3. 3.
3.
F or years now, Bwthyn Ywen had been a place of reprieve, of silence. Folke took comfort in its seclusion, dreading the days Eleanor inevitably intruded. Now, there were three men in his cottage. Noisy men. They tromped, spoke as though aurally challenged, and even while hiding in his bedroom, Folke knew they had kindled a fire in the wood stove. Its pipe clanged, audible from the bedroom across the landing. Not that he faulted them for it. While Folke had a change of clothes, feet warm in a fresh pair of woollen socks, those men likely didn’t.
At some point, one of them left. He heard the front door slam shut, the crunch of gravel under heavy feet.
Eventually, he would need to leave the comfort of his bedroom. The first pinch of hunger had already made itself known.
Folke picked at the buttons of his shirt, hovering near the door, waiting until he’d gathered enough courage to go down.
It took a while.
Voices floated into the hallway when he finally made it downstairs, although they were hushed, as if Finlay and Thomas didn’t want to be overheard. Folke worried the buttons again, then traced along the wall to the front room.
“. . .Barely any food.”
“Blame Whyte.”
“I’m going to thank him,” said Thomas. “If it were up to you we’d still be out there getting soaked.”
Folke’s fingernails nicked the door frame with a quiet tap . He sucked in a breath that trapped itself in his chest.
“If it were up to me, we’d be done by now.”
“Or blown into another county. I swear these storms are getting worse.”
Someone chuffed, incredulous. Likely Finlay. “Some are, some aren’t. Don’t go reading into things where there’s nothing to read into.”
“Right, but the—”
Folke heard footsteps before his mind registered them. The front door opened, tenacious wind sweeping wayward leaves through the hallway, their rake across the floor halting by his feet. The door slammed shut again, and Folke stood frozen, plastered against the wall, arms splayed.
“Dinnae look so terrified.” That note of amusement danced along Darach’s low rumble.
Folke forced himself away from the wall when he heard Thomas and Finlay moving. Two muffled thuds, the flutter of what had to be a long coat being hung. Moisture flicked his way, a stray droplet pelting Folke’s cheek. Idly he wiped it, noting the scratch of beard hair under his fingertips. Eleanor had told him he looked a mess not that long ago.
Looks meant very little to Folke, but the pettifog of self-consciousness presented itself regardless.
“Oh, thank God.” Thomas’ whinge. He did sound young, despite the low, nasally timbre. “I won’t be able to survive on tinned soups.”
“Those are mine, anyway,” Folke snapped before he could help himself.
“Right ye are, shepherd,” said Darach. “Barely enough for ye, as is. Come, we’re happy to share.”
Darach’s hand had found its way to Folke’s elbow, but he shook it off and pressed himself back to the wall.
“Like hell!” said Thomas.
“Put something on. Yer indecency to our host is unbecoming.”
“He’s blind!”
“Did I stutter?”
“You’re pulling rank on me?”
“Thomas, shut up!” snarled Finlay. “Get dressed and shut the fuck up .”
Folke had plenty to ask about and plenty of things he wanted to shout too, but Finlay’s hostility sealed his mouth shut. Not even Thomas had anything to say. Folke was almost thankful when Darach nudged his arm again and murmured, “Come wi me.”
He felt the way to the kitchen, following behind Darach, aware of Thomas and Finlay getting dressed in the hallway. He didn’t know how to feel about that.
Coldness drifted along the bottom of his feet while he lingered by the doorway. Not the tiles, but water. Puddles Darach had to be leaving in his wake as he moved around the kitchen, setting things down on the worktops.
“Aren’t you going to change?” Folke asked when his teeth finally unglued.
“In a moment,” said Darach. “’Fraid I’m no’ a good cook, but there’s no’ much to frying a bit o’ meat, is there?”
“Uhm.”
“I kept an eye out for yer sheep as I went to fetch our things. I’m sorry, but I didnae spot any.”
Folke curled his grip into the front of his shirt. “I’m–I’m not surprised. There aren’t many.”
“How big is yer flock?”
“Fi– Four sheep.”
If he was lucky.
A pause, then the crank of tin under an opener. “What’s happened to the rest?”
He had let them die out in the end, was what had happened.
