Yes.

More than anything. But didn’t I already hint at that in the truck? And what was his response? He was curt. Angry with me. And I won’t be a burden, won’t go to another home where I’m not truly wanted.

“No, thank you,” I whisper.

Rhys’s chest expands, drawing in a deep breath, but he nods once and turns on his heel. My father and I watch him leave, his heavy steps drumming across the paving stones. The slam of his truck door echoes through the night.

“The Thomas boy had better not hear of this,” Dad says under his breath.

I watch the blacksmith leave with dry eyes, his headlights swooping along the driveway. “There’s nothing to tell.”

If only.

If only, if only.

Because if Rhys Evans truly wanted me, I’d shout it from the rooftops, loud enough for the whole valley to hear.

Four

Rhys

Farmer Roberts has plans to protect, plans that involve marrying his daughter off to rescue his farm. So what does he do? He publicly shames me. He puts out the word through the valley that I pursued Gwen, that I harassed and threatened her, and that any rumors to the contrary are nothing but lies.

It’s unnecessary. Nobody saw my hand prints on her except him, but I suppose he doesn’t know that. He’s covering his back. And who wouldn’t believe him, when I’m a newcomer to this tight-knit community, and I’ve kept to myself for these past two years?

No one has ever bothered with me except Gwen. What does she think about her father’s propaganda campaign?

It doesn’t matter. She didn’t want to come home with me, so she’s none of my business.

I worry for her, though. In that farmhouse; in this valley. Under these people’s thumbs. Will it be any better for her with the Thomas boy?

If Gwen were mine, I’d never speak down to her. I’d never make her cower in a doorway or wrench on her arm. I’d lift her up; I’d treasure her; I’d craft her rings and trinkets in my furnace. And I’d compete with myself for how many smiles I can coax out of her each day.

Smiles… and other things.

Fuck, if she knew the things I want from her, a man nearly twice her age, she’d be horrified. She’d run from me screaming.

Now everywhere I look in my forge, there are reminders of her. I wander around the workspace, aimless and hollow, nudging at the things she left behind. The crumpled wicker basket, stained with blackberry juice and left abandoned on one side. My workbench, with my tools pushed to the ends so she could lay down. The mug she drank from; the tartan blanket I wrapped around her shoulders; the half-eaten chocolate bar I brought to get her blood sugar up.

I’m no doctor, but I took care of her. I did the best I could. I shouldn’t have put my hands on her like that, though—not even to check for broken bones, and not even when she woke up and let me do it.