Into the Breach With You (The Ladies Alpine Society #3)

Chapter Four

Karl should have been exhausted but he found he couldn’t sleep. His pallet by the fire in the dining room was warmer than the goat pen, and smelled better, but at least in the goat pen he could hear the rhythmic breathing of another creature. Here, he stewed in his own thoughts, like limp cabbage in a pot of lukewarm water.

Thoughts , as if he were a profound philosopher. No, he was a lusty young man who couldn’t banish the petite brunette with the big eyes, pert nose and pouty lips. He had believed—wrongly—that she would not show for the afternoon walk with her comrades. Instead, she was there, even though she’d missed breakfast and was dead last in their line up the trails. But still, even as they’d visited Luc Meynet and his seemingly unending passel of nieces and nephews, she had entertained him.

Entertained was not the right idea. No, she had delighted him. Her playful hunger act had engaged the children, and that was enough. The shy twins, Liesl and Luc, had even climbed down from the loft and stared at the strangers from the corner near the door of the winter goat enclosure. They wouldn’t even come down from the loft when it was only Karl, let alone Karl and his guests.

That had made his heart like her. His loins liked her already. Liked her so much it would not let him forget about her, even in his sleep.

He’d tried so hard not to look at her while they waited for all the members of their hike to show. But then she had dripped the apple cider onto her chest, the sight of which had made him light-headed. His first thought was that she’d known exactly what she was doing, letting the liquid stream from her mouth, down her lovely neck, and lace right between her breasts. That she’d done it to torment him. As if he were not already haunted by lewd—and creative!—images flashing through his brain at inappropriate times. But Miss Brewer’s face betrayed mortification as she wiped at the rivulets of apple cider that he so wanted to lick away with his tongue. To have his mouth on her. Any part of her. Mixing with the sweet tartness of the apple cider—he had to stop. He could not think like this.

He'd never minded sleeping on the ground, but here, knowing she was essentially sleeping in a room two floors directly above him was torment. He had to wear himself out so that he wouldn’t be so craven as to relieve the pressure in his body in the dining room at night.

Not to mention that she was a client and a guest, and rich and British, with a father no doubt powerful enough to make his life a misery should Karl put his hands where they didn’t belong.

He gritted his teeth, trying to make thoughts of her go away. She was a nice girl—in her own way—and didn’t deserve the lewd machinations Karl put her through in his mind.

His cock was heavy and ached to be relieved, but he was not doing that in the dining room of his uncle’s establishment. The more he resolved not to relieve himself, and instead work himself to exhaustion the next day, the more his lower half screamed for attention. He tried to think of anything else. Goats. Fences. Turds. Then his stupid cock gave him the idea of Fr?ulein Brewer sneaking downstairs again in the middle of the night, hair unbound, dark eyes wide and uncertain. He groaned and turned on his stomach, doing his best to smother the painful erection. He thought of Luc Meynet. His uncle. The ice-cold temperatures of the river water beneath the layers of thick ice. It worked long enough for him to fall asleep, eventually. But it was work to stay there, as his dreams featured dark hair and expanses of pale skin against green summer grass.

**

Justine had almost fallen asleep at dinner. Yet she was wide awake at five in the morning, according to her timepiece. She slipped into her woolen stockings and skirts, grabbed her hat and mittens on the hooks by the door, and went downstairs, ready to wait for Karl and mock him for his tardiness.

But bloody hell, he was already there, arms crossed in the dim light of a lamp, leaning against the newel. It couldn’t be five thirty yet.

“Ready?”

he asked, not acknowledging the early hour or her early arrival.

He was positively infuriating. She gritted her teeth, unwilling to give him credit for besting her. “Ready.”

