Chapter 21. He Sat on His Horse

Weston's POV

The chains were old. Somebody had made them for cattle, or for bears, and somebody else had cleaned them for me, because they didn't smell of rust. They smelled of lamp oil and the hands of whoever had cleaned them. That's the kind of thing you notice, chained to a post in a rogue valley with nothing to do but notice things.

They'd left me enough slack to sit, and to reach the water bucket, and to lie down on the floor if I wanted to. I didn't want to. I sat with my back against the post and watched the light move across the cabin floor and listened to the valley.

Children. Hens. An axe somewhere, splitting wood, very steady. A woman singing, off key, by the creek. It sounded like any village in the Eastern Packs on a weekday afternoon.

That was the worst part.