“We used to have a herd.” Said so quietly, he wondered if Darach heard him. “After I lost two-thirds I just. . .”
Stopped trying.
“Was their death sudden?”
Folke’s brows knit together. “I was told it could have been a sinkhole.”
Yet there hadn’t been a sinkhole found. The police had made the assumption and stuck with it no matter how hard he’d fought them on it.
Darach hummed. No traces of amusement this time, only pensiveness as he opened more cans. Several cupboards squeaked open, closed. The skillet met the stove.
“Havenae used this in a while, have ye?”
Folke bristled. “I don’t really cook.”
A saucepan was all he ever needed.
“Na judgement.” The tap spluttered, simmering down to the occasional angry huff. “Och. Hope ye havenae been drinking from this.”
“Wh-Why?”
“Water’s brown.”
Oh God. He had. It was one of the first things he did after a day’s work. That explained the taste.
“I can fix that for ye. Probably.” Casually said over the scrubbing of metal.
“Just how long do you expect this storm to last?” Folke couldn’t keep the scorn from his voice.
“I said I was looking to head into Crossing Wells.” Another thunk of the skillet. Clicking of the cooker.
Folke waited for the noise of sizzling to reduce before he dared to say what burned a hole in his tongue. “And I called bollocks.”
Darach laughed, the sound resonant, deeper than the earth. Not unkind, but Folke didn’t know how else to take it.
He continued, refusing to let the laughter get to him, “Sounds to me like you’re soldiers. Besides talking of rank, you have tinned meat. Rations .”
“Keener than any knife. Yer mind’s wasted on herding sheep.”
“It’s not a waste!” Folke shocked himself with the eruption of anger. He’d not been angry at anyone for so long it felt foreign. The way it moiled his insides physically hurt.
Iron raked and the sizzling died down shortly after. Darach’s presence drew near. Folke wanted to shrink but resisted. Something about the man screamed imposing , he could almost feel the size of him, looming.
“I’m sorry. I overstepped.”
“It’s not a waste,” Folke insisted with less bite.
“Na, dinnae reckon it is,” the man murmured.
So close .
Darach smelled of damp wool and sweat, of wood and storm. A droplet bled into Folke’s left sock, suggesting he really ought back away. Or Darach should change his clothes. Or both.
Both.
Folke slipped away from between door frame and man, the air suddenly much cooler.
“You’re going to catch your death,” he tossed over his shoulder, seeking the front room.
He pretended not to hear Darach’s, “Appreciate yer concern,” and allowed himself the distraction of the front room’s heat and Thomas whining about one thing or another.
Two steps inside and something caught his injured foot. Folke flung forward with a startled gasp, palms and knees connecting hard with the flagstone floor.
“Fucking Christ, Thomas!” Finlay barked.
Folke grunted in pain, easing his leg off the blockade. He fingered the fabric, took stock of its shape and texture. Long, canvas. One strap. A shoulder bag.
“Oh bollocks. Sorry.” Thomas slid it out of Folke’s inquisitive touch.
Commandeering hands grasped his biceps and hauled him upright. The sheer power behind it made him reel. His hand shot out to steady himself, palm pressing against something hot, somewhat slick.
Skin.
“Sorry,” Finlay groused, easing his nigh bruising grip off Folke’s arms. “He’s got shit for brains.”
“You’re American,” Folke blurted.
“Hm, what gave it away?”
Short temper, brashness.
The constant swearing.
Folke didn’t say any of these things, even though he wanted to. It occurred to him he was still touching Finlay, that the man hadn’t moved away. Folke wanted to move, but he’d been standing there mulling his response for several moments now and he no longer knew what to do. The room had grown silent but for the cracks and pops of a fire burning too hot. Storm-damp skin under his palm shifted with every angry breath Finlay took.
“I mean it,” Finlay said. “What gave it away?”
Folke faltered, finally withdrawing his hand and trying to ignore the stolen feel of chest hair against his retreating fingertips. “Your accent.”
“Is British.”
“Your outbursts, then.”
A sharp, jubilant laugh. “He’s got you there!”
“You asked,” Folke hastily added.
A grumble that was more of a growl, but Finlay didn’t respond, his footfalls drifting away.