They hiked up steep switchbacks, her toes numb in her boots as they splashed through loose scree on the shoulders of the mountains that surrounded the valley. They returned, and Justine went to her room and fell asleep. Again, Herr Brunner offered her a round bread she learned was called a Brotli, sliced and stuffed full of cheese and dried meat. She again ate it so quickly there was a lump in her throat, and the group hiked again. Justine made it through most of the dinner course before Ophelia had to nudge her.

The next morning, she awoke at a quarter to five in the morning. She crept down, and he was there, arms crossed, waiting for her. This time it made her angry. But she said nothing, and neither did he as they once again went out for a steep walk. Her thighs burned and her calves ached, but she made it, and kept up. Again, she missed breakfast but was there, ready for the afternoon hike, as was Herr Brunner with his Brotli.

She skipped dinner to sleep.

The next morning, she rose at half past four, certain that this time—this time!—she’d catch him snoozing. But no. Again, he was there, powerful arms folded across his wide chest, ready. Damn him. It was the same as it had been. No talking, just hiking. They didn’t speak a word. But Justine kept pace. Her thighs wobbled on the way down the mountain, and she was scared that her body might give out on her, but it didn’t. She carried on as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

And went to bed instead of breakfast. She showed downstairs for the afternoon hike, and Herr Brunner had her Brotli ready for her. She was shaky with fatigue. Prudence was down early and had to touch her shoulder to get her attention.

“You look exhausted, Justine.”

Justine smiled, her mouth full of cheese and meat and bread. Food was both amazing and a pain to keep chewing. If only there were a quicker way to get this into her body. She didn’t have the energy to reply to her friend.

“Have you been going on morning hikes all week?”

Justine nodded, taking another bite. She couldn’t waste time talking. Food needed to be consumed before it was time to walk again. She could do this. The afternoon hikes were easier anyway.

“Maybe you should go back upstairs and rest this afternoon.”

Justine shook her head. There was nothing anyone could say that would make her stop. If this was what this arrogant guide needed her to prove in order to get her up the Matterhorn, she would do it. He wasn’t going to run her down. It wasn’t possible. She was stronger, she knew it. She’d have to act more energetic than she felt, but that took energy she didn’t have either.

To prove to everyone that she was doing absolutely perfectly well, she made sure to be in the middle of their pack while hiking. With Prudence’s new concern, Justine was afraid she’d tell Ophelia, and they would make her stop. But she wasn’t stopping until Karl Vogel stopped. When he was run down, she was run down. She could go just as long, just as hard.

Today, however, she could see him leading them up the trail, and it gratified her to see how his boots scuffed certain rocks, how slowly he was taking them up this gently graded hill. He was as tired as she was. Or at least close to it.

Over the past week, she’d become very familiar with his hiking style, how high he lifted his boots, his sure-footedness, even when and if he needed to stretch out his arms for balance. He was not quite so sure of himself now.

At dinner, she was able to make it to the pudding course, her spirits buoyed by the knowledge that Karl Vogel was flagging, too. She would win this unspoken contest. There was no way she could ever be as strong as him, but she could prove that she had just as much mettle and commitment as he did.

**

His Onkel caught him by the arm as he returned the rag to the kitchen. He’d wiped down the tables and put what few chairs they had upside down on the tables so he could sweep and mop before laying out his pallet in front of the fire.

“How are you doing with the ladies?”

Onkel Peter asked in German.

“Fine.”

Karl could barely think straight. His strategy of exhausting his lust was working in some respects. He didn’t have the time to get an erection before he fell asleep now, but his dreams were somehow all the more vivid for it. And every dream featured her. Every dream she smiled at him, every dream she had her shoulders and feet bared, and frequently, much more. It was a struggle to be awake early enough to be at the reception desk waiting for her, but he was. There was no way he was going to lose her unspoken challenge.

She thought she was strong? There was no one who would or could out-climb Karl. At least, not anywhere nearby. He was only now making his name as a guide, but he was well respected, and there was no way some ridiculous brown-eyed English sprite was going to outmatch him.

