Page 9 of Some Like 'Em Burly
And by the way: if I hear one more word about the freaking Thomas boy, I will scream at the rafters. I’m sure he’s a nice enough lad but he’s nobody to me, in fact he’s wet behind bothears, and the only way they’ll get me down the aisle with him is hogtied in a wheelbarrow. Does my father listen to that, though? No, sir.
“Dad,” I call at last from behind the blacksmith’s back, my hands clenched in his shirt. Not to hold him back or anything—more like to anchor me to the earth. “What is your plan here? I’m an adult, not a child. You can’t force me to leave with you. Just like you can’t force me to marry, or to work on the farm my whole life.”
“This man hasstolenyou.”
“I’m not one of your livestock,” I snap, nudging Rhys aside so I can glare at my father unimpeded. “And he’s not a sheep hustler. I can’t be stolen, Dad, I’ve simply taken myself away.”
The difference between the two men is stark in the warm light spilling from the kitchen. Dad is not a small man, not by anyone’s measure, but Rhys looms over him, grim and silent in the face of the farmer’s wrath. My father’s breathing hard, his lip peeled back in a grimace and his blond hair raked up by his hands, and I can’t help adding, “You’re always saying I’m useless and a burden. Well, congratulations. You’re free of me.”
There’s an eye twitch.
A vein pulses in his temple.
Oh, god. If he has a stroke out here, I have no idea what to do.
“You thinkhe’llwant you?” A shaking finger jabs at the blacksmith. “Don’t be a fool, Gwendoline. He’ll get sick of you in less than a week, and then what will you do? Where will you go when you’ve burned your last bridges?”
My stomach sinks down my body, all the way to the floor, but it’s nothing I haven’t wondered about myself.
I clear my throat. “I’ll figure it out.”
And so I will. I’ve got a working pair of hands, haven’t I? A decent enough brain? I can find and keep a job, Ican,and onceI’m taking care of myself, the only person bossing me around will be me.
And Rhys Evans, maybe. If I ask him nicely. He bristles now as Dad laughs, loud and long. “Like hell you will.”
It’s a small mercy when my father’s tense back disappears into the darkness. He strides away from the forge, still muttering and bitter, and we both linger in the doorway and watch him go.
“Nice man,” Rhys murmurs after his sounds are finally soaked up by the night.
I sag against the doorway, grinning. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the blacksmith crack a joke.
“He has some good qualities.” Rhys stares down at me, thick eyebrows raised, so I add, “Deep, deep down.Waydown. But he’s worried about his farm, that’s all. It’s all he’s got.”
Rhys huffs. “No, it’s not. If he thinks that, then he’s a bigger fool than I thought.”
Well… yeah. Hard to argue with that. And maybe it’s nuts, but now the tension has burst, I’m all giggly. This was one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life, and yet I feel like a helium balloon, about to bob around the ceiling.
I take the blacksmith’s hand and he lets me. Big fingers squeeze mine.
“Come on.” I tug, and he pulls the door closed behind us. “It seems you’ve stolen me, Rhys Evans. Time to have your wicked way.”
* * *
In a heartbreaking turn of events, the blacksmith doesnotbend me over his kitchen table and fuck the giggles clean out of me. I complain loudly about that fact, trailing him from room to room as he picks up our used mugs and sandwich plates and washes them in the kitchen sink; as he checks the forge and clears awayhis tools for the day; as he fetches a pillow and blanket and tosses them onto his living room sofa.
My stomach clenches when he does that. I guess some part of me thought I’d be welcome in the bed—but that’s presumptuous of me. Hell, Rhys didn’t eveninviteme here. I just turned up, and now he’s letting me stay. Taking me in like a stray cat.
“I could find a room in town,” I offer way too late. What was I thinking, just assuming I could crash here? Rhys Evans barely knows me, and my father’s right. At this rate, the man will be sick of me in record time. Burning my last bridge indeed.
“No,” Rhys says. That’s it: no.
“Then I’ll pay you for your trouble.”
The blacksmith rounds on me, glowering. “No.”
I wet my bottom lip. He’s lit a fire in the living room hearth, and the firelight flickers over his olive skin and glints in his dark beard. His black shirt cleaves to his huge biceps, his barrel chest, and the thick, muscled curve of his stomach, and I toy with the fabric of my skirt with a secret thrill when his eyes drop to track the movement. “This will make things harder for you in the valley.”
Rhys shrugs one giant shoulder. Still watching my skirt.
