The man lowers the broom slowly. His eyes narrow.
“Who are you?” he demands.
I slide off the mare, boots sinking into the mud. “I could ask you the same,” I snap. “Where is my father? What are you doing with our things?”
“Ourthings?” he scoffs.
I stride toward him, fists clenched. His eyes flick left and right, searching for help that doesn’t come fast enough.
I snatch the broom from his hands before he can blink and bring it down hard against the side of his head.
He yelps.
“Where is my father?” I shout. “Who are you? Are you robbing us?”
I swing again. He gets an arm up just in time, so I twist the broom and jab it into his gut instead. He folds with a wheeze, cheeks puffing like he might puke.
“Where are you taking my mother’s wardrobe?” I scream. “What have you done with my father?”
Footsteps pound behind him.
Reinforcements. Two men from the barn, another from inside the house. I plant my feet, grip the broom like a staff, every muscle screaming with resolve. This land isn’t much, but I will defend it with my life if I have to.
But they don’t advance.
“Bloody heck,” one of them laughs. “Is this girl beating the pulp out of you?”
“How fucking pathetic,” another adds.
The man in front of me waves them off, face flushing as he straightens. He reaches into his coat pocket.
I shake the broom at him in warning.
He lifts his free hand in surrender. “Easy. Easy. Are you Neve?” he asks.
My brow furrows. Some of the fight bleeds out of my stance, though the broom stays raised.
“How do you know my name?” I demand.
Carefully, as if I might strike again, he draws his hand from his pocket. A folded piece of parchment appears between his fingers.
“This is from your father,” he says. “Bartal Devlin. That’s right, isn’t it?”
I give a wary nod.
“Here,” he adds. “It’s for you.”
He offers the letter. I snatch it from his hand, and he immediately retreats a few steps toward the house.
“Don’t move,” I snap.
He lifts his hands again. “I wouldn’t dare, miss.”
I keep the broom clenched in one hand, the parchment in the other, my eyes never fully leaving him as I unfold the page. The writing is unmistakable. My father’s nearly illegible scratch, but I can read it just fine.
Dear Neve,
If you’re reading this, then you’ve found your way home, just as Lord Luceran promised. I’ve gone on ahead to Rethmar to get settled and to make a start on the plot of land he’s purchased for us. Call me sentimental, but even though our new home is furnished with brand-new things, I couldn’t leave these old bits and bobs behind. I’ve hired some men to pack everything up and bring it to me here.