Behind Onkel Peter, Tante Greta tsked. Her large forearms were thrust into the washing bin, and she didn’t bother to look up. “You are losing weight, Karl. That’s not good. Eat more, walk less.”

“Tante, I cannot walk less.”

“Stop taking that girl out first, then you will walk less. Then maybe both of you will eat breakfast.”

“Sometimes the girl only eats the Brotli I fix her before the midday walk!”

Onkel Peter added.

Karl sighed. He didn’t like that Fr?ulein Brewer was losing weight rapidly either. Some weight loss would be expected—they were here to climb mountains, and living in higher altitudes often kept a person slim. But the rate both of them were shedding pounds was not sustainable.

“A break, perhaps?”

Onkel Peter suggested, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling in hope. “One day off?”

“Yes, everyone knows you must rest,”

Tante Greta said. “Like bread. It can only rise after a rest.”

“I will think about it,”

Karl promised. “Can you pass me the broom, Onkel?”

The older man waved him away. “I will sweep. You eat this plate your Tante made you.”

Karl glanced over to the corner where a small table sat with two chairs—where they ate in the kitchen, while the rest of the guests ate in the dining room. On the table was a small plate, laden with cheese and dried fruit.

“Tante, I ate dinner. Every morsel. I promise.”

She shook her head, and Karl thought he might see the young woman in there that had bewitched a young Peter Brunner away from stately Augsburg and into the snow-capped mountains. “You must eat. Keep up your strength, because I have seen this girl. She will not stop. I know, because I see her. I was like her, too. I would not stop for anything or anyone. I’d rather die. And you keep her moving at this rate, she will drop dead in front of you rather than disappoint you.”

“Yes, Tante.”

Karl went over and obediently ate the cheese and fruit, chewing quickly for fear of falling asleep sitting up.

**

She woke at four. But now she didn’t expect to surprise him. Indeed, he was there, arms folded, bright-eyed, waiting, the bloody wanker. Fine. Again, without a word, he led them out of the inn and into the blue-purple pre-dawn twilight. He took her a different way this time, not up the goat path, but the opposite direction. They walked up the valley, from where they had arrived on the donkeys a week earlier. Had it only been a week? It seemed like it had been a month at least.

They walked along the frozen stream at a quick clip, Justine practically running to keep up with Karl’s fast pace. He said nothing, but she trailed alongside him, a half step behind. As soon as she caught up, she could swear he started walking faster.

But the chill invigorated her. It was as if yesterday her body had turned a corner. Instead of screaming at her to stop and lay down, to sleep for an entire week if possible, now it was happy to accommodate her demands. Her legs ached not to rest, but rather to keep moving. Her head no longer hurt from fatigue. Even the blisters she on her smallest toes had hardened into callouses.

He wanted to hike twice a day? Fine. He wanted to run these trails in silence, fine. She could do it, and happily so. Even though his speed was high, something felt different. He seemed not as distant in that half-step ahead of her. As if he were going to actually speak. Wouldn’t that be novel?

“Here,”

he said finally, pointing to a path that diverged from the stream. They walked across the valley, closer to another town—had they already gone the distance of an entire town?—and then started up a steep path that would no doubt end in Justine’s heart wanting to explode out of her body.

Once they were up in the trees, she grew accustomed to the slightly slower rhythmic pace of Karl’s steps, still almost a run for her much-shorter legs. Whatever hope she had for a conversation died. After his one-word direction earlier, he didn’t speak, so she didn’t either.

They moved, fully in their bodies, up the mountain on long sloping switchbacks. They climbed until they reached the tree line. Above there, the icy, rocky scree was slippery, but still they ascended. The breeze felt good, even though it was cold. Her nose ran continuously, and she kept running her woolen glove under it.

They crested a rounded area, a shoulder of the mountain, and Karl slowed to a stop. Her breath came in short pants as she stopped next to him, her hands on her hips. This hadn’t been the worst of their paths, but it was the speed that had made it difficult. Her calves burned, and the sides of her thighs ached from the use.

