“You’ll get down there again,” I joke, lying in a puddle on his jacket.

He doesn’t look like he believes me. I swallow.

It’s okay. We’ll have time to figure things out together. We’ll have time to convince each other that we’re both truly in this.

I mean, there’s no rush, is there? It’s not like either of us is going anywhere.

Eight

Gwen

“I’m leaving the valley. So you can back down, Mr Roberts, because it won’t do you any good.”

I puff out a heavy breath beside the blacksmith, as winded by those words as if he’d punched me in the chest. Rhys Evans frowns at my father in the cobbled town square, his big hand wrapped around mine, and this is a dream, right? Or a nightmare.

It was supposed to be a simple walk into town for milk and eggs. And now Rhys is leaving? What the hell?

How? How can he hold my hand like that, sweet as pie, and all along he’s secretly planning to leave?

How long has he known? Does he pack his bags every night when I go to sleep? I’ve been staying at his forge for days now, damn it, and he never thought to mention this? He tells my father first instead?

And my father must read these horrified thoughts on my face, because he nods with grim satisfaction, the morning breeze flapping at his plaid shirt collar. “I warned you, Gwendoline. I told you this man would tire of your nonsense.”

Rhys’s hand tightens around mine. “I’m not tired of her. You’ve driven me out of the valley, as you well know. I need to find business again.”

Not tired of me? So am I invited to go too? Oh lord, I feel sick. My head’s spinning and my heart’s thumping, and my palm is sweaty in the blacksmith’s hold.

I tug my hand free and he blinks down at me, surprised.

“Well, there’s always a place for you at the farm.” My father isn’t even gloating, and I suppose that’s a surprise. He sounds sorry for me, his weathered brow creasing as he watches me hug myself on the cobblestones. His fair hair is lighter than usual, bleached from all those hours of summer sun. “We can forget the marriage thing.”

My mouth is dry as I lick my lips. Rhys stares at me, waiting to hear my reply, and okay, he can jog on. Apparently our future plans are our own business. Fine.

“No, Dad. I’m making my own way now.” And that’s true whether Rhys takes me with him or not. Whether I find a job in this valley or somewhere else. I’m on this path. I need to see where it leads.

But oh wow, I thought the blacksmith and I had settled something between us. I thought we were building something, something strong and lasting and sure.

This is a rude awakening. And I don’t even register the rest of what my father says as he and Rhys mutter together in low tones. Whatever they say, they’re far from friends when they part, my father striding away toward the butcher’s striping awning, his shoulders tense and his hands shoved deep in his pockets.