ONE Lurenz
ONE
Lurenz
“You should be friends.” Onna set her basket on the counter, jarring Lurenz from his study of the burly figure disappearing down the lane.
Linen sleeves hugged thick, muscular arms, and a worn woolen vest clung to his back, the deep brown garment a bold contradiction to the Senn’s pale yellow hide and golden curls.
“He has rented the barn for years; invite him in.”
“The village barely tolerates Fenra and her wolf, and you want me to invite him into our home?” Lurenz splayed his fingers at the window.
“Yes.” She unloaded an armful of cabbage, catching one before it rolled off the counter. “It is only polite. We have the front room, and his cattle spend the winter in our barn. It would be easier for everyone if he stayed here.”
“A pity The Crossroads closed. It was far better equipped to host someone like … him.”
Onna narrowed lake blue eyes at him. She grabbed a cabbage and threw it at his head. “Rude.”
“Ow.” He retrieved the vegetable, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm. “And it is not rude. He is of the wood, like Fenra.”
“He spends three-quarters of the year in the mountain fields, not the wood.”
“When have you ever known the wolfwoman to stay in town?” Lurenz asked, ignoring her remark.
Onna frowned. She grabbed another cabbage and thumped it against the counter. “Never,” she finally admitted.
“Because the town does not want her here. They may act friendly, and appreciate the work she does guarding us from the wood, and the work he—”
“Valentin.”
“Valentin”—Lurenz glared at his sister—“does with the herd, but they are not welcome here. Not truly.”
“Says who?”
“The entire village!” He threw his arms out, smacking a braid of garlic strung from a rafter. “You know as well as I do that he’ll pass every inn between us and the gate, and none will take him.”
“And you let him walk away.” Onna shoved the cabbage into the window basin.
“Everyone’s hearts are as closed off as our village, yours included.
He’ll end up camping by the gate, when we could rent him the front room.
” She scrubbed the cabbage, pinning Lurenz with a scathing glare.
“Extra coin, Lurenz. We could fix the shutters, or the thatching in the attic, or hire extra hands so you can go to univers—”
“Yes, yes. Fleece the Senn”—he used the traditional word for the cowherds in the Szitlau Mountains—“to feed our own coffers.”
“We could charge a reasonable rate,” she argued, “and it would save him time each day, which has to be worth the cost.”
Lurenz frowned, but he considered her words. Onna was not wrong. Even when The Crossroads stood, it was half an hour’s walk from their farm to the gate and Valentin had been late a time or two over the years.
It was those occasions that made him hesitate now. He could barely hold Valentin’s warm, amber gaze or keep his voice from shaking when they welcomed him for the winter; he was so tall and broad, filling every room with a quiet, lovely presence. How would he ever negotiate a rate with grace?
Forget the rate, how would he survive the season with Valentin sleeping under his roof?
Still, the house needed repairs, and the extra coin would be more than welcome.
“I suppose.” He swept dark brown hair from his brow. “Let me think on it.”
“Alright, then,” Onna scoffed, “but you know I am right.” She heaved an armful of washed cabbage from the basin and set it in her basket. “Just as when I suggested a second layer of thatching on the roof, and working clay into the straw to patch the drafts, and buying a tapestry for the main room.”
“Yes, yes.” Lurenz laughed and seized a cabbage. “I hear you.”
He grabbed a knife and sliced the vegetable into thin ribbons, knowing his sister would want to ferment the kraut as soon as possible. The jars they sold made enough to buy oil for lamps and wood for the fire. Steady business to keep them warm in the winter.
As he worked, his mind turned to their coffers, and the bills and repairs dangling over him like an ever-lowering blade. Again, his gaze lifted to the window, searching the now-empty lane for light glinting off the bronze caps tipping Valentin’s horns.