She was shocked he’d stopped at all. At no point in the earlier walks had he let them stop. Only when they were on the afternoon hikes did he give them time to relax and admire views. Or teach them about local flora and fauna. Usually, she was too tired to listen. Besides, he was mostly speaking with Tristan and Ophelia, who both loved to learn those tedious bits about a place.

“I like seeing the houses,”

Karl said out of nowhere.

Justine could only look, not having enough breath to speak, and shocked by an actual conversational topic. Indeed, down below them, she could see the town they’d almost reached, and then to her left she could barely make out Zermatt, crowded as it was by the trees.

“It’s nice,”

Justine said as soon as she could. Was she supposed to answer him back? Did he want to chat, or did he want to opine at her?

“Do you know this town?”

he asked her, pointing to the one they had turned up the path before entering.

She shook her head, feeling the wool scratching at the sweaty nape of her neck as she did so. Were they going to have a chat? Did she need to bring a flask of tea for this? But she didn’t want to ruin his candor by bringing attention to their typical silence.

“This town is called T?sch. It was wiped out centuries ago by a rockslide.”

Justine raised her eyebrows, but from where she stood, it made sense. Their traverse over had been filled with rock fragments piled so deep that each step was unsure as the rocks ground and slipped against each other. “They were able to dig it out?”

Karl shook his head. “No. They rebuilt instead. New homes. New barns.”

Justine stared down at the little brown wooden buildings below them. “They certainly don’t look new.”

Karl laughed, shocking Justine. The man could laugh? She had thought they’d walked any sort of humor right out of him. “Not anymore, no. This happened many, many years ago. Maybe four hundred years?”

Justine reared back, finally comfortable enough to give her real opinion. “And you still tell this story, even though it was four hundred years ago?”

He shrugged. “Not much else to tell. Nothing happens here. It’s the same families, the same goats and cows, the same snow.”

Justine took in a large steadying breath and turned in a slow circle, viewing the mountains, the snow, the scale of this valley. “And magnificent mountains.”

She could hear his grin in his voice as he said, “The best mountains.”

“The rest of the walk is downhill. We can go slower and still make breakfast.”

Was he trying to be nice to her? After this entire week of bloody death marches? “After that speed walk from the inn, you’ll go slow enough to actually talk to me?”

He had a fat grin on his face, which only made him look more approachable and competent, and handsome , damn him. After what he’d done to her, he had the gall to be nice? “I notice you like to talk. I will allow this.”

“Allow?”

Justine was about to burst into flames from anger until she noticed his eyes sparkling with mischief. Before she thought better of it, she slugged him as hard as she could in the arm. “You are a complete arse.”

Then she stomped off down what she assumed was the correct trail. After all this. After four in the morning wake-ups, after falling asleep at the dinner table almost every night. If they returned to the inn with time for her to have an actual hot cup of tea, she thought she might cry.

How dare he be nice to her?

He laughed and jogged after her. “Not many can keep up with me. I’ve been very impressed with you, Fr?ulein Brewer.”

She scoffed at him and tossed her head, but a warm thrill coursed through her insides down to her toes. He was clearly very good at this, and very knowledgeable—exactly what one could hope for in a guide. They walked in companionable silence for a while before she couldn’t stand it anymore. If she was “allowed”

to talk, then she was talking.

“Were you born here?”

she asked.

“No, I was born in Augsberg.”

When she didn’t reply, he continued. “Which is in Bavaria.”

Justine had no idea where Bavaria was. But probably near here? She nodded sagely, as if she were a very serious student of geography and had not spent that time of her studies staring out the window, willing herself to keep still so she wouldn’t get hit on the knuckles with a ruler again .

“You don’t know where that is,”

Karl said, not even asking a question, but stating the obvious.

