Page 1 of Some Like 'Em Burly
I
Iron Giant
Description
He’s older and off limits. A village outcast.
And when he looks at me, I burn up hotter than his forge.
When the gruff blacksmith rescues me from a thunderstorm, what does my father do? He shames the man. He publicly warns him to stay far, far away from me.
I could die, especially since the blacksmith was a perfect gentleman. I’m the one who could barely keep her hands to herself; I’m the one still flushed and restless days later.
Because the blacksmith isbig.He’s a mountain of muscle, and he makes the village carthorses look like skinny little ponies. When he took care of me, I never felt so safe.
So I don’t care what my father thinks. I don’t care about the village whispers.
I’d do anything to feel those big hands on me again.
Gwen
Picking blackberries is an art form. You can’t just grab the nearest basket and wander up and down the valley, shaking bushes and humming under your breath. You have tocommit; you should end your session with purple-stained fingertips and berry juice smeared over your cheeks. It’s practically the law.
When my Mam took us blackberry picking as kids, she martialed us like a regiment of freaking soldiers. Even now, I take it seriously, and I’m grown.
My route begins on our farm. I don’t trust the low-down hedges, the ones within sheep-reach with their slobbery tongues, so I do a loop of the fields and lanes, only picking at chest height and higher. My Nan’s old wicker basket dangles from the crook of my elbow, swinging in the rough autumn breeze, and my boots snag in clumps of wet, green grass as I patrol the hedgerows.
Next it’s the riverside path. There are blackberry bushes along the roadside too, but any passing driver can wind their window down in slow traffic and steal a handful. The river, though, that’s the territory of dog-walkers and Sunday joggers, and those bushes are always groaning with berries.
I fill my basket quickly on this route, even with the two-for-one rule. Two for the basket, one for me. Two in the wicker, one in my gob. By the time I reach the mouth of the valley, my lipsare stained with tart purple juice and my belly’s complaining that it’s had enough now, thank you, Gwendoline.
Just one more. And another. And another.
Wiping my fingers on my dark knee-length skirt, I wince, guilty as hell though no one can see me.
It’s shameful, but I can’t help myself. Mam always says I have no self control.
If Idid, I’d turn around before I reach the last building on the riverside path: the blacksmith’s forge. It sits against the hillside, squat and serious, all gray stone and black slate with tendrils of ivy climbing the walls and smoke billowing from the chimney stack. On days like this when Rhys Evans is hammering away by the flames, I swear the air gets hotter for half a mile all around.
I lick my blackberry-stained lips, tromping closer down the dirt path as the sound of pounding metal rings through the air. My wicker basket creaks, its newfound weight digging the handle into my forearm, and I’m already flushed under my thin red sweater.
I’ve got no business, really, putting this stop on my route. There’s only one single blackberry bush near the blacksmith’s forge, sitting thin and straggly under his window. There are hardly any berries hidden between its leaves, no pretense at all really, but still I linger here, ears straining for any sound of the man inside.
Hssssss.
That’s red-hot metal plunging into warm oil. My boots scrape against the dirt and I shift my weight, holding my breath as I strain to hear more.
Clang.
Thump.
Grunt.
Gosh, I love it when he grunts. Something is surely wrong with me, because hearing Rhys Evans with his giant shouldersand his thick beard and his steady, lined eyes grunt with effort—it makes all the blood pump faster through my body. He’s sostrong.Imagine what he’d have to lift for a sound like that to pass his lips! He could probably balance his anvil on one palm. He could sling a carthorse over one shoulder.
Heavy steps thud across his stone floor inside and I crane my neck, peering through the dim window. Specks of rain ping against the glass, slowly at first, then coming faster and faster as shadows move inside the darkened forge.
Dimly, I pluck a blackberry from the basket on my arm, pushing it past my stained lips. My fingertips linger at my mouth, the tip of my tongue tracing the pads of my fingers, and still I stare through the blacksmith’s window.
