Page 113 of Turn That River Red

I glance down at them, trotting alongside us.

“I still don’t understand why you let him go.”

“I told you, baby. I didn’t.” Ambrose glances at me, and his eyes flash dangerously. “It’s all part of the hunt. And I haven’t hunted properly in a long time.”

A million thoughts flash through my head. Like how often he does this. And whether or not he’ll ever hunt me.

“Stop worrying,” he says softly. “You don’t need to worry ever again, do you understand?”

“Not even about you?”

Ambrose stops. He doesn’t look at me, but straight ahead, and my heart palpitates.

“Mercy,” he says. “You’remine, remember?”

A different kind of heat flushes through my body and pools between my thighs. I should not be feeling that out here, in this moment. “Yes,” I mutter.

“Well, I don’t kill what’s mine. I protect it.”

I suck in my breath.

“Now let’s get Sullivan situated so we can focus on the real prize.” Ambrose moves forward again, his cowboy boots scraping against the dirt. “You don’t have to come with us if you don’t want to.” He smiles, and he really does look like the devil. “But I hope you do.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

MERCY

Ten minutes later, Ambrose leads me through the desert, his blood-streaked hand in mine. I’m as culpable as he is, and I know it.

But I don’t mind.

You’re mine. His voice keeps rumbling through my head.You’re mine.

When Reverend Gunner said things like that to me, it made me feel small and dirty. When Ambrose says them?—

I feel safe.

Ambrose stops and sniffs the air. The dogs are up ahead, snuffling in the dirt, guiding us along the scent trail Reverend Gunner left behind. For a while, even I could see the blood splatter from where he had stumbled away. But that’s disappeared.

“He’s heading toward the Concho,” Ambrose says.

The Concho River. The first place Ambrose ever saw me, even if it wasn’t the first time I saw him.

“He’s going to make it to the church,” I whisper.

“Not on foot.” Ambrose whistles to the dogs, who take offin a cantor. Ambrose strides ahead, pulling me along with him. “He’s slow. We’ll catch up.”

I’m doubtful, but I just squeeze his hand a little tighter. Part of me wishes I had stayed behind at the shed, but that would mean being with Pastor Sullivan’s empty body, his blood dripping slow and steady into an ancient metal bucket. And even in death, I don’t want his eyes staring at me.

We walk quickly, cutting across the empty field. Despite the rain we’ve had, the grass is dry and crackling. Sweat drips down my spine and beads along my forehead. Everything looks the same, flat and scrubby, and the pale sky is so enormous it feels as if it might crush us.

But then the dogs go still. Roxi leans forward, pointing at the horizon with her nose.

Ambrose stops and pulls me behind him. “Stay close,” he breathes. “I can smell him.”

I can’t smell anything but sweat and dirt—and the faint, steely scent of river water. The banks are just up ahead, covered in short, spiny shrubs.

Ambrose lets go of my hand and pulls an ax out of the sling he has around his waist, tightening his fingers around its wooden handle.

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