Chapter 31
Penny
Breakfast was a debacle.
Sayla and Warren returned to find the same unpleasant surprise that had been my wakeup call. And, since I’d spent a large portion of the previous night telling my sister all the things Merrick had gotten up to in Ashpoint, she scowled across the table at him like he was a viper in our midst.
He always had been.
Warren and Mother remained ignorant, and they carried on a conversation about some new smelting technique that may have interested me if my ears hadn’t been full of my own thundering pulse.
Blood well past its boiling point spiked into my face and stung the tips of my ears while I stabbed a fork into my eggs and wished the broken yolks were Merrick’s eyes.
I held my tongue and swallowed every bitter thing that begged to be spoken until everyone finished eating, and Kit handed out work assignments.
Seeing that we hadn’t discussed the division of labor, I was a bit surprised to hear Kit taking charge. Not half as surprised as Merrick, though, who chased Kit to standing, unwilling to be talked down to in any capacity.
“I’m not sure how or when you’ve gotten the idea in your head that you have some stake in this place,” Merrick said. “If you want to lend your strength and sweat to the labor, so be it, but I’ve been working this farm since I was born, and I know the lay of things better than some stranger.”
“Kit’s no stranger,” I snapped, joining them on my feet. “He’s my intended, and he has as much right to this farm as I do. Which, I will gladly remind, is measures more than you.”
Kit’s dark eyes flicked my direction, and I remembered his warning before we left my bedroom. Secrets and lies abounded, as did caution. Be careful around Merrick. Here, there, and everywhere.
My fists clenched.
Had I told Sayla I’d punched our half-brother in Ashpoint? Laid him out in Kit’s house? She would be delighted by the fact. Or maybe Merrick would give me cause enough to recreate the scene now.
But Kit was watching me and shaking his head so scarcely anyone else would have missed it. So, I shook my fingers out and rolled my shoulders back, then deferred to my intended.
“I’ve asked Kit to be our foreman,” I said. “He’ll be giving the orders, and you’ll be taking them. Or you can take your things and leave. I don’t abide surly hands on my farm.”
Merrick was already steaming, red in the face with his eyes bulging.
I thought he might explode, and I half-hoped he would.
Let him spoil everything. Lay us bare, and himself in the process.
But Kit said that would ruin us. Ruin my mother who had not been nearly as pleased about my engagement as I’d hoped.
My mother who had not been herself since my father died.
“Very well.” Merrick choked on the words. “I’ll be working with you then, Kit?”
Kit gave a sharp nod. “Plowing. Penny and Warren will be in the barn.”
Merrick’s nose wrinkled. “Doing what?”
That remained the question a few hours later when I was sitting in the hay loft, peering out the open window at the fields below. Kit and Merrick worked together as separately as possible, my half-brother leading the horse while my intended minded the plow, all with barely a word exchanged.
The dreary weather left the sky dull and gray with a drizzle in the air that had both men soaked through. I’d long since stopped tracing the plow lines cut in the dirt and switched to studying Kit’s form instead. His wet shirt stuck to his skin, contoured to his chest and arms.
And his shoulders, gods forbid I overlook those.
This was almost as tantalizing as seeing him in the bath.
Dark curls were plastered to his brow, and his muscles flexed and strained.
Never before had I been jealous of a plot of land, thinking how gladly I would let Kit work me over like that.
A strapping blacksmith turned farmer, drenched and muddy and doling out orders to my half-brother as the most competent foreman I’d ever seen.
I wasn’t sure which was more tantalizing: Kit’s soggy state reminding me of soap bubbles and the sensation of his warm bare skin grazing against mine, or the sight of someone taking Merrick to task.
The imagined heat of a bath became increasingly real, pooling in my belly then traveling south.
I curled against the window frame, letting my palm ghost over my crotch to adjust the growing stiffness there.
I was still tugging on my trousers when a brunette head peeked over the edge of the hayloft, and Warren called to me.
“Pen?”
The other man’s sudden appearance made me startle and squeeze, which then made me yelp, so I couldn’t fault Warren’s befuddled expression as he hung off the ladder and stared, awaiting my response.
With pain replacing the spark of pleasure in my groin, I scooted around to face him. “Yes?”
“I’ve finished throwing hay out for the cows,” Warren replied, still looking a bit puzzled. “What’s next?”
Come to think of it, he always seemed a bit confused. It may have had to do with my lack of instruction for his first day of farmwork. Kit was definitely a better foreman than I was, and I would rather watch him toil in the rain than find menial tasks to occupy Warren’s time.
There was plenty to do, but most of it required me venturing out into the chilly wet, and Kit would have none of that. Though, I did wonder if he would think I looked as dashing in a wet shirt as he did.
“Penny?” Warren pressed, reminding me I had yet to answer.
Despite his insistence, my attention wandered. I should have been looking at my eager charge but gazed over my shoulder instead, watching Kit trudge through the mud. Without turning, I waved Warren off.
“Familiarize yourself with the tools,” I said. “A farmer is only as good as his equipment.”
I vaguely recalled my father saying something about that. Likely in reference to the plow blade I’d left dirty and rusting without his reminder after he died.
Rather than climb down the ladder and restore my peace, Warren grumbled. “There’s a few pitchforks, rakes, shovels…”
“The chickens,” I said, a fleeting thought. “They need tending.”
“I did that first,” Warren replied. “I’ve taken to helping Sayla with them most days…”
He kept talking, hugging the ladder and telling me how he and my sister collected eggs and kept the coop full of fresh straw for warmth in the winter months. There was some mention of a fox or maybe a snake getting into one of the nesting boxes. Eggs stolen. These things happened.
