S weat traced down Owen’s brow, dripping onto his shirt as he hammered Farmer Morgan’s plow blade on the anvil, repairing the damage created when the blade struck a large rock submerged in a field.
The heat of the smithy wrapped around him like a second skin, and the muscles in his arms thrummed with a tiring rhythm born of the extra work he’d taken on.
His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten yet, and it was already midafternoon.
“Owen,” Simon called from the doorway. “I must speak with you.”
“Can’t it wait? I’ve got to finish this before nightfall,” Owen shouted back without looking up, sensing the urgency in his friend’s tone, but too ensnared in his task to afford distraction.
“No, this is urgent.” Simon came closer while avoiding the flying tool in Owen’s hand. He was not one for idle visits, especially not to the sweltering heat of the smithy.
Owen lifted his gaze, about to rebuke him with a reminder that dawn would come soon enough for all matters, when the door creaked open once more, halting the words on his tongue.
Zee walked in carrying a basket likely filled with the fresh bread he’d ordered.
“Good day to you both,” she sang out. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as they landed on Owen’s sweat-slicked form and then flicked to Simon’s more composed demeanor. “I’m delighted to find you both here, as there’s a matter we’ve yet to settle.”
Owen exhaled sharply. “Zee, this really isn’t a good time.
..” His voice trailed off, the admonishment losing steam as he watched her approach, shifting her hips as she walked, well aware of the effect she had on him.
The heat of the forge no longer accounted for all the warmth spreading through his veins.
She approached Simon first, offering him a scone with a coy tilt of her head, before turning toward Owen, the basket extended in silent offer.
Desperate to maintain focus, he squeezed the handle of his hammer and swung it gently at his side.
Yet, as she neared, the scent of cinnamon and yeast teased his senses.
“Surely you have time for a quick bite, Owen. Mama threw in some leftover scones.”
Despite himself, he fisted the edge of his leather apron, tugging at it as if to physically hold himself back from succumbing to the distraction she presented. “Work,” he grunted, the word clumsy and inadequate against the backdrop of her laughter.
“Always work,” Zee sighed. “And what about after? Will there be time then or will you be so tired you’ll go straight to bed?”
He swallowed, the conflict raging within him.
His arms tensed, the hammer he held momentarily forgotten as Zee’s words hung in the sweltering air.
Heat flushed his skin not solely from the furnace’s blaze, but from the growing irritation within him.
His patience frayed like the worn leather of his apron.
“Enough!” The word burst from him, loud and sharp, echoing off the stone walls. He slammed the hammer down upon the anvil, sending a shower of sparks flying toward the dirt floor. “You think I’m free to go gallivanting about at your pleasure?”
Simon straightened, his eyes widening slightly at the harsh tone that was so unlike him.
Owen continued, his voice thick with exhaustion, “Both of you—you come here with your... your jests and your sweet confections, and neither of you understand the workload on my shoulders.” His chest heaved, the fatigue from repairing Farmer Morgan’s plow blade mingling with the hunger gnawing at his belly.
Taken aback by the outburst, Zee froze, her playful facade crumbling, the basket of baked goods hanging from her limp arm. She hesitated, then placed it gently on the worn wooden workbench, the baked treats untouched.
“I’m sorry, Owen,” she said with a soft sincerity that stung him more than any rebuke. Her eyes dimmed, clouded by hurt, and the dawning realization that her lighthearted visit had been an unwelcome interruption.
“Truly, I didn’t mean to—” Her words trailed away as she turned to leave, her drooping posture conveying a profound disappointment that settled uneasily in the pit of Owen’s stomach. Her footsteps were quiet against the stone, yet thunderously loud in the silence left in the wake of his anger.
He lunged forward, his work forgotten in the sudden chill of realization. He caught her arm just as her hand touched the latch, her pale wrist a stark contrast to his soot-smeared fingers. “Wait, Zee. I was out of line, truly. I’m sorry.”
She turned back slightly, a single tear escaping down her cheek.
His heart constricted at the sight, and he released her arm to cup her face gently, his thumb brushing away the moisture that marred her porcelain skin.
But as he did, the grime from his work smeared across her cheek, a dark smudge against her fairness.
