Page 22 of Far From Sherwood Forest

Attached is a note.

If you’re not too much of a coward to play fair…

I snatch the note and rip it up with a snarl.

Maybe I really should just end him now for the sake of my own fucking sanity.

Unclipping my gun holster from my belt, I place it and my gun under the seat and pick up the bow. I shrug the strap for the quiver over my shoulder and then slam the door so hard the sound echoes off the trees.

Time to go on a hunt.

I enter the woods as I take out an arrow and nock it in the bow, keeping it at the ready. As I navigate my way through the trees, I keep my eyes peeled and ears open for any sign of Robin. So far, it’s quiet.

As I continue on my search, Robin’s note keeps grating on my nerves.

Everythingabout him does, though.

I’m not a fucking coward. I simply don’t give a shit about fighting fair, as long as I win. I don’t care if the playing field is even or not, and I certainly don’t give a fuck what Robin thinks.

Yet here I am with his bow instead of my gun.

Fuck Robin Hood.

I shouldn’t even be giving into him right now. Chasing him when hewantsto be chased. Using his bow. What I reallyshoulddo is go back to my truck and drive away.

However, my need to hurt him is too strong and keeps me moving forward.

He said I want revenge, not justice. I won’t even pretend he’s wrong.

The sound of trickling water reaches my ears from the left, and I know I must be close to the waterfall. Even though it’s a nice sixty degrees out, that water has to be freezing. There’s no way Robin would be over there.

I start to veer right, and then I hear a splash.

Guess I was wrong.

I move through the trees to the left, stepping over dried leaves and twigs as carefully and quietly as I can. Thin roots snake across the ground like veins. The brush gets a little thicker as the white noise from the waterfall grows louder—more of a steady, rhythmic hush than a roar. There’s more splashing as I move a branch that still has a few green leaves left out of my way.

And then I freeze.

From where I stand, the ground begins to dip downward toward a clear, sparkling pool. The waterfall spills over a mossy ledge maybe fifteen feet high and crashes into the basin of smooth, dark stone. Mist rises in delicate curtains, catching the sunlight through the open canopy above, turning the air to gold. The water glistens, cold and clear, swirling in slow, mesmerizing eddies around scattered rocks.

But it’s not the beautiful view of the waterfall that’s stopped me in my tracks. I’ve seen it before.

No. It’s Robin.

He swims gracefully toward the edge of the pool before pulling himself up out of the water onto a slick, flat stone. He’s wearing a pair of dark green swim trunks and nothing else. I can see the edge of a bandage beneath them, the one I assume is covering the gunshot wound I gave him. Water drips down hismuscular arms and back, capturing the sun, the little droplets of gold making his tanned skin fucking sparkle.

Leaning back on his forearms, he turns his face toward the sun and closes his eyes.

Something really strange happens to me right about then.

My mouth goes dry. My heart beats a little faster, a little more violently until I can feel it pounding against my ribs. Despite the perfectly comfortable temperature, I suddenly feel hot, every inch of my skin heated. I try to swallow only to discover a lump I have to work my way past first. My lungs constrict, all the air around me suddenly too thick.

I don’t understand any of those reactions until I shift—my legs have grown a bit stiff from standing still so long—and find that my jeans feel a little tighter.

Fuck.

No.