you do it away from you,” Brayden advised, watching carefully as Wil trimmed wet bark away from pine branches with Brayden’s wicked dagger.
    “Do it toward you and slip…” He opened a hand and shrugged.
    Wil nodded and adjusted his hold, the heft and grip of the big knife a surprisingly comfortable fit in his palm. It had been awkward going, getting used to doing it with his left hand, but once he caught the rhythm, his speed picked up considerably. Brayden was working on the bigger limbs with the hatchet, sitting atop one of the saddles, propping the branches from shoulder-to-ground between his legsl, and hacking off chunks in a steady spray. His boots were already half-buried in bark and curled shims.
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    Carole Cummings
    He was angled away from the fire, gaze shifting constantly to different points in the forest, doglegging around the curtain of the cloaks with every other sweep.
    Wil sat on his bit of carpet with his back leaning against his own saddle, legs stretched out and feet crossed at the ankle. His boots sat next the fire, drying, his stockings hanging over their sides. The detritus from his own work steadily piled in his lap, and every once in a while he stopped to brush it away and wiggle his toes in the warmth of the flames.
    Supper had been an interesting stew made of lumps of jerky and selections from the sacks of dried vegetables in Brayden’s pack. Brayden had added the medicinal dose to Wil’s bowl only after he’d pointedly asked Wil if it was all right. Considering how bad the dose had tasted without anything to camouflage it, and how sore he was, Wil allowed that it was absolutely all right. It was amazing what a little salt could do for the flavor of what would have otherwise been rather bland fare. Combined with the hardtack, two diced potatoes from Wil’s pack, and one each of the somewhat bruised apples afterward, Wil’s stomach had stopped complaining, the dose had taken the edge off the aches, and with the activity and the warmth from the fire, the chill in his bones was starting to recede.
    They’d hung the cloaks from the branches closest the fire, hopefully to dry a little before morning. The crude partition offered the additional advantage of providing a bit of a boundary between themselves and the horses, which, if it wasn’t exactly a marker of civilization, was at least a reflection of it. With the excuse of making sure the animals were set for the night and checking the hobbles, Wil had earlier ducked around the makeshift curtain to make good on his promise of treats for