Everyone looked at Carcel.
He was still wiping his face with the towel, his back to the group. He felt their eyes on him, a heavy, unwanted weight. He turned slowly, his expression one of pure, irritable exhaustion. "What? Why are you all looking at me?"
"Race him," Weston said, his eyes gleaming. "Race against Rowan. Wipe that smug off his face."
Carcel just stared at him. A race. On a horse. In the bright, pounding, awful sun. With his head feeling like a cracked bowl.
"Not interested," he replied, and he turned back to the water barrel.
"Oh, come on!" Weston groaned. "Spoilsport! You are always like this. Don't be such a... such a duke!"
Rowan laughed and walked over, his own rifle in his hand. He hit Carcel on the back, a hard, affectionate, and, to Carcel, painful blow.