I nodded through the tale without peeling my eyes off the scene playing out in the field. Merrick had stuck his boot in a mud hole and was kicking the ground with his other foot to try to free it and shouting words I couldn’t discern.
My laughter must have seemed odd in response to Warren’s story about the chicken that got eaten by the fox—or snake?
—as he clambered the rest of the way up the ladder and crawled across the loft to sit next to me.
He settled in, leaning against the other side of the window frame and gazing out at what held me rapt.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Supervising,” I replied.
Warren gave another grunt as he shuffled around in the hay. “I feel like we might be the ones who need supervising.”
“I wouldn’t mind being supervised right now,” I said with a sigh as I tipped my head against the rough wood wall.
Kit had taken over leading the horse and carried on down the plow line, leaving Merrick to catch up. My half-brother stumbled along, sporting what looked like an awkward limp with one boot completely logged with mud and unbalancing his stride.
I knew Kit didn’t dare look back because he was bound to be smiling as wide as I was. He managed stoicism better than I did, but there was no chance he could resist cracking a grin at this.
Quiet crept up on us. On me, mostly, lost in my thoughts as I was until Warren spoke again.
“So, blacksmithing?”
“It’s the shoulders,” I murmured dreamily, then realized what I said and shook off my stupor. “Oh, you meant my apprenticeship. Yes. Blacksmithing.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
Was this how Kit felt when we first met? Perhaps how he still felt on nights when the day had worn on him and he would have preferred a tranquil evening at home. But there I was, like Warren was now, all wide eyes and eager smiles. And questions.
“It’s fine work,” I replied. “Kit’s good at it.”
With another heavy breath, I peeled my eyes from the field and faced him. “Mostly, I do leatherworking. Belts, straps, bags, and the like.”
“Ah.” Warren folded his arms, looking very sage, or at least deep in thought, before he piped up again. “It’s an interesting approach.”
“What is?” I asked.
He bounced his shoulders. “Taking on an apprenticeship for the sake of charming a suitor. You must have been eager to impress him.”
The insinuation made me bristle. “I’ll have you know I was the suitor. Not Kit.”
And if blacksmithing was the way to Kit’s heart, I would never have hit the mark. Fortunately, my beau appreciated my other skills. Keeping his home cozy, his belly full, and his bed warm.
A smug smile chased away my indignance in time for Warren to pose yet another inquiry.
“And you proposed?” He cocked his head, spilling brown hair across his brow.
“He surprised me,” I replied. “I thought I would have to chase him to his grave… And I was willing.” My smile grew, and Warren nodded understanding.
“You won him over.”
I snorted. “Somehow.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he continued. “Well, that and because Sayla asked. But I would like to impress her.”
I glanced toward the field once more. It was strange to think about a man working for my sister’s approval.
Sayla was a cheerful sort, ever ready with a smile or laugh.
I didn’t imagine she would be difficult to please.
But a check of Warren’s expression found it earnest, almost adoring as he considered.
“Do you think she’ll be impressed?” he asked.
I hummed a soft sound. “Not if we spend the day sitting in here.”
Recounting our accomplishments for the day didn’t yield much bounty, so I understood his concern.
Kit would be pleased enough that I’d stayed out of the damp cold.
Any other accomplishments were a bonus. But Warren was a man with a mission, and if I could aid him, I would.
He might have doubted his ability to charm my sister, but I knew she’d been smitten with him since I left Eastcliff the past autumn.
Having a day’s work to boast about wasn’t likely to improve her estimation of him, but it couldn’t hurt.
Pushing to my feet, I offered Warren a hand up. “I’m sure we can make ourselves useful.”
He stood and followed me down the ladder to the ground floor.
I dusted my hands down my trousers and surveyed the space.
It was disorganized and dusty, untouched since I left it after harvest. It wasn’t thrilling work, but Warren would have something to show for his efforts.
And I would get dirty enough to earn the bath I hadn’t stopped thinking about.
Massaging Kit’s sore muscles, kissing his strong shoulders, and popping the soap bubbles on his neck.
Apparently, I’d stood too long surveying the state of things because Warren prompted me again.
“Pen?”
I was ready with a groaned retort when I looked aside and found his face no less earnest than it had been in the loft. Maybe more so. He clasped his hands at his waist and wrung them together.
“Yes?” I asked.
Warren shifted side to side, dodging my eyes after he’d so plainly asked for my attention. Thankfully, it didn’t take him long to come out with a few words.
“I don’t know whether I should ask you or Merrick—”
I raised my hand to stop him. “Never ask Merrick anything.”
He gave a sheepish nod, then cleared his throat. “About Sayla… I’d like to marry her. And I think she would like it if…” He tugged on the laces at the neck of his shirt. “I think it would mean something to her if I had your blessing.”
It wasn't my place.
That thought superseded the surprise and delight about what should have been good news. Warren didn't need anyone's permission to wed my sister, but he wanted approval. I didn't feel like that was mine to give. If my father had been here… if my father had been alive…
I hadn't grieved him in some time. Not actively. Memories came with sadness and the unwanted awareness of the void in my family. But I was busy in Ashpoint and didn't want for company. It was easy enough to put those things out of mind.
Here, for the first planting season without my father, it wasn't so easy to ignore.
I'd fallen silent again, leaving Warren waiting for a response I wasn't sure I could give. But Sayla said herself the previous night, reminded me: I’d sworn to provide for them, and part of that job was securing their happiness.
If Warren made Sayla half as happy as Kit made me, they would be a fine match.
Warren stared, clearly confused, until I thrust out my hand and forced my sunniest smile.
“Welcome to the family.”