7. 7.
7.
T he walk back was murderous. Were it not for Darach keeping him upright, Folke would have rolled down a hill and died before reaching its foot. Once they made it to the stone steps of the back porch, he could scarcely lift his feet.
“The Garments,” Folke gasped, turning in Darach’s hold to go back. He had to. . .
God, the barn was ruined. He’d need to head into Crossing Wells after all. Find Cyril. And what a nightmare that would be, when the village lay several miles tucked into a valley with pot-holes and obstacles in-between.
“Dunne!”
Folke groaned in agony. Clutched his head.
“Beg yer pardon,” Darach murmured. When the back door squeaked open, the man all but lifted Folke into another set of arms. “See to it he gets rest.”
“Jesus,” Finlay grumbled right into Folke’s ear.
He would have fought him, had he any strength left. Instead, all Folke managed was to grunt with discontentment. Especially at the stink of cigarette smoke.
“Dinnae fash, Shepherd. I’ll look after yer sheep.”
“But—”
Finlay dragged him inside, where a firm hand pressed to Folke’s chest, forcing him against the wall. Boots slid off his feet, the jacket eased off his shoulders. Then those virile arms encircled his rib cage again and practically hauled him around, heedless of the protests that came as ineffectual grabbing at the man’s jumper.
Not of bad wool.
Not great either.
“Not much to you, but damn, you’re solid,” Finlay grumbled.
Folke’s backside met with the worn settee, its discomfort inconsequential when his body already ached overmuch. Finlay was on the move, walking away from him, then reapproached behind him. Hands gripped the side of Folke’s head and he instinctively pulled away.
“Let me treat it, for fuck’s sake. Bad enough I let you go out in this state.”
“You sound like a doctor,” Folke said in distaste. This time, when those commanding hands held his head again, he resisted the need to free himself.
“Field medic. Granted, a bad one.”
“So, you are soldiers.”
Silence.
Then, “Fuck.”
Folke’s mouth strained. “Why hide it?”
The war had come to an end less than a year ago. Roaming soldiers seeking a home in a world they no longer fit into weren’t unheard of.
Carton rustled open, tearing some. Firm fingers returned and Folke sucked in a sharp breath at the sting to the back of his head, followed by the strong scent of alcohol.
An iodine tincture.
He’d used plenty of it in his time. Finlay was as meticulous tending to his head as he had his face, bandages wrapped tight. He wasn’t especially gentle, pushing Folke’s head forward, to the side, tilting him back until his throat was exposed. A slide of fingers down the side of his neck. Folke thought he might be feeling for his pulse.
“Mm.”
“Still alive, then?” Folke threw his focus into the encroaching discomfort of the settee instead of the warm touch to his skin.
“Probably.” Finlay tapped his shoulder. “Get out of those clothes.”
Folke slipped out of the man’s touch. “I’m fine.”
Finlay swore. Moved in front of him. Pressed a few fingers to his forehead. “Do you get off on being bullheaded?”
A swift clicking noise.
Folke said, “Not especially.”
And a pause.
“Fuck.”
His nose curled with the pungency of cigarette smoke as a sigh whipped over his rain-dampened face. It was the sigh of a man who had been angry and tired for too long. Who had lost all tolerance and struggled to keep it together. Folke felt that breath creep under his skin, into his flesh and bones.
He connected with it. So strongly it startled him.
“I’ll get out of my clothes,” Folke conceded. “If it’s that important.”
“That’s not it.” Finlay grunted. “Your pupils aren’t reacting.”
“Oh.”
Rather than provide explanation, Finlay’s weighty footfalls receded into the hallway. Folke waited for him to return, but faint words uttered in Gaelic floated inside. So he tipped sideways and laid himself down. Breathed out a sigh. Long and exhausted, reminiscent of Finlay’s.
Closed his eyes.
“You’re not supposed to sleep. ”
Folke’s breath caught in his chest, heart lurching painfully.
Thomas was going to be the death of him.
“I would’ve said something sooner but. . .”
“But what?” Folke prompted, annoyed. When he tried to sit up, his body revolted. So he slumped further into the settee. God, he was tired.
Thomas made a dismissive noise.
“How much longer do you three plan on imposing?” Folke asked eventually. With the storm now gone, they were free to go. It could have been the first thing they did.
