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2
Snow Shovel
Upon realizing the figure had only one working arm, one hand to grip the bags he traveled with, guilt assailed Phineas. Made his rare indulgence—that of a good roar to startle the odd traveler—not very satisfying indeed.
No help for it now.
It wasn’t as though he was in a position to chase down the man’s runaway horse and return the beast. Not when he was cursed to be one himself.
Nay, he’d do best to retrieve the remaining valise, see what treasures the man might have left to add to his collection. Failing that, he’d do better to watch over the errant traveler, at least see the man came to no further harm before reaching his destination on this cold, loneliest of nights.
The industrious woman caught sight of Ed’s approach and yelped.
Screamed, more like, the high pitch ringing in his ears even as she jumped back. The shovel she’d wielded thumping to the ground.
“I mean you no harm,” he said with swift assurance, wishing now he’d taken time to tidy his appearance before setting off this morn. He likely looked a vagrant, hadn’t bothered with a shave in weeks, not since an attractive nurse had taken a blade to his cheeks but failed to get a rise out of his sword. “Your lantern”—he gestured toward the inviting glow beaming from its perch near her feet despite the growing flakes that attempted to subdue it even now—“it proved a beacon on this dreadful night. I—” Ed broke off as he gained a better look at her. “Good God—you’re bleeding.”
She startled and looked down, a frown marring those tremulous, shadowed lips. “Nay. None is mine.”
No longer lightly humming, her voice was flat, now that he’d scared the scream from her and she’d taken his measure—to the point of not fearing him. Were he in her shoes, a lone female, the shovel would be gripped tight and aimed for his head.
“Whose, then?” he wanted to know. For filth and red so dark it looked nearly black ruined what once might have been a fetching dress.
The lantern’s light danced and dimmed, spreading its weakening glow over her stalwart form. In weather like this, she should have been freezing, huddled within the confines of a large cloak, hatted and mittened. Instead, no cloak nor gloves were to be seen. Her filmy dress sleeves had been rolled up, revealing surprisingly slender arms given her current task. Why was she digging—at this hour?
“Your cloak?” he inquired. “Gloves? Where—”
Dismissing him as one might a chirpy cricket, she retrieved her fallen shovel and heaved the pointy side straight drown into the earth.
The contact jarred up her arms and shook her entire frame. “I delivered babes this morn—”
“You bloody well did what?” Now he was the one yelling. Near to screaming. He wanted to wrench the shovel from her grasp, bid her lay down—to rest. To grieve, the fist clamped tight around his heart telling him the reason for her onerous task.
She gave a humorless laugh. “Forgive me. I misspoke. Based on your reaction, you assume I gave birth. Nothing of the sort. I assisted one of the tenants.” Despite the dark, the breezing flakes that plowed between them, that hit fabric, stuck, then melted, he could see enough.
Bedraggled strands of hair neither blonde nor brown sagged around her face and over one shoulder. Cheeks flushed, perhaps more from exertion than the cold. Jaw tightly held. Eyes—an indiscriminate color—hard. Shiny. Grieving? Exhaustion?
She glanced down at her ravaged dress and gestured along its soiled front. “It was a difficult day.”
“And night too, it seems.” He gripped his traveling valise tighter, taking comfort from the solid thump of it against his calf, her travails mitigating those that had mired his brain the last twenty miles or more. “I hesitate to ask, given the state of your dress, but Mother and child?” Children, perhaps? “How do they fare?”
His simple question brought it all back—the hours of hope and excitement followed by those of fear and worry. “Who—who are you?”
Why had he come upon her—now? In this remote part of Lord Spier’s estate, bordering that of Lord Warrick’s on one side and Lord Bedford’s on the other?
Anne visited frequently enough she knew most of the tenants, by sight at least, and Isabella had made no mention of anyone new to the area.
“A strange noise scared the beast I was riding,” he answered, “and I fear my borrowed steed made off the opposite direction.”
“You lost your horse?” She had not the energy to chuckle at his misfortune. Her aching fingers clutched round the shovel’s narrow shaft. The wood may have long been worn smooth by hands much stronger than hers, but holding tight as it slid through her fingers, time and again, now her blisters had blistered. Anne picked at a swollen, tender one near ready to rupture and offered what little solace remained in her weary bones. “And on a night like tonight? ’Tis a pity you are not much of a horseman.”
“Indeed. Not anymore.” His self-directed frustration was apparent in the grit that accompanied the words. “For I would have long since found my bed for the night. Pardon. Damn. Pardon again. Should not have said thus.”
What? Bed? Another tired chuckle threatened. It was refreshing, to have a man be unguarded with his utterances.
Though his outer clothes appeared of decent quality, they had certainly seen some wear. She was half tempted to ask him to remove his coat, let her crawl up in it and sleep for a week.
His traveling bag was too nice for a rover. But what meant more to her than his outward trappings, was that she didn’t sense any manner of ill intent from his direction. Each time he started to step close, he backed away, as though aware they were one man and one woman, alone, and he didn’t want to intimidate her.
