Sol bit his lip as he worked to catch the yarn in his hook, the light low. The half-moon and few stars glinted through the dormer window into the house, making shadow patterns on the quilt over his legs. Now all he had to do was pull the yarn through the loop one more time and—bollocks. The pesky material dropped again.
Right, he just needed to catch it and—ow. His thumb. Again. Blasted crochet hook.
“You’re doing very well.” Bayla glanced up from her chair at the other side of the fire, where she was diligently stitching his trousers to make them wearable. She waved at the small circle—the beginning of a lace cap—he’d begun seven hours ago, quite the way to spend his third day awake with the women. “This is your first attempt, after all. With more practice, you’ll be brilliant.”
“I was just hoping to be of more use,” he said with a sigh. “Carry my weight.” Especially since he’d been unable to solve the mystery of who had tried to kill him. Was it one of their former business rivals? He couldn’t help but think murder, while potentially satisfying, would not give any of them actual financial success.
Though feelings of rage over embarrassment could never be underestimated. He frowned again. No matter how he spun it, someone wanted him dead. He’d now revisited the conversation with his attackers at least two dozen times—and they’d been intent not to rob him but maim or more.
And while he still could’ve been a random target, the effort they’d expended in chasing him suggested otherwise. Whatever was afoot, he needed to find out, so he could properly protect himself, and all the people in his life who might be in jeopardy.
Including these women. He was determined to repay them for their generosity. They deserved much more respect and attention from the community than what they currently received.
“People do leave us food sometimes,” Doc had told him when he’d asked about their situation.
“The inedible kind.” Gertrude snorted. “Soothes their guilt over forgetting we exist. Like they didn’t once depend on Doc’s services, and they won’t one day become us. Especially if they have no children of their own.” She pointed to the stove. “Luckily we make much better.”
Luckily indeed. He patted his stomach, filled with potatoes he’d peeled—an entirely new experience—and cooked with carrots and onions, served with a warm, hearty bread. Still, these women deserved finer things.
Perhaps a few chickens. And a new goat, given the elderly state of their current one.
“You’re our guest.” Bayla reached out and patted his knee as Sol reached down to pick up some crumbs that had dropped onto the floor from his meal. “You don’t need to carry your weight.” She grabbed a broomto tidy up the area, pressing her lips together. Oy, the woman did really like to whistle while she worked. At least she seemed to prefer a happy tune. She swept up the remaining crumbs, then gathered the yarn and hooks. “I should let you rest.”
“I’m fine,” he protested as she placed both their works in a basket, strolling it over to the door so it was out of his reach.
“You might believe so, but Doc thinks you shouldn’t strain yourself. You still have healing to do if you want to leave when the snow clears,” she told him. “And I don’t want to get on her bad side, or Gertrude’s.”
Before he could object again, the door shut, and he was alone. Stuck. With nothing but his thoughts for company and nowhere to go.
A bang shook the rafters above his head, startling Sol. The wood groaned and creaked in a downward pattern as he stared upward. What in the world? He patted around the blanket for something to use as a weapon, but his fingers came up empty. Why did Bayla need to take the crochet hook with her?
The noises continued, unabated, as he scanned the room, his gaze finally settling on the crutch Doc had secured for him. He wrapped his fingers around the handle just as another loud thud came from outside the dormer. Sol gasped as a shadow fell over the glass, blocking the moonlight.
The window creaked open and in bounded a figure shrouded in a cloak. They rose up, shaking off snow and ice and debris before lowering their hood and—
“Hannah?” Sol whispered her name. He pinched his own arm to verify that he hadn’t dozed off and was now merely dreaming her. “Hannah?” he repeated.
“So you do live.” She folded her arms, pulling her cloak tight over her body.
“I do. I had quite an accident—well, not truly an accident, I was chased and fell—but I’m being tended to and healing, despite being stuck here due to the weather and having an ankle that’s too swollen to walk upon,” he said before peering through the dim light, working to read the rather inscrutable expression on her face. “That’s why I haven’t been able to get word to anyone regarding my whereabouts. I’m sure my brother is worried.”
And you? You were worried too? Perhaps?
Not that he wanted her to be upset… Fine. That was a lie. He’d wanted her to worry. To care. To want him as much as he wanted her.
“He most certainly is. As are quite a few people.” She interrupted his thoughts, as snow-laced wind billowed the curtain behind her.
“Are you one of those people?” he couldn’t help but ask, raising a brow while longing to pull her close, hold her as an anchor against the muddle that he’d somehow made of his usually calculated life.
“I am—was.” She tugged on her earlobe then glanced backward toward the window. “I’m glad you’re safe and only a touch worse for wear—” She fiddled with the laces of her cloak, inching backward. Away from him. “But now that I’ve seen you, I should go tell everyone else. Especially your brother. I know how important you are to each other.”
“Wait!” Sol called out. “Don’t tell them. Or… do but warn them to stay away. At least until I’m back to fighting form again.” Which would be sooner rather than later if he had his say.
He cleared his throat. “You see, I suspect someone is trying to kill me. Not that they’ll be successful,” he told her with a confidence that he’d not felt in a long time—but now roared through his veins.
She gave him a sharp, and thankfully not in the least bit pitying, glance before returning to his side. “You’re going to stop them? How?”
“I have my ways,” he told her. “You’ll remember, I’m well trained in being quick and clever. My handsomeness obscures it, of course. Things I can use to my advantage.” Even if there was one slight, minor problem with his plans. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Though I have to figure out who is behind it all first, naturally.”