Yet they hadn’t.
“Sorry,” Thomas muttered. “I keep forgetting you’re blind.”
“A problem I don’t share.”
A short burst of a laugh. “Did you just make a joke?”
Had he?
“You didn’t answer my question.” Folke shivered, the first hints of a chill setting in.
Should have gotten out of his wet clothes.
“We were only supposed to stay in this area for a week. Might be longer now.”
He kept his intrigued hum to himself. “Why is that?”
“There’s more than—” Silence. A faint shift of fabric across flagstone. “More than enough room for us.”
“Not in my cottage there isn’t.”
Faint squeaks of the back door gave presage to two sets of heavy boots, their thumping ending in front of him. Folke longed to sit up, but the thought alone made him sink further into the worn fabric.
A knee clicked, and the comforting redolence of hay crept over him. “Ye need a doctor. We’re gaun’ae take ye to the village.”
“I’m fine.”
Finlay’s frustrated swear bounced around the front room.
“I just—” Folke faltered, then frowned. “The storm’s passed. You don’t owe me anything. You’ve. . .already done enough.”
Now go.
Let me fall back into solitude.
“About that,” Darach said, that voice sonorous, luring Folke closer. Or maybe it was the faint touch to his forehead, pushing rain-slick hair out of his eyes. “Ye were right. We are soldiers. An we wouldnae be doing our job if we left ye like this.”
Folke wanted to argue that taking care of a shepherd was unlikely to be in their job description. He would have, too, were it not for a sliver of realisation that came with the second touch to his forehead. Gentle, and kind.
Imploring.
Maybe these men were as lost as his sheep, searching for a purpose. Desperately grasping for it where they could. And here Folke was, a pathetic blind man who had lost his flock in a storm, offering that opportunity whether he was willing or not.
He couldn’t blame them for seizing it, whether they were willing or not.
For a prolonged time, Folke said nothing. Torn between resentment and the need to lean in further, when a thumb chased a droplet trailing down his forehead. Wiped it away.
Lilac tree branches scratched the window.
Someone had opened the shutters.
People didn’t open shutters to places unless they wanted to belong.
He’d done his best to chase Eleanor out, and fate dropped three others into his lap by way of response.
Maybe he should stop fighting it.
“It’s a long walk,” Folke said.
Darach hummed, softly. “Just as well we have a car.”
“Fine,” he muttered, strained.
Finlay, “Halle-fucking-luja.”
It didn’t feel right to lie there while three men created a whirlwind of susurrant fabric. Thick coats dropped to the floor. Suspenders snapped into place. Repeated thumps, and Thomas swore. A rush of movement brought a breeze over Folke and he shivered again. Clothes draped over his shoulder. Tiredly, he reached to pull them off, and grunted in disgust.
Rough, itchy wool.
Shetland wool.
“Better than being wet,” said Finlay.
“I have clothes,” Folke bit out. Pushing himself to sit up took everything he had. His strung-out groan would’ve made Socks proud.
“I’ll get them.” Darach left no room for a response, his footsteps thundering up the stairs. By the time he returned, Folke had managed to get the sodden jumper off over his head.
“What is this made o’?” Darach draped the item in question over Folke’s lap.
Their fingers connected and for one, terrifying moment, the urge to chase after Darach’s hand nearly overpowered him. Folke took a quivering breath, sliding his palms over wool. Softer than wool had any right to be. Nearly as exquisite as kashmir, if not just as .
Something long forgotten swirled inside his chest. Pride.
“Merino. This one,” he ran his fingers across the cabled pattern, “was made from our sheep’s wool. Someone in the village spun the yarn and another knit the jumper for me.”
Two elderly women. Always together. He liked them as a child. Hadn’t minded giving them a portion of his sheep’s wool, when they sought him out a while after. . .
“It’s lovely,” said Darach.
“Yes.”
Both men made a noise in the backs of their throats. Strangled interest, almost.
“Fuck,” Finlay breathed .
“Aye.”
“Blimey, you two are daft.” Thomas sounded impatient, stomping past. “It’s only a smile. I do it all the time, see?”
“Fuck off out of the way.”
Thomas squawked with indignation, stumbling. Out of the room, by the sound of it. Heat crept up Folke’s neck at the thought that they might be watching him so intently.