Page 27 of Far From Sherwood Forest

When we pull up to the ranch, I inwardly groan when I see the white and blue pickup outside the bunkhouse. I should’ve changed back into jeans. Hopefully with Spencer here, John won’t let me have it too bad.

“Do you think John checked on the horses when he got back?” Spencer asks as I open my door.

“He probably did.”

“I think I’ll go ahead and run to the stables real quick just in case.”

Shit.

I’d go with him, but my feet are killing me. I want nothing more than to get out of these boots and into the shower.

“Alright,” I tell him as I hop out.

As he drives off, I walk over to the small shed on the side of the building to store my duffel bag with the bows andarrows. John might be able to figure out I was swimming when I shouldn’t have been, but he doesn’t need to know I spent half the day purposefully provoking Henry.

When I get inside, John is coming out of the bathroom in flannel pajama pants and towel drying his hair. He looks up as I enter, a goofy smile on his face. I take that to mean he had a good time last night.

At least he’s in a good mood.

Except, as soon as his eyes drop to my trunks, his smile vanishes, replaced by a stern glare.

“Are you serious, Robin?”

“What?” I ask, plastering on my best innocent smile.

Of course, this is John. He doesn’t buy it.

“Please don’t tell me you went swimming out there.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

I go to move past him to head to the bathroom, but he stops me by grabbing onto my arm and speaks in that gruff voice of his. “Are you ever going to learn your lesson?”

“Not until I die, I guess,” I say, keeping the smile on my face.

Hisface falls into a frown. “That’s not funny.”

I sigh and pull my arm out of his grasp. “I’m sorry. You’re right. No more swimming until it warms up again. I promise.”

He shakes his head and walks away. I continue into the bathroom, feeling guilty again. I don’t like making John worry, but I also hate that he expects me to live like I’m fucking fragile. I mean, I suppose in one way I am. That doesn’t mean I’m going to put myself in a bubble and miss out on living life.

Sitting on the closed toilet seat, I carefully remove my boots, my feet painful and sticky. I get my first good look at them, and the sticky feeling makes sense. They’re not bleedingtoobadly, and the cuts that are there are just shallow scrapes.

At least John didn’t see my feet.

After I get a shower, John, Spencer, and I spend a couplehours out on the porch, drinking beer and enjoying the sunset. A pink-orange glow splashes over the ranch as my head starts feeling light and fuzzy.

Since leaving the park, I’ve had plenty of distractions to keep me from thinking too much about what happened there between me and Henry. But once it’s lights out and I’m lying in my bed with John snoring close by, my nerves start crackling like static beneath my skin. My stomach twists itself into knots.

Next time I see Henry, he’ll probably cave my head in. He’ll blame me for it because he blames me for everything.

But what really has me nervous is that I have this unexplainable urge to see him anyway. To talk to him. I want us to figure our shit out. I want tohelphim. Everything he’s holding onto is slowly killing him, and I hate that it really is partly my fault.

What happened in the woods is still there, too. Surprisingly, I’m not freaking out about it.

It was a fluke.

I’m sure it won’t happen again.