Chapter 4
EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD
Fawn gripped the wheelbarrow handles and pushed the muck around the barn, cursing herself for not shoveling a path through the snow first. The catch sat beyond the barn, down a slight slope, and pushing the wheelbarrow downhill would’ve been easy had she shoveled first. But every inch of snow fought her, dragging at the wheel like the mountain itself resented her presence.
“Need some help?”
“Thank the gods,” she mumbled and set down the wheelbarrow handles to greet her grandfather. “I forgot to shovel the path.”
The old man snickered. “And instead of fixing it when you realized your mistake, you thought you’d try your hand at wheelbarrow plowing?” His laughter carried through the crisp air, rich and booming, softening the sharp edges of the cold.
Fawn rolled her eyes. “I thought it’d be easy,” she grumbled. “The snow isn’t that deep today.”
“I’ll grab a shovel.” He patted her on the head and disappeared around the side of the barn. Holding the shovel and a pair of gloves, he reappeared shortly at her side. “Do you want to shovel, or do you want to push?”
Fawn surveyed the hill and the wheelbarrow to calculate which would take more effort. Most might leave the easy stuff for their grandparents, but her grandfather was young at only fifty-seven, and in better shape than most men in their twenties. “I’ll push,” she decided.
He winked. “Figured you would. Back it up a few steps until I can clear the way.”
Once she had the wheelbarrow moved, her grandfather went to work. A smart person would’ve waited for him to clear the whole path before following with the load.
Fawn never claimed to be smart, a fact proved when she neared him with the wheelbarrow, slipped, and hit him from behind. She watched in slow motion as her grandfather tried to catch himself but tripped over the shovel and tipped forward.
The grunt he made mixed with the crunch of the snow as he face-planted, followed by silence, as if even the birds were shocked.
She gasped and ran to his side, dropping beside him in the snow.
He raised his snow-covered face to look at her, but before she could apologize, he lightly threw a handful of snow at her. She squealed and scrambled back. His deep laughter rumbled through the quiet morning air as another snowball pelted Fawn’s body.
She froze then burst out laughing and scooped up weapons of her own.
“You think it’s funny to push a helpless old man?” her grandfather teased as he threw more snow.
“It was an accident,” she exclaimed with another laugh.
“You expect me to believe that?” His eyes twinkled, the lines around his eyes creasing. “You’re just like your daddy.” He gathered up a handful of muck from the wheelbarrow and held it up.
Fawn stopped moving, eyeing her grandfather warily. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Wouldn’t I?” For every step he took forward, she took one back.
“Winston, you better put that pile of shit down right now!” her grandmother yelled, startling them both. “The last time you and John threw muck at each other, I was scrubbing it out of your clothes for weeks.”
Grandma approached them and grumbled something under her breath about this family throwing things at each other . Her apron was dusted with flour, hair wild from the kitchen heat, and yet she wielded more authority than any sword.
Fawn remembered years ago, on their move here, her father throwing cake at her face. To her surprise, a faint fondness warmed her. It was the first time she’d really felt anything in years.
“I’m trying to help her lighten up, Judith,” he replied innocently, and Fawn wondered if his words held a hint of truth.
She’d not seen this teasing side of her grandparents before. Had they been tiptoeing around her? She hated that they thought they needed to.
“Don’t let him fool you, Grandma,” Fawn jumped in. “He retaliated because I accidentally pushed him in the snow.”
Her grandmother huffed out a breath, planting her hands on her hips. “Winston, you?—”
Fawn gawked at her grandmother’s muck-covered chest and slapped a hand over her mouth.
Grandpa ran.
Braddock laid flat on his back, panting for breath. “One of these days I won’t go easy on you,” he warned Dean, who rolled his eyes and held out his hand to help his friend up.
Despite Braddock’s massive size, he was no match for Dean’s skill, strength, and speed. No one was. Not even General Craven anymore.
“Thanks for holding back,” Dean deadpanned.
Braddock brushed himself off and rolled his shoulders. A piece of long, wayward hair fell in his face, and he pushed it behind his pointed ear and crossed his arms. “I’m a nice guy. It’s bad form to humiliate the future king in front of his subjects.”
Dean’s lips twitched as he fought off a smile. “Right.” The leather vest he wore stuck to his sweaty bare skin, and not for the first time, Dean cursed whoever designed their training leathers.
Cassandra slithered across the training arena, scaring half of the warriors on her way to them. “You should let him win at least once,” she insisted. “You’re going to give him a complex.”
Dean snorted. “Nothing in this world could make Braddock think less of himself.” A trait Dean admired.
Braddock thought he was the best, that he could do anything he wanted and be good at it, but he never once insinuated that he was better than anyone else.
Braddock liked himself, believed in himself, and nothing anyone else thought would change that.
“I like him,” Cassandra tried again. “Let him win this once.”
Dean shook his head at the serpent. “If I go easy on him, he’ll know, and that will piss him off.”
“I hate when you guys do that.” Braddock pointed between Dean and Cassandra. “It’s rude to gossip in front of other people and not share.”
Dean smirked. “We were talking about you.”
Braddock blew Cassandra an exaggerated air-kiss. “If you want a kiss, just ask.”
“Can I bite him?”
“I thought you liked him?” Dean pointed out. “Is biting like kissing for you?”
“I wouldn’t kill him.” Her forked tongue shot out at Braddock. He laughed in return, and she did it again.
“Let’s go again,” Braddock insisted, lifting his sword into the sparring position.
Dean complied and took up his spot across from his friend. “Last round.”
They circled each other before coming together in a clash of metal. They used dull swords so as not to seriously injure the other, unlike the battle-ready blade General Craven used to use.
Around and around they went, and Dean had to admit that in another year or two, Braddock would be one of the top warriors in the battalion. He had the drive and talent, and as much as Braddock joked around, his ability to cut it off and focus made him excel at nearly everything.
Warm, fuzzy tingles built inside him, throwing him off-kilter mid-spin. The spin slowed and Braddock’s sword came down on Dean’s kidney. The unexpected blow sent him to his knees.
Had he not been focused on the strange but slightly familiar feeling in his chest, he might have hopped up in time. Instead, Dean ended up with Braddock’s sword at his throat.
“Had to shut you up at least once,” Braddock boasted. “It’ll teach you to be humble.”
Dean would have laughed at Braddock telling someone to be humble if he wasn’t still feeling whispers of laughter.