She was a terrible actress, but she was a terrible actress in some very beautiful mountains, and she didn’t care because the smell of the clean, clear air was still thrilling. She shrugged. “According to my father, Bavaria is neither here nor there with all the talk of war again. He was not happy about me gallivanting off to a disputed area.”

His back straightened, and his flash of pride was palpable in this serene walk. The tree line was still below them, but they were about to descend into the dark forest, where the ground was almost spongy underneath the crust of old, icy snow among the roots.

“Did I offend you?”

she asked, trying very hard to not ask sweetly, so he would not take even more offense, or think her completely empty-headed. Why did she care what he thought? She hated that she did, even though his regard meant very little to her, and was not at all consuming. “I don’t follow all the wars. There are too many, and after the American debacle, I have absolutely no interest in learning more.”

“Then you are lucky,” he said.

She glanced over at him before they entered the dim light of the trees. His mouth was set in a grim line, and he was profoundly unhappy. The path began to descend more steeply, and she tried to figure out what to say next. She didn’t mean to make him unhappy; in fact, it actually bothered her that he was. Why on earth would she be bothered about his feelings? She’d never been remotely disturbed when her suitors were mad at her for dancing with another man, or God forbid, fanning herself in a heated ballroom, leading them to believe she was sending secret fan messages mocking them.

Fine, she did mock them with her fan, but it was because they made these assumptions of her feelings and time. As if she couldn’t help but be overjoyed when the man with the persistent runny nose wanted to dance with her. Oh, he had money? How exciting, so did her father. If she could run a business or do anything, she would have money too. Look at her brothers. They were perfect idiots, and they were able to make a pound or two.

But Karl’s unhappiness felt very much like her fault. And it wasn’t based on assumptions of her feelings, but rather her lack of knowledge. Or compassion. Ugh. She hated feelings.

“I apologize for my lack of knowledge,”

she began, not knowing where she’d end up. “It’s just, as a woman, I’m given a very small circle of approved topics to discuss or learn about, and far-away wars aren’t one of them.”

Karl huffed, as if he were balancing his prickly emotions and his compassion towards her confinements. “No, I must apologize. Those ‘far-away wars’ take place near my home. Not my town, but I nearly fought for the Austrians, and if I had, I would have been at the Battle of Koniggr?tz.”

Justine nodded again, knowing absolutely nothing. “I see.”

It was a diplomatic thing to say, and might assuage his feelings, but she had no idea what that battle meant, or where it was, and frankly couldn’t have spelled it or repeated it back to him if he’d asked.

“This is not a battle you heard of? How is this possible?”

She wanted to glare at him but kept that to herself. But her mouth couldn’t stop. “What part of Englishwoman do you not understand?”

“How does being an Englishwoman have anything to do with knowing of the largest battle since Napoleon?”

Karl threw his hands in the air. “It is as if you live with your head in the ground!”

“Yes, now you understand!”

Justine cried. “Do you know what I was taught? How to match my shoes to my dress. What fabrics work well together. Which colors are best for my complexion. How to use a buttonholer that dislocates your shoulder to get dressed and undressed because my only value is how well I display my very expensive clothing.”

“You are useless!”

he cried, his gait elongating until he strode far in front of her.

“Do you think that’s my fault?”

she cried, running after him. “You try being coddled within an inch of your life. You try having every man you’ve ever met either stare down your dress or ask your father how much your dowry is. Why do you think I’m in this blasted place? It’s the only thing I am allowed to do, and the only reason I can is because Ophelia is doing it!”

She caught right up to him, her shorter legs working double the rate his were, but it didn’t matter. There was no way he was going to leave her alone in the woods. “Instead of judging me for it, why don’t you try telling me about it, you absolute hypocritical twit?”

His face creased. “What is a twit?”

he spat out.

“You, you great numpty.”

They were side by side again.

“I do not know that word either.”

His boots landed heavy in the snow, tamping deeper than he ever had before.

