Working on these projects, losing herself in the task at hand, was when Isla felt most secure. She knew her talent and was confident in her abilities, which gave her comfort when worries could so easily overrun other areas of life. While it was an unconventional line of work for a woman in their town, Isla had always been drawn to hunting. There was such wonder and perfection in the wildlife around her, but she was also able to see its usefulness and found a different kind of beauty in the way she could provide for her family through the hunt.
Isla had picked up her first bow and arrow when she was eleven. She had snuck into their small weapons room and marveled at their strength, how something made with a few simple materials could bring down ferocious bears and mountain lions. Her little hands had caressed the cold steel handles of swords, the serrated edges of knives, the sharp feathers of arrows. This was when she had discovered her purpose, what she wanted to do with her life.
It took several weeks to convince her papa she was ready for lessons, but he eventually gave in and began teaching her how to use a bow and arrow. A year later, she started joining Arden on his morning runs and exercises. Slowly, she built up her strength, endurance, and skill with multiple weapons. After a few years, she rivaled even Arden and his merry band of young men. Her mother could not have been more proud.
“My little Isla,” she would say while brushing her daughter’s copper hair, “the fiercest huntress in the land. Never let them stop you. When the world tries to take this out of your hands,” she’d nod to the bow and arrow in Isla’s lap, “you pull it back and drag them behind you.”
While her mama was alive, she would often be found bragging about her children or helping run shops when their owners were struggling. The entire town had adored her, for they knew she could always be counted on to give aid when others were in need. When the sickness had taken her two years ago, it had been a devastating blow to everyone.
Isla had taken her mother’s maiden name as her own so a part of Evydora Belthare would always live on.
Isla smiled, reminiscing on a day when she and her mother had helped at the local bakery, both of them covered in flour from head to toe while singing folk songs at the top of their lungs. Twenty years of memories would never be enough, but at least they still brought her joy.
Her face fell slightly. It was inevitable that those bright spots of happiness were followed by pangs of loss and heartache. She wished her mind would let her hold onto the good without immediately pulling on the bad.
“If you’re this worried, maybe you should go talk to him,” Bri continued, tapping Isla’s furrowed brow with her pencil and snapping her like a bowstring back to the present. “I see those stressed little eyebrows.”
Bri couldn’t have known that her thoughts had actually wandered away from Hamil, but Isla grinned anyway and waved her hand away. “What are you writing about?” She reached for Bri’s diary but before she could grab it, Bri jumped off the chair and danced away.
“Oh, come on, nothing can be as scandalous as that one entry I read about your night with that raven-haired beauty from the south, when you stole an entire barrel of wine and a—”
Bri threw her pencil at Isla. “It’s nothing likethat. Just writing about that handsome man from the bar a couple nights ago.”
Isla straightened. “The pale one you spoke to by the coat rack?”
Bri nodded and hummed, closing her eyes and swaying back and forth. “Wasn’t he the most delicious thing you’ve ever seen? He may be playing hard to get, but I always win them over.”
“I say this as your best friend and the woman who would kill a man for you: stay away from him.” Isla shook her head, her uncomfortable conversation from that night coming back to mind. “He’s bad news.”
“What are you talking about?” Bri scoffed. “You didn’t even talk to him.”
“Actually,” Isla stood, “he followed me outside and cornered me. And he knew myname, Bri. Isn’t that a little weird?”
Her friend shrugged, looking considerably less excited. “Maybe he heard someone say it inside?”
“I doubt it. He also said he ‘needed to see if I was worth all the trouble’ or something, and that he was curious about me. He kept touching my arm and wouldn’t go away.” An involuntary shiver crept through her. “Then heorderedme to go home and to forget I ever saw him. What kind of person says that?” Not to mention the shock on his face when she refused his command. Why would he have ever thought she’d actually obey him, a complete stranger?
Bri put her hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. You convinced me. Crossing Mr. Handsome Creep off the list. What did you say to him?”
Isla smirked. “That I’d set all the boys on him if he didn’t leave. And that if he messed withyouat all, he’d have to deal with me.”
Bri giggled and crossed the room to hug Isla. “I love you and your vicious mind.” She pulled away. “What would you do if someone hurt me, anyway? Shoot them in the arm?”
“Oh, I’d aim somewhere lower than that,” Isla muttered under her breath. Bri threw her head back, laughing.
They were still grinning when a knock came from the front door. Isla turned to Bri and shrugged. It was rather late for visitors, but perhaps Hamil was finally coming to check on them. Making their way through the work room, they passed the kitchen and into the living room. When she reached the front door, Isla opened it to find two men in riding boots and brown travel cloaks. One was exceptionally tall with mousy hair framing a young, olive-toned face. The other was shorter and older with a ruddy complexion, his graying hair and weathered eyes showing concern.
“Miss Belthare?” the older questioned, his voice a soft drawl.
Isla nodded, an inexplicable trail of ice slowly making its way up her spine. The men looked nervous and shared a glance as they fumbled with their hands.
Something was wrong.
The older man cleared his throat. “There’s been an accident.”
Instantly, Isla froze. A memory from two years ago came rushing back, knocking the breath out of her. Visions of that day swam before her eyes in rapid succession. Her papa’s grave face, her frantic feet pounding along the street to Waylan’s house, her hands throwing open their door. His mother’s wails echoed in her mind. She could still see Waylan’s body so clearly: pale face, blue lips, blood-soaked head.
Like the days following Waylan’s death, her limbs now refused to move while fear screamed and clawed at her insides. She couldn’t go through that again.
