Page 57 of Dream Weaver

My pulse skipped, and my racing heart slowed a tick.

“Can a man not talk to his daughter—” my father started.

“Not when he talks like that. No, sir.” Cooper pointed to the door.

My heart fluttered. Tough but polite. I would have to travel to Wyoming someday to see if every man was raised that way there or just the Lundsven boys.

My father raised his hand and curled his fingers, stirring up another spell.

I made a chopping motion, one for every word. “Don’t you dare, Ed. Don’t. You. Dare.”

My father’s eyes — moss-green like mine, but not at all like mine — flashed, then dimmed.

“It saddens me to see you like this, Abby,” he finally said, turning for the door.

I snorted. “It should sadden you that you only see it now, Ed. It’s been years.”

With that, I turned to the grandiose scenery, the endless blue sky.

Behind me, two sets of heavy footsteps sounded — my father’s and Cooper’s. The back door of the metal shop creaked open, then slammed shut.

I counted the seconds, one for every step it took my father to stalk through the shop and exit out the front. A car engine roared to life, then peeled out onto the main road. Angry beeps followed, and I closed my eyes.

Minutes passed before the back door opened, more quietly this time. Without a word, Cooper came up beside me and slowly, carefully, slid an arm over my shoulders. The weight of it ought to have pressed me into a slouch, but instead, his warmth slipped over to me, giving me the energy to stand tall.

We stood there for a long time, neither of us uttering a word.

Chapter Fourteen

COOPER

I stayed in the back lot with Abby for a good ten minutes after her father left. Out of sight, but clearly not out of her mind. Abby balled her hands into fists that quivered at her sides. Then she blinked a few times, tilted her head back, and closed her eyes.

My dad did that too. The tough-guy substitute for crying, I supposed.

He would like Abby, I decided. Witch or no witch.

For some reason, the thought made me smile. I hid it before she noticed, though.

“I’ll just check the forge,” I finally murmured, giving her space.

It was hot — plenty hot — by the time she joined me five minutes later. Her face was blotchy, her eyes trained on the floor.

I handed her a hammer, shoved the ax head a little deeper into the flames, and gripped my sledgehammer, ready to begin. She was like my father in that way too. Work was the best medicine. In the months after we’d lost Peter, my dad had built an entire barn.

Abby’s throat bobbed, and her eyes met mine.

I dipped my chin, acknowledging her silent thanks. Then I nudged her.

“Fifteen axes down, five to go,” I murmured.

It was amazing how far we’d come and how fast. Abby had even found the time to finish the etching on most of those. Several were decorated with flames, others with more abstract, swirling designs, and no two were alike. One even sported a snarling dragon head — a hat tip to her mother, maybe?

After a nod — and a long exhale — she took the hammer. Then she moved our latest ax head to the anvil and got back to work.

Bang!Her hammer punished the metal with twice the power of my twenty-pounder. And punished and punished…

The next time she stopped to reheat the metal, I caught Matt and Pablo exchanging concerned looks. I pretended not to notice. Clearly, this was not one of those times whentalkingbeatpretending.

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