I won’t scare her away. Won’t do anything to risk her never coming close again. But that means when she slips and falls down the muddy green slope, I’ve trapped myself inside, too far away to help.

“Gwendoline!”

My boots slam into the dirt, vibrations buzzing up my shins from the impact as I lumber outside to her, always so huge and ungainly. She’s a wet heap on the ground, mud-stained and blinking, all cuts and scrapes and soaked blonde hair.

“Rhys Evans.” She murmurs my name as I bend down, scooping her gingerly into my arms. How many times have I dreamed about this? Lifting her plump, perfect body against my chest? “I knew you’d save me.”

Well, that makes one of us. Fuck. Seeing little Gwendoline wince in pain, seeing her eyelids flutter shut as she passes out in my arms—this is my nightmare. This is the worst day of my lonely life.

“Hold on.” She can’t hear me, but I talk to her anyway, carrying her to my forge and barging the door open with my shoulder. “Hold on, cariad. Let me get a look at you.”

It’s dim in here, spots floating in front of my eyes as my vision adjusts. Flames dance and glow in the corner, my work left abandoned on the bench beside my anvil, and I carry Gwendoline there, laying her down on the blackened wood. It’s searing hot here, hot enough that sweat beads on my hairline, and hopefully that’ll warm her. That’ll help dry her clothes.

“Gwendoline?” She doesn’t stir as I brush the sodden hair off her forehead. Even soaked, her pale blonde hair is frizzy and rebellious. She matches the springtime lambs on her family’s farm. “Gwendoline. Shit.”

Do I call the doctor? In a storm like this, there’ll be no service. And if the river has burst, it could take hours for an ambulance to get through anyway. Farmer Roberts might have better luck in one of his big trucks, but I know from bitter observation that his daughter is not his first priority. If the weather’s wreaking havoc on his farm, he won’t spare a thought for Gwendoline until every last sheep is accounted for first.

Besides, what will he do for her that I can’t? I can watch her. Care for her.

Since moving to this valley two years ago, it’s all I’ve wanted to do.

“Easy. Easy, now.” I murmur nonsense to her as I check her over, sliding my soot-stained fingers into her hair and probing gently at her scalp. I can’t find any cuts, can’t find any massive lumps, and the sick pounding in my chest eases as I check her over slowly.

Her body lies limp on my workbench, the firelight dancing over her pale cheeks, and her wet clothes are plastered close to her curves. I notice her tempting body—I’d have to be blind not to—but it registers in the distant recesses of my brain. There are more urgent concerns, like how the hell I’m supposed to play doctor with these big, dirty hands.