“But you’re fine, otherwise.” Folke didn’t know why he felt pity. Thomas’ laughter, devolved into frantic squeaks, wasn’t helping.
“Shut up,” Finlay snarled .
Better do as recommended.
Folke took a hesitant step forward, wishing he knew where his crook was, if Thomas didn’t have the sense to keep things out of his way. His foot hurt worse, making the task of not limping impossible. Although he was unsure of where the others had positioned themselves, Folke bypassed the only chair.
That ancient chair, inherited from his grandparents. With cream fabric and red blossoms, faded even back then. Wood legs inky brown with scratches, some courtesy of Folke’s childish carelessness. He’d sat in it only once, so many years ago, and the heartbroken look that had crossed his mother’s face still haunted him. So he perched himself on the settee as he always had after that, tension stiffening his shoulders when he realised someone was already there.
“I won’t be here long,” he muttered, resting his hands over his knees.
“It’s your home. Do what you want.” Finlay, beside him.
As long as he didn’t question things, or said Finlay sounded less British the more he spoke. He made a terrible spy, if that’s what he was.
Spying on what.
Who for.
What was so special about Crossing Wells it warranted three soldiers to arrive in the middle of a storm.
Folke twitched his head to the left. Darach’s feet were without boots now, but he was a heavy-footed man even on flagstone. He brought with him the scent of fried beef and onion, serving as a reminder. Folke’s empty stomach cramped.
“Nothing wrong with your hearing, hm?” Finlay’s voice was low, close to his ear.
Folke didn’t respond, moving to get up.
“Steady on,” Darach said as Folke dropped back into the settee. “Nearly spilled yer supper.”
“What? No. I was only waiting for you to. . .”
Get out of the way. Out of the kitchen. My home .
“We’re no’ gaun’ae impose without feeding ye.” The blunt edge of a scalloped plate pressed against Folke’s sternum. He didn’t move to accept.
“Take it, or wear it.”
Finlay’s threat made his hands shoot up, fingers knocking into stoneware before he steadied his hold on it. A utensil was pressed into the crook between his thumb and forefinger, lightly, as if to tell him it was there. Folke settled the plate in his lap, but didn’t eat. He sat there, listening to men devour their meal like ravenous wolves, wondering if this would be his last one.
“Are you going to kill me?” Folke asked between the fervent scrapes of forks.
An abrupt silence befell the room. Tense, as if they were mulling over their answer.
“Naw, Shepherd,” Darach murmured.
That was not the response of a civilian. That was the response of men who had considered the option, could very well commit to it, but decided against it.
For now. For one reason or another .
“Ye neednae worry about poison in yer meal, either.”
Hadn’t even considered poison.
“Please, don’t. Not until I can make sure my sheep will be alright.”
Then what, they could kill him for something he wasn’t even aware of?
Heavy silence tarried, before feet padded toward him, each step drawing further rigidity into Folke’s spine. A significant weight lowered upon the settee, a warm thigh sliding against his left.
“I’m gaun'ae touch yer hand, alright?”
“Fine,” Folke pushed out.
There didn’t seem to be an alternative. Darach had warned him, yet he startled when fingers slid across the back of his left hand and settled there to guide him to the plate still in his lap.
“Take some food.”
Folke did, pinching crumbling meat between his fingers.
Slowly, Darach manoeuvred his hand up. A brush of hair and soft skin.
A beard, and Darach’s mouth.
Parting around his fingers to suck the ground beef out of them. The heat of a tongue whisked past his fingertips, freezing Folke’s movements, his thoughts. Everything aside from his heart, beating more harshly than the shutters in the wind. Even once lips sealed against his touch, Darach didn’t release his hand, holding it there for him to feel the motion of his chewing. Slow and deliberate.
An audible gulp.
Not from Folke. He’d forgotten how to swallow, saliva flooding his mouth.
“Understand?” Darach’s lips moved against his fingertips with the whisper.
“What is happening ?” Thomas’ voice wrenched Folke into an audible gulp of his own.
He squirmed out of Darach’s hold. Would have uttered his thanks if he remembered how to speak. Seemed he couldn’t remember how to eat either, the fork he’d brought up jabbing him in the corner of his mouth.