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.