EREA TRUDGED THROUGH the snow, a basket of twigs under one arm. It was slow going, and she sank up to her knees in places.
Thankfully, the snow had stopped falling for a spell, although the sky above was the color of a fresh bruise—warning that it would resume shortly.
Ahead, her home hove into view. A thick white crust covered its roof, and heavy drifts lay against the north-facing wall. However, Tad had cleared away the drift in front of the door, shoveling a wide path so that they were no longer trapped inside.
She heard the ‘thunk’ of an axe, and an odd, strangely warm sensation spread through her chest. After she had fed him oatcakes and honey, Tad had spent the rest of the morning working tirelessly on her behalf. He had mended one of the shutters that had been about to fall off, brought in fresh buckets of snow to thaw—for her to use for bathing and cooking—and he had mended the roof of the lean-to.
Erea made her way toward the back of her hovel now, her stride hampered by the deep snow. It had taken her a long while to collect a full basket of damp twigs. Yet she needed them to keep the fire going. Some of the wood she was burning had not been properly seasoned. It was a bit sappy, and the pine cones and twigs helped it burn.
She rounded the edge of her dwelling to find Tad splitting logs with her axe. He swung it easily, cutting huge logs in half with just two strokes.
Erea stopped and watched, surprised at how easy he made it look.
Tossing aside the two pieces of wood he had just split, the warrior glanced up and spied her.
“There you are,” he said with a smile. “Where did you get to?”
She showed him her basket, which now seemed pitiful compared to the task he had taken on. He’d cast off his fur cloak, the muscular lines of his arms glistening with sweat. The leather braces on his forearms only emphasized his strength.
Erea’s belly fluttered.
Watching her, and perhaps seeing her stunned look, Tad’s smile faltered. “What’s wrong? Didn’t you want this wood split?”
“Aye,” Erea replied. “It’s just that I already tried splitting those … and gave up.”
His mouth quirked and those blue eyes took on a mischievous twinkle. “Sounds like you could do with a man around …”
Erea huffed, attempting to mask her sudden nervousness. “I manage fine, thank you.”
She glanced over at where Tad’s pony rested under the lean-to. It wore a bored, long-suffering expression.
“Shall I crush some barley for your pony … he must be hungry.”
“Just a handful or two if you can spare it,” he replied, his gaze still upon her. “Caorainn is fat enough as it is.”
Erea moved across to the lean-to, set down her basket, and stroked the pony’s furry neck. Caorainn whickered softly in response.
“You are hungry, aren’t you?” she murmured.
Sitting down upon a stump, she poured some barley upon a flat stone before using a smaller one to crush the grain.
She felt comfortable with the pony’s company—far more than with Tad’s. The animals that inhabited these woods—even the boar and the wolves—were her friends. Every time she went out hunting with her bow, it pained her to take an animal down.
Yet it was either that or starve.
The rhythmic sounds of the axe resumed, while Erea worked in silence. An odd contentment filled her this morning, and she realized how isolated she had been in the long moons since her mother’s death.
It felt good to have company again.
The snow was falling again when Erea made her way back inside. The wind had dropped, but large flakes drifted down thickly, obscuring the sky and the dark carven peaks that rose up either side of the valley.
Inside, Screech was roosting upon his perch. The owl had not been able to go hunting the night before. He would soon grow ravenous. Unfortunately, Erea had no dead mice to feed him.
An iron pot simmered over the hearth; the aroma of meat, onions, and turnip filling the dwelling.
Last summer had been warm, and the vegetable plots—now covered under three feet of snow—had yielded a bounty. Most of her produce she had been able to store, although her store-hut behind the hovel would be bare by early spring if this cold weather endured.
Tad joined her, brushing snow off his shoulders as he stooped to enter the dwelling. Snowflakes frosted his mane of peat-brown curly hair and his short beard.
“That’s the last of the wood split,” he announced, hanging up his mantle and approaching the fire. “Gods … that smells good.”
Erea found herself warming under the compliment. “It’s my mother’s recipe,” she murmured.
He gave her a hopeful look. “Are there any dumplings to go with it?”
She shook her head. “I’ve run out of lard.”
She retrieved two wooden bowls and ladled out the stew for them both. Tad accepted his eagerly, before he met her gaze once more.
“When did your mother die?” he asked gently.
“In the spring,” Erea replied. “She developed a cough that would not heal, and then a fever.” She paused there as painful memories assailed her. “Ma was dead two days later.”
He listened, his expression thoughtful “And you’ve survived out here alone ever since?”
Her mouth quirked. He made it sound like some incredible feat. “It’s the only life I’ve ever known … Ma brought me up to survive. I hunt, fish, and barter vegetables for grain once in a while.”
He frowned. “Where? I’ve never seen you at the fort.”
I would never go near that place, she thought, suppressing a shudder.
“At the villages west of here—on the border with The Wolf,” she replied, deciding against letting her distaste for his people show.
He continued to observe her, his brow furrowed. “It isn’t safe you know … if the men in those villages learned you live alone, one of them could try and take advantage.”
Erea gave him an arch look. This man was odd, she mused. He was contradictory—one moment arrogant and opinionated, the next ridiculously protective. Were all men like this one?
Tad huffed. “Why are you smiling? You could be in danger here.”
Erea laughed then. Even her mother had not worried over her wellbeing so. “I can look after myself,” she assured him. “Ma taught me.”
He looked unconvinced. “And what if a group of men came looking for you?”
Erea’s smile faded. “Are you trying to scare me?”
“No—I’m just warning you that the world beyond this forgotten valley can be harsh. Whether you believe it or not, you’re at risk here.”
Erea shrugged. “This is my home … I’m happy and safe here. There’s no need for you to worry.”
His gaze narrowed further, and she realized that she had succeeded in irritating him. Once again, his attitude mystified her. He did not seem to like being disagreed with. He expected her to heed him.
Erea glanced down at his empty bowl. “More stew?”
“Aye.” His expression softened. “Thank you.”
Erea rose to her feet and reached for the ladle. She had just grabbed hold of it when a loud groan—the sound of wood and stone giving way—echoed through the dwelling.
Erea froze and glanced up. An instant later the roof behind Tad gave way. Beams, lumps of turf, and snow came down.
Tad gave a shout and leaped forward, narrowly avoiding the fire. He tripped and sprawled onto the floor. Cursing, Tad got to his feet. However, Erea ignored him. Aghast, her gaze was upon the gaping hole in her roof, the mess under it, and the snow which now fluttered into her home.
Her stomach knotted.
“No …” she whispered. “Why?”
“Snow’s heavy,” Tad replied from beside her. “Most roofs aren’t built to withstand a snowfall like this one.”
Erea muttered a curse of her own, a colorful one her mother had used often. A chill settled over the interior of her previously cozy hovel, and the fire now guttered, at risk of going out.
“What am I to do?” she whispered, voicing her despair aloud without meaning to.
“Worry not, Erea.” Tad’s voice made her tear her gaze from the snow that gently fell upon the mess on her floor. He was smiling at her, irritatingly confident as ever. “Roofs can be fixed. I’ll help you.”