She liked that he was stomping like a child. Good. Now he could be the ignorant one. “English is full of nuance.”

Karl scoffed. “As if English is the only language and the rest of us are grunting and banging rocks together.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Her temper was cooling, but her heart was racing like a rabbit’s. There was something about this verbal sparring that she enjoyed.

“Then tell me these words,”

he demanded. His stomping had lessened into normal steps.

“And what if I don’t?”

she challenged, still enjoying the edge she carried over him. True, the superiority was exceedingly slim, as the only thing she was better at was her native language, but she was petty enough to exploit any angle she had.

“I’m not a twat,”

he grumbled.

She spat out a laugh. “That’s not what I said.”

“No? What did you say? Tweet? Like a birdsong?”

She started laughing and couldn’t stop. “You called yourself a twat.”

Her breath caught, and she had to slow down, bending over to recover.

“It is really not funny,”

he said. “What is a twat?”

His question sent her spiraling again. She sighed out her laughter and tried for some composure. “A twat is—”

She could barely get the word out of her mouth, and she was about to gesture to her own body, but then decided against it. There were limits, even for her. “A twat is a rather indecent thing to say.”

At least the exchange seemed to appease him, and he raised his eyebrows in consideration. He watched her recover a while longer, which neither of them seemed to mind. Finally, she gave a sigh and quieted, which seemed to appease him.

“Ready?”

She nodded, trying desperately not to snicker and they continued down the path.

“You are right,”

he said, catching her by surprise. “It is not fair to criticize your learning if I do not seek to rectify it.”

“That sentence started out very nicely, but sort of fell off at the end.”

“Do you not wish to learn?”

he asked, looking at her with sincere concern, as if she had told him she had a terrible illness.

“Not that I don’t wish to, but I have had very bad luck at learning in the past.”

He frowned. “But you know about your colors and the, what was it? Button-holder?”

“Buttonholer,”

she corrected. “You can try, if you wish, but I make no promises of retaining the information or even being able to fully concentrate on listening to you.”

He made a considering sort of noise that she found adorable. She hated that she thought it was adorable. He wasn’t at all worthy of adoring. He’d just called her stupid. No, she amended to herself, not stupid. Ignorant, and that was different.

“I will give you the brief version of events. For these are wars very long in the making.”

“That I believe,”

she said. “They say women can hold a grudge, but my goodness, we don’t wipe out entire towns to get back at one another. Even Miss Christenson only ever spilled her red ratafia on Miss Barrow’s white dress when she believed Miss Barrow had stolen away the affections of Lord Crowdon. Turns out he wasn’t interested in either of them.”

Karl shook his head. “I don’t understand anything you just said.”

“See?”

Justine smiled. “We’re even. Now tell me about some very serious men having very serious wars and ending up very seriously dead.”

As they walked, Karl tried to tell her about the different kingdoms that had made up the middle of the European continent. Mostly about Prussia in the north, Bavaria and Austria in the east, France to the west, and the newly unified Italian peninsula in the south, and how they squabbled. Justine couldn’t help but think of it as siblings, all fighting over the last pudding.

But then he made it personal, and that Justine could pay attention to, because it was him. Only a few times did she get lost in how pleasing his face looked as he spoke animatedly of his home and Austria. Of how his town was more like Austrian culture than Prussian culture. How, even if they all spoke similar language, the dialects were different, and the northerners found them slow and stupid because they had farms and weavers’ guilds, instead of railroads and factories. And how that made him want to fight.

“Of course it made me want to put on a uniform. The fighting was happening near my mother and brothers and sisters. I wanted to defend them. But before I could go and make a fool of myself, we received a letter from my Onkel Peter, who had long ago married a Swiss woman from Zermatt, my Tante Greta, and how they were opening a hotel for British tourists. How they were going to change Zermatt from its small, out-of-the-way village to one of travel and trade.”

“How did that affect you?”

