The Edge of Misery: The Mitchel Brothers Series Book Two

18

Snow began falling when Declan rode up to the barn that night, big fluffy chunks of white illuminated by moonlight that made him pause and hold his gloved hand out to catch a few before dismounting to ensure it wasn't down feathers floating in the air instead.

"It's snowin'," Wren grumbled from the barn doorway, perched between her crutches and illuminated in a golden shaft of lamplight.

He grinned at her tone, dismounted, then led Sweetface down to her stall as he said, "Why don't you have a coat on?"

"'Cause I didn't plan on stayin' out here long enough to need one," Wren replied, slowly hobbling over to watch him remove his gear and ready Sweetface for the night.

"Something bothering you?"

"Nope."

Declan glanced at Wren over his shoulder as he rubbed Sweetface down, positive she was lying—though he could only wonder at the cause.

Determined to root it out before the night was through, he finished his task as efficiently as possible, tossed a wool blanket over the mare's back to guard her against the cold, gave her a double helping of feed as a reward for her long day, and exited the stall.

"What's for dinner?" He asked, removing his gloves and stuffing them in his back pocket as he shortened his stride to match her slower gait.

"Scorched stew," she mumbled, "so you might just wanna eat your fill of your mama's rolls 'cause it's 'bout the only thing edible tonight."

Laughter tugged at the corners of Declan's lips, "Why would I go and do a thing like that when scorched stew is one of my favorites—especially if you made it?"

Wren stopped mid-stride, executed a wobbly about-face that made his heart lurch, and had him muttering an expletive and reaching to catch her before she took off in the opposite direction and disappeared into the tack room.

Declan stared after her in mute shock, only hesitating for a moment before following, wincing at the sound of her quietly weeping, and his heart clenching with a different kind of agony at finding her sitting on the stool in front of the workbench with her face buried in her hands.

"It's only stew, Wren," he quietly said as he approached her in the moonlit darkness. "After some of the slop I had to force down during the war, a little scorching is just extra seasoning."

"I don't know why I'm so terrible at it," she wailed, angrily wiping at the tears pouring down her cheeks. "I try so hard to make somethin' good, but nothin' ever tastes or looks right when I make 'em... no matter what I do, even if your mama's standin' beside me, guardin' the pot."

He chuckled at the mental image of his mama dressed in full military regalia, standing guard over a stove with spoon in hand, then immediately regretted it when Wren turned away, folded her elbows atop the workbench, and brokenly sobbed, "Don't laugh."

"I'm not—"

"You did—"

"Not at you, pretty bird," Declan gently said, bracing himself against the bench as he crouched beside her, favoring his right leg after his hellaciously long day in the saddle. "Wanna know what I thought was so funny?"

Wren hesitated, then sniffled, "Nope."

Declan grinned, "I think you do, so I'm gonna tell you anyway... I pictured my mama, standing guard over your pot of stew with her big wooden spoon—probably the same one she used to paddle my behind with when I was little—dressed like ol' General Lee."

"That's ridiculous," Wren tearfully giggled, resting her head on her forearms to look at him.

"But it's funny, huh, pretty bird?"