Page 36 of Stars in Umbra (The Sable Riders #8)

‘It is. You’re going to love it. It’s autumn, and the days are cooler now, so they’ve got the fire going and wood stoves, too.’

He said nothing, only studied the ground rush up to meet them, his muscles relaxing despite himself.

The flyer touched down on a smooth landing pad beside a post-and-rail paddock where two horses grazed in the distance.

As the ramp hissed open, the cool, fresh air hit him, bringing with it the scent of smoke, eucalyptus, and baking.

Rina’s mother appeared first, barefoot in the grass, her apron dusted with flour.

She had an earthbound presence, robust in frame, arms flecked with the scars of farm work, hair gathered into a loose plait shot through with silver.

Her face had the same sculpted beauty as Rina’s, with smooth, beautiful skin, with only a few lines around her eyes that gave away her age.

Behind her ambled a man, silver-haired, with a kind face, in coveralls still smudged with grease and wood dust.

Taller than his wife, he had a more contemplative air, his smile slow to form, but honest when it arrived.

Rina didn’t wait. She ran into her parents’ arms with the abandon of unbridled love.

Mo hesitated, then followed, slower, more wary.

‘Mo, please meet my parents Hanna and Reth.’

Hanna turned from her daughter to Mo, her flour-dusted palms reaching for his arm with no hesitation. ‘Come here, sweetheart.’

She clasped his calloused, scarred hands, which dwarfed hers, and tugged him forward into the fold of the house.

‘We’re so glad you came. Rina told us a friend needed a few days of fresh country air, and we couldn’t refuse.’

Mo had no words for the emotion that bloomed in his chest.

He glanced at the warmth of her palms, then back to her twinkling eyes and the effortless welcome within.

He also appreciated the way she didn’t flinch from his size, the scars on his arms, or the subtle gleam of his pulsing sigils flaring across his skin.

‘You’ve come at the perfect time,’ she continued as they walked toward the house.

‘Our autumn bounty is finally kicking in. The vegetable patch across the road has frost-hardy plants coming up, such as spinach, broad beans, and kale; you have to use a machete to harvest them. The purple sweet potatoes are ripe now, and the citrus is emerging strong. Navels are the first to turn. We’ll have to beat the crows to them.

They love to bore a hole, eat the insides, and leave the skins like cheeky little ghosts. ’

Reth gave Mo a solid handshake and a quiet smile. ‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you need, Molan. We’ve got the room.’

‘ Sante Reth and Hanna,’ Mo rasped.

With seven bedrooms, the spacious house seemed to go on forever, its thick wooden beams and heavy stone benchtops echoing the strength of the land it sat upon.

Rina gave him a quick tour.

‘Father built it this way so all four of my siblings, their partners, and the three grandchildren who ran riot through the orchard in summer, can visit anytime.’

They passed through the open-plan kitchen and living room, light pouring through high windows. The butler’s pantry peeked behind a glass door, and a narrow staircase led to a wine cellar below.

‘That’s all, Reth,’ Hanna said, nodding toward the stairs. ‘He’s always had an eye for a good vintage.’

Inside, the textures were rich and lived-in: natural stone, soft woods, woven throws slung across armchairs, and glimmers of gold on drawer handles and lantern fixtures.

The aroma in the house was a blend of garlic and rosemary, dough rising, and clean timber.

Hanna led him into the kitchen, where an island the size of a small craft dominated the space.

The polished wood, humble yet stately, gleamed under the warm glow of pendant lights.

‘We spend most of our time in here,’ she said, patting the smooth benchtops. ‘Whether we’re reading in the sun or prepping dinner for twenty.’

Mo stood still, hands planted on the edge of the bench, grounding himself.

Tension fled in his spine as he exhaled, feeling free for the first time in weeks.

He wasn’t sure if he was home, but for the first time, it felt like he could stop running.

The late afternoon sun slanted across the fields, casting long amber shadows as Rina led Mo through the quiet paths of the farm.

The scents of hay, eucalyptus, and fresh-turned earth filled the air, evoking a sense of comfort and healing.

His woman moved with a grounded ease here.

She was barefoot in worn jeans and a loose cotton shirt knotted at the waist, her hair bound in a twist as strands escaped to kiss her cheeks.

They passed the horse barn first, the gentle nicker of animals greeting them from inside. Mo paused to greet one, a curious filly who pushed her nose into his hand. He chuckled, rubbing between her eyes.

‘She likes you,’ Rina said, amused. ‘She doesn’t take to strangers.’

‘I’m not a stranger,’ Mo replied, scratching the horse’s muzzle. ‘Not anymore.’

She smiled, then nudged him onward toward a small structure just beyond the orchard. It had a curved roof and thick windows.

‘Welcome to my sanctuary,’ she said, unlocking the door and gesturing him in. ‘It’s my glass-blowing shed. This is where I disappear when the world gets too loud.’

The air inside was hot and humming, a contrast to the calm farm ambiance.

Tools hung in precise rows along the walls, and a furnace pulsed in one corner with a glowing hearth.

It was quiet except for the tick of steel and the whisper of fire.

‘Remember I told you it’s the one place I can lose time?’ she said, pulling on her gloves and protective goggles. ‘Just me, flames, and breath bringing to life delicate, sacred objects that can be shattered with the wrong touch. The challenge is invigorating, to say the least.’

He folded his arms and leaned against the door frame, eyes gleaming. ‘Show me.’

That grin of hers flickered like mischief. ‘All right then, soldier. Just don’t startle me, glass has a habit of cracking if I move too fast.’

She moved with fluid confidence, stoking the furnace until its glow intensified. She gathered the molten glass on a blowpipe, turning it with a steady hand.

Mo observed with fascination as Rina shaped the glowing orb. She rolled it on the marver, a steel plate, and used practiced motions to coax it into a new form. Her movements were controlled and deliberate as she breathed life into the fire.

Next, she added color in strips of cobalt, gold, and amber.

The colors swirled into the molten mass as it spun, transforming under her breath and touch.

The glass lengthened, arched, and narrowed until the familiar silhouette of a horse began to emerge, muscular and regal, with one leg raised in mid-prance.

He was silent, jaw tight with awe.

When it was done, she transferred the cooling artwork into a see-through plexiglass container. ‘This cures it and preserves it at the same time.’

Inside the case, the crystal stallion shimmered with trapped light, frozen in motion, its limbs caught between tension and grace.

Rina wrapped a ribbon around the box and held it out to him.

‘For you.’

Mo took it with care.

‘ Fokk me,’ he muttered, voice husky. ‘This is precious.’

She tilted her head, teasing. ‘That’s your whole sentence?’

He gazed at her for a beat.

‘You’re precious,’ he growled, then surged forward and kissed her, with scorching passion.

When they pulled apart, he pressed the gift to his chest.

He clasped her hand, his eyes never leaving hers.

‘This is the most cherished gift I have ever received,’ he said.

‘And I have held weapons forged by the best munitions makers in the galaxy, and sniper rifles worth more than a star system. But this is the breath of a new life, made real, and it’s from you. ’

Rina touched his cheek, her thumb brushing the stubble there.

‘Then take good care of it. Perhaps one day you can fire up a few glass creations of your own, and switch from ammunition and firearms to crystal and fine glassware.’

He smirked. ‘You’ll have to teach me how. Might need regular lessons. Frequent visits.’

She chuckled, already pulling off her gloves. ‘Sounds like a plan.’