Justine asked. “It was your uncle, not you.”

“Yes, but he counted on having support of his brother, my father. Family, you know, sometimes they make promises from long ago, and then, they come due at inconvenient times. I had been to Zermatt many times, but I only stayed during the climbing season, not all winter.”

Justine smiled. She could understand staying here in Zermatt. The mountains had enchanted her.

“My Onkel needed a man strong enough to tend to everything. Most young men from here either left for bigger cities to find work or went to war. I didn’t want to come. I wanted to fight. To be brave. To be a hero.”

“But you didn’t.”

Karl shook his head. “I did not. I am not a hero. I am a dirty mountain guide, finding peace with goats and cattle that graze high up on the peaks. Sometimes I despise how peaceful I feel here, how at home I feel.”

They left the tree cover, emerging at the bottom of the forest, near the frozen stream, the village of T?sch behind them and Zermatt, unseen around the mountain base, ahead of them.

“I suppose that is the difference between being born to a family versus being born to a dynasty,”

she said, thinking of all the overheard conversations of Tristan and his elder brother Arthur, who would one day become the Viscount Rascomb, after their father died.

“I don’t understand,”

Karl said, frowning. “I do not know this word in English. Dy-nas-ty.”

“Fair enough,”

Justine said. The sun felt good on her face and her arms. A cup of tea at breakfast would taste so perfect, along with some toast and jam. “Dynasty is akin to a ruling class. Like royalty or some kind of nobleman. A family where the eldest son must do his duty for his country or the title, not necessarily his family.”

“Ah,”

Karl said, his expression opening in understanding. “I understand, and yes. That is it. I have family obligations that are more important than fighting in a war that is too big for us to understand. I do not mean that my family is better than my country, only that there is not only fighting that makes a country.”

“Deals made by men of influence,”

Justine mused, thinking of how her father was not a dynastic man, but he could, at times, be considered a man of influence. Anyone with wealth, should they be so inclined, could become influential. But money didn’t mean a person was good or deserving. It was just there . And, as many learned in the aftermath of wars, that wealth could be gone in an instant.

Oh, look at her, thinking profound worldly thoughts. What this mountain air was doing to her! She looked over at Karl and grinned. She’d never liked a man before. Been attracted to them? Of course. Justine had liked plenty of men for dancing and flirting, and even a stolen kiss or two. But she’d never liked them. Walking with Karl was companionable, friendly. He didn’t seem to look down on her or treat her as a child, which was new.

She’d once believed that the reason why she had so many suitors was that she was short. They believed they could treat her as a child, and given her size, it was a tempting thought. But she wasn’t a child. She was an opinionated woman, and that made even her outlandish dowry seem unappealing.

But Karl seemed to not be bothered by what her mother called her “plucky spirit.”

That’s when she realized she’d started thinking of him by his first name, which was far too familiar. He still called her Fr?ulein, so she should respond in kind. How strange that she wanted to become more familiar with him, when he seemed to not care about her one way or another.

They walked on in silence. But before they reached the inn, he said, “Tomorrow is a rest day for everyone. Like bread, one must rest before one can rise.”

Justine blinked at him. Was she the bread? Were they all the bread?

“Are you resting?”

she asked.

He gave her a wistful smile. “I will be doing chores around the inn. Whatever is needed. Some goats are close to kidding.”

“There are baby goats here?”

Justine asked, amused at how animated he became about livestock. A baby goat was very cute, and she would not mind holding one at all.

“You can come see, if you like. The pens are just beyond the inn. You will hear them.”

Karl opened the door for her, and the commotion from the dining room surprised her. They were back in time for the full swing of breakfast.

He held the door for her to the dining room as well, and she couldn’t help but feel like that young debutante again. Just for a moment. A handsome man, watching her as she sailed into a room. Except this time she had the gritty, salty sheen of sweat dried on her face. And that was a vast improvement.

**