Gwen
Of all the daydreams I’ve cooked up about the blacksmith, riding in his flatbed truck through the valley late at night was not one of them.
But the joke’s on me, because the stars are glimmering overhead in newly cleared skies, and the bumpy dirt road keeps jostling me against his hard shoulder, and every word spoken between us in the dark sounds like a confession.
“Your father won’t be happy with me.” Rhys states it as a fact, frowning straight ahead with a grim expression as the truck engine rumbles beneath us.
And what’s that supposed to mean? All the blacksmith has done is look out for me; he’s saved me from my own foolishness, and now he’s bringing me home safe and sound.
“He should thank you.” I swallow, throat tight. “I should thank you. I had no business poking around your forge, and now I’ve caused you nothing but trouble.”
Rhys is silent. I stare at him in the shadows, watching the muscle flex in his bearded jaw. His gray eyes are light against his olive skin, glued to the road ahead, and heavy lines crease the corners of his eyes.
I mean, is he really so much older than me? Less than twice my age, definitely. Is that truly so messed up?
“Thank you, Rhys Evans,” I press.
“Don’t.” His big hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles pale beneath their constant layer of soot. “Don’t thank me, Gwendoline. I have no honor when it comes to you.”
Now if that were true, I wouldn’t be the most restless girl in the valley, but here I am dying of happiness every time the truck throws me against the blacksmith’s arm. He’s so big and burly, a tower of rocks in the driver’s seat, and every brush of contact makes my heart pound like crazy.
No honor?
Then why am I losing my mind over these tiny, innocent touches?
“I’ll tell Dad what happened. I’ll explain everything.
He knows what I’m like, believe me, and he’ll know that I’m the root cause of all this.
He’ll probably want to pay you damages. He’ll call into the local radio thanking you.
” I keep up a stream of bright chatter as we bounce along the dirt road, climbing higher and higher into the valley, and I should shut up really, but the blacksmith’s mouth is twitching at my antics, so I keep going.
“He’ll pin a medal on you. He’ll beg you to keep me. ”
That wry smile falls away. “No, he won’t.”
“Then I’ll beg you to keep me.”
“Gwendoline.” My name cracks through the quiet, low and angry, and I fall silent. I pushed things too far. I always, always do this.
Joking with the man is one thing, but flirting like that? What is wrong with me?
“Sorry,” I whisper. God, I hate that I do this. I hate that I make him uncomfortable.
Rhys Evans shifts in his seat, but he says nothing. The truck engine growls louder and we lurch faster up the valley path, ghostly sheep watching us from nearby dark fields, and for once I wish this encounter was over already. Usually, I treasure every second near the gruff blacksmith, but tonight…
I’ve finally had enough.
It hurts wanting a man who barely knows you’re alive. And I’m used to being a bother, used to everyone thinking I’m a pest, but when he thinks it, it’s like my rib cage cracks open.
I’m bruised worse than my fall. Raw and bleeding.
“Gwendoline—”
“It’s Gwen.” I knot my fingers in my lap, burying them in the dark folds of my skirt. Out above the hillside, a cratered moon glows waxy and bright. “People only call me Gwendoline when they’re angry at me.”
I wait for it, wait for Rhys Evans to use my full name again, to make a point that I’ve pissed him off now too. But he doesn’t. He just sits beside me, scowling in the glow of the truck dashboard.
“You can drop me off here,” I offer as we make the final turn toward the farm. “It’s not too much farther to walk.”
“No.” The blacksmith sighs. “I’ll bring you home. Time to face the music.”
What? What is he talking about? I chew on my bottom lip as the truck swings onto my family farm, tires juddering over clumps of grass and half buried stones.
My father can’t possibly complain.
Despite my dearest wishes, Rhys Evans has done nothing wrong.
* * *
“Shameless.” My father spits the word between his teeth, dragging me by the elbow through the farmhouse doorway. Rhys Evans bristles behind me, his boots scraping as he shifts his weight, and when I glance over my shoulder, his hands hang loose and ready, freed from his pockets.
He squares up to the doorway. Broad-shouldered and grim.
And for a split second, I think the blacksmith is going to defend me to my father–then I realize I’m not the target. Dad’s blue eyes glare past me, pinning Rhys Evans in place in the stone courtyard.
“Shameless. You bring my daughter home in the middle of the night, covered in your filthy hand prints? By what right?”
I peer down, heart thumping when I see what he means.
Sooty hand prints trail all over my body, over my waist, my hips, and up and down my limbs.
Rhys was only checking me for injuries, but Dad doesn’t know that, does he?
It looks like he touched me everywhere, and all for fun.
It looks like he’s brought me home after several rolls in the hay.
Ha. If only. “Rhys was helping me. I slipped by the forge—”
My father holds up a hand, talking louder like I’m not even here. “She’s promised to the Thomas boy, Rhys Evans. Don’t go meddling with that.”
The blacksmith stiffens, gray eyes flashing to me then away. It’s difficult to tell with his thick beard and the gloom, but I swear he’s gritting his teeth. A flush crawls up my throat.
“I am not,” I say hotly, because I’ve had this discussion a thousand times now, and I’m beginning to feel like I’m talking to a brick wall. “I told you, I won’t marry to help the farm, Dad. I’ll help out in some other way—”
“What other way?” The man who raised me rounds on me in the doorway, backing me against the cracked wooden frame. “Are you suddenly useful, Gwendoline Roberts? Have you discovered secret talents? Because we can’t pay bills with blackberries, and you haven’t even brought those home. Useless girl.”
I blink, eyes burning, and my throat is like sand. It’s always like this when he turns on me. In the moment, I’m stunned into horrified silence. It’s only later that I think of the comebacks I should have said; the points I should have made.
It’s only later that I realize he was too harsh. That there was no need.
“Don’t speak to her like that.”
The deep warning makes my hair stand on end. I don’t know how Dad can sneer at the blacksmith like he does, not with the promise of violence in the air, because Rhys Evans is big enough to grind him under his heel. He’s big enough to rip the roof off the farmhouse.
“Or you’ll do what?” A bristly blond chin jerks my way, my father’s cheeks red from anger and windburn.
“You’ll take her home yourself? You’d send her home within three hours, Mr Evans.
You’d be banging on my door, begging me to take her back by the next day.
Our Gwendoline is a walking disaster. You sure you want that around your fancy forge? ”
I swallow, so miserable, but Rhys ignores my father altogether and looks straight at me. “Well, cariad?” Dad scoffs at the endearment, but my tummy flutters. “Do you want to come home with me after all?”
Yes.
More than anything. But didn’t I already hint at that in the truck? And what was his response? He was curt. Angry with me. And I won’t be a burden, won’t go to another home where I’m not truly wanted.
“No, thank you,” I whisper.
Rhys’s chest expands, drawing in a deep breath, but he nods once and turns on his heel. My father and I watch him leave, his heavy steps drumming across the paving stones. The slam of his truck door echoes through the night.
“The Thomas boy had better not hear of this,” Dad says under his breath.
I watch the blacksmith leave with dry eyes, his headlights swooping along the driveway. “There’s nothing to tell.”
If only.
If only, if only.
Because if Rhys Evans truly wanted me, I’d shout it from the rooftops, loud enough for the whole valley to hear.