They practiced a few more times, until Monica stumbled out of the barn, mumbling, “Okay, enough for one day.” Was she drooling a little? Seth swore the tips of her braids smoldered.
Before she left to go home, she gave him a coy smile. “One more for the road?” she asked, holding out her hand. It seemed she’d forgotten she was staying at the farmhouse.
“ITHOUGHTyou said we were going to work out.” Seth shot a
puzzled glance from the fallen tree to the ax slung over Monica’s shoulder. Dressed in a red flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped out and overalls with only one gallus fastened, she could have posed for a certain paper towel maker should they ever feel the need to be more inclusive in their advertising.
“This is a better workout than any gym machine can give, plus you’ll be killing two birds with one stone.”
Personally, Seth held firmly to a motto of “live and let live” when it came to bird killing, but decided to keep his mouth shut, particularly when Monica hefted a weapon capable of dismembering errant teens in horror flicks.
“Put your gloves on.”
Seth obeyed, choosing to pick his battles. Dustin trusted Monica to teach Seth the ins and outs of shifter-hood, though how chopping wood related to turning furry he hadn’t yet worked out.
“Swing with your shoulders, but take the hit in your arms. You don’t want to jar your back.” She demonstrated, neatly cleaving a limb from the tree.
Seth winced in sympathy for the poor tree, worried at how well Monica swung the ax. Exactly how much practice had she had, and on what… or whom?
“Here, you try.” She handed over the ax.
Seth raised the weapon of moss destruction up over his shoulder, baseball-bat fashion, hoping he’d still have all his toes at the end of the day. He brought the blade crashing down. The head bit into the tree trunk, wedging in deep. Shock waves traveled up his arms and into his shoulders. “Oh shit!” he exclaimed as he released the handle and attempted to shake sensation back into his fingers and arms.
“Don’t aim for the middle. That’s what a chainsaw’s for. Instead, hack thelimbs off.”
Seth pulled and pulled, but the ax wouldn’t give up its hold on the tree. Monica rolled her eyes, snorted, and in the end lent her substantial strength to the effort. The ax jerked free, nearly sending them both tumbling to the ground.
Monica wrapped her arms around Seth, guiding the next chopping motion, and together they neatly liberated a limb from the tree. “Perfect!” Monica exclaimed. “Once you’ve chopped the limbs off, cut them into pieces about fifteen to eighteen inches long.”
Seth couldn’t figure out whether to exult at the praise or be pissed with himself for seeking this woman’s approval. It was as though Monica somehow channeled his aunt’s spirit, and by pleasing Monica, he might win his late aunt’s “atta boy.”
His self-styled tutor wrested the decision from his grasp. “I’ll be back in a few hours to check your progress. Have fun!”
Leaving Seth no time to react, Monica hopped into her truck and scratched tires out of the field, pissing him off beyond reason. He took his frustrations out on the tree.
Monica returned two hours later, bearing a jug of sweet tea and a smile. A pile of chopped wood sat beside a tree trunk now devoid of any limbs. “Now, let’s go win over one of Junior’s strongest supporters, who’d probably issue a challenge herself if she weren’t too old. Help me load the truck.” It seemed “help” actually meant, “You load the truck while I supervise.”
“Where are we taking the wood?” Seth visualized a roaring fire in the fireplace at his aunt’s house, and himself cuddled with Dustin on the settee. What? Where were his delusions of domesticity coming from?
“You’ll see.”
Seth gulped down the tea, enjoying the breeze coming in through the open truck windows. Twenty minutes later, they pulled up in front of a small frame house that, in Seth’s by no means expert opinion, could benefit from some repairs.
Monica backed the truck up to a shed. “Unload now. I’ll be right back.”
Though his arms felt like jelly and even his blisters sported blisters, gloves notwithstanding, Seth did as told, grumbling all the while.
A few moments later, he glanced over to find a shriveled, wrinkled face scowling at him.
“Aah-ahhh!” he exclaimed, jumping back before he realized the one who’d scared him stood only about four feet tall.
Monica practically yelled, “Ms. Pickens? We’ve brought you a load of firewood for this winter. I’d like you to meet SethMcDaniel.” If she’d stressed McDaniel any harder it might have snapped in half. “He’s Irene’s nephew.”
“Nephew?” the woman shrieked, unnecessarily loud. “Can’t be no nephew. Aaron McDaniel died long ’bout twenty year ago. Didn’t think there were no more McDaniels.”
From over the woman’s shoulder, Monica grimaced, jerked her head, and then mouthed, “Say something!” She thrust her hand out and winked.
Seth slid his right hand out of the glove, wincing when the rough leather abraded his blistered fingers. “Afternoon, ma’am.” He attempted to add a touch of the South to his distinct Yankee accent. “And how are you today?” Holy shit! Monica wanted him to use power on this tiny woman? What if he hurt her?