“Look at what I’ve done. I’ve gone and made a mess, here and here,” he said, gesturing first to her cheek and then around the smithy, his own state of disarray mirroring the chaos of his emotions.
“It’s fine. I’m not injured.” The tremble in her voice betrayed her lingering sadness. She tried to turn once more, but this time, it was his unspoken plea for forgiveness written on his face that held her in place.
Simon stepped forward, his gaze locking with Owen’s in a silent exchange that spoke volumes. “Let’s go next door. Owen needs to eat a few of those scones, I believe, and then we can discuss what brings Xenia here.”
Zee hesitated, her gaze flitting between the two men, but Simon’s encouraging smile coaxed a reluctant nod from her.
Without warning, Simon scooped Zee up into his arms. She let out a surprised yelp, her arms instinctively wrapping around Simon’s neck. “Come, we’ll await him next door.” He headed for the rear door.
“Put me down this instant!” she protested, though her eyes gleamed and the corners of her mouth twitched as if fighting a smile.
“Ah, but I much prefer you aloft, where I can keep a proper eye on you,” Simon said.
Owen watched them, relief blossoming in his chest as Zee’s laughter finally broke free. Simon had managed to turn the tide, and for that, he was immensely grateful.
He strode hastily to the pump behind the forge. He peeled off his shirt, bent down and pumped the handle, and cool water gushed forth, cascading over his head and down his back, washing away soot and sweat that marked the day’s toil.
His hands worked quickly, scrubbing the grime from his arms and chest, droplets catching the fading light as they flew from his vigorous shaking.
The urgency was not solely for cleanliness, it was an ache to rectify the rift he’d caused with Zee.
After dousing himself one last time, he wrung out his hair, beads of water shimmering like diamonds in the waning sunlight.
Turning back to the forge, Owen banked the fire, uncertain how long he’d be with the others. The heat of the furnace paled compared to the warmth that awaited him inside—a warmth kindled not by fire, but by the presence of those he cared for deeply.
Rushing inside his home, he saw the door to his parlor stood ajar, laughter spilling into the hallway like the light from the hearth within. He sighed, relieved Zee had returned to her usual humor, then continued to his bedchamber to change into dry clothes.
* * *
Simon looked up when Owen entered the room, noting he hadn’t bothered putting on a waistcoat or his boots.
Was he planning to allow Xenia to seduce them, as she obviously intended?
He pressed his lips together. As much as he desired what she offered, now wasn’t the time to play.
Not after the outburst, not without coming to an agreement about how things lay between them all.
Xenia’s heart—and her body—wasn’t a plaything they could continue to toy with, no matter that she was the one asking them to do so. She deserved better.
Owen nodded at them as he continued into his small kitchen. “I’ll make some tea. Will you have scones and cream?”
“Thank you, no,” Simon said from the small chair he sat in near the hearth.
Xenia also turned him down.
“More for me then,” Owen quipped gruffly.
The kettle soon sang with steam through the spout, and Owen poured the hot water into the delicately patterned teapot that had once been his mother’s.
He carried a tray with the pot and three cups and set it on a low table, then sat in the chair beside Simon and opposite the sofa where Xenia perched.
Xenia and Simon continued their light conversation while Owen prepared their cups and sat back to eat his scones.
Simon took a slow sip from the cup Owen handed him, watching over the rim as Owen made quick work of the pastries, a faint smile touching his lips. It was a rare scene of domesticity that Simon found surprisingly comforting, a brief respite from the seriousness that awaited their conversation.
Setting down his teacup with a gentle clink against the saucer, his gaze lifted to the faces of his companions. “There’s a matter I came to discuss with Owen, and I suppose it’s right that we include you in the conversation, Xenia, since it concerns you.”
Owen nodded, brushing crumbs from his lips, his brown eyes attentive. Yet it was Xenia who captured Simon’s focus, her eyes bright with a mix of curiosity and something like apprehension.
“Xenia, our current... arrangement, while most enjoyable, is laden with pitfalls that concern me.” He paused, searching for the right words, wanting to convey both the gravity and the care behind his admission.
He caught her expression, and he felt a pang of remorse for any distress his words might cause.
Yet he pressed on, committed to honesty.
“I value our friendship above all else, but we cannot continue as we have. It does neither you nor Owen nor myself any justice to pretend that what transpires between us is of no consequence.”