Wesley straightened on the other side, cheeks flushed from the chase, ash-blond hair a windswept mess. His chest still heaved as he stepped closer, eyes locking on hers. The insufferable man was at least three heads taller than her. She did not appreciate the way he loomed.
“Look,” he said, his words low, clipped, and cold, “I get it. You don’t care about my shop, my life, or the royal fuckery you’ve dumped on me. But I want to help. This mess is just as much my problem as it is yours, and I need it fixed. Stop fighting me. It’s a simple request, and frankly, not a crazy one.”
Maude’s jaw tightened, a sudden stab of pain shooting down her neck from grinding her teeth so hard. She didn’t want his help. She didn’tneedhis help. She’d never worked with anyone besides Bailey, and she wasn’t about to start now.
But…he wasn’t wrong.
As much as she hated to admit it, this was her fault. She’d set out to sabotage his shop, and she’d succeeded—spectacularly. Still, she hesitated, eyes narrowing as she studied him.He hadn’t ruinedher life. He’d just walked into it and upended the quiet, predictable misery she’d made peace with.She didn’t hate him for what he’d done. She hated him for what he’d stirred awake.
She crossed her arms.Fine. Let him help.If that’s what he wanted, allowing him to “help” would only remind him how much he should hate her—and everyone else on Blightbend Way.
“Fine, but if you get in my way?—”
“I won’t,” he said, grabbing the gate and pushing it open with more force than necessary. “Contrary to what you might think, I’m not an idiot.”
“Wow. Inspiring.”
She didn’t bother looking back as she stalked away.
Oli’s stables came into view, and from the nearest stall a familiar head poked out—a gray braid thick as rope. Sylvie leaned against the door, sleeves rolled up, bits of straw clinging to her skirt. Her face was lined but not unkind, her eyes gleaming with the mischief of someone who collected gossip the way others hoarded coins.
“Well, if it isn’t Maudie Harrow,” Sylvie drawled, “taking Pickles out again?” Her gaze slid to Wesley, lingering, and she arched one bushy brow. A smirk followed. “And who’s this? Don’t tell me you’ve finally brought me a suitor to inspect.”
Maude bit back a sigh. The woman had made a sport of teasing her for the better part of two decades. “I’ll need two horses today, Sylvie,” Maude said, jerking a thumb toward Wesley without looking at him. “And make sure this one’s mount is extra sturdy. I don’t want one of Oli’s precious mares throwing a hip carrying this giant.”
The corner of Wesley’s mouth twitched. “Pickles?”
Sylvie’s grin split wide, teeth flashing. “Ah, yes. That’s Maudie’s first beast. She named him when she was still knee-high and barely speaking the common tongue. Ate pickles every day ’til her belly ached, so of course she named her horse the same. Bailey nearly choked laughing when she first declared it.”
Maude’s cheeks warmed despite herself. “Why are youstilltelling that story?” She shook her head. “You already have half the town thinking I peaked at five.”
Sylvie laughed before turning to Wesley. “Pleasure,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron before offering him a firm handshake.
“Charmed,” Wesley said, giving her one of those dazzling smiles that probably had the entire market’s wives buying bread they didn’t need.
Sylvie cackled. “Careful, boy. That grin’s wasted on me. But keep flashing it at this one—” she jerked her head toward Maude, “—and I might actually die happy.”
Maude’s groan was loud enough to spook the horses as she stalked past, heading to the stall she knew well. The familiar sight of Pickles—a sleek black horse with a temper as bad as hers—was the first thing all day that didn’t make her want to scream.
“Hey there,” Maude said softly, running her fingers through Pickles’s mane. The massive horse nuzzled her hand before nibbling on her fingers, his usual greeting. She felt the sting in her eyes—the one that always crept up when she least wanted it—and clenched them shut until the feeling passed.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you in a while,” she muttered, her voice low. “I’ve been… It’s been hard to do the normal things.”
Pickles kept nibbling, blissfully unaware—or entirely indifferent—to her words. Still, his ears flicked in contentment, and the sight hit her with a wave of guilt. He had been her gathering partner, carrying her through the wilds around Mistwood Hills while she foraged for rare ingredients. They’d spent days in the mountains, sometimes camping beneath the stars for nights on end just to track down a single elusive herb.
Those trips were some of her favorite memories—and she’d been avoiding them.
Bailey had taken her out since she was little, teaching her how to find everything she might ever need in the wilderness so she wouldn’t have to rely on the overpriced, half-dead stock from the town shops. He had a way of making it all feel like an adventure,pointing out the smallest details—a patch of moss that meant water was nearby, the faint glimmer of moonseed hidden in a cluster of vines.
He taught her to trust herself, to read the land and understand it. Those journeys weren’t just about gathering ingredients; they were about being together. Riding side by side, Pickles carrying their gear while Bailey told her stories, laughed at her jokes, and treated her like she was capable of anything.
She hadn’t gone back out since he died. The thought of doing it alone left her chest hollow. Instead, she’d been spending money she didn’t have, buying weak, overharvested ingredients in town just to avoid stepping into the woods without him.
Maude sighed and rested her forehead against Pickles’s neck. “I know I’ve been a terrible friend. But I’m here now.”
The horse huffed, warm breath brushing her cheek. A small comfort—but enough to remind her why she needed to keep going.
Bailey had spent years teaching her to be self-sufficient.
