Stil's Heart Read online

  Stil knew immediately that he didn’t want to be saddled with the strange girl longer than necessary. He quickly thought of a way to nip this in the bud. “I wouldn’t want to tie up your daughter on my account,” he told Geoffrey, meaning that wholeheartedly. “I can find my way back on my own, if you need her help here.”

  Geoffrey shook his head. “Considerate o’ you to offer, but you’d be doing me a favor to make sure she gets back a’right. Sometimes unsavory elements wander through town. She can wait and you can walk her back.”

  Stil nodded thanks and headed out the door. He wondered briefly if he hadn’t made as good an impression on Geoffrey as he’d thought. Was sending Gothel a sign that he didn’t trust Stil, that he wanted to make sure he was a man of his word? Was it a hedge for a night of income, to ensure that Stil came back? Or maybe it was what he professed it to be, him offering a helping hand. Or, on a grander scale, Stil wondered if perhaps it was yet another sign that he should get out of this town.

  Whatever the explanation, he’d pay attention and keep alert. He had a backup plan for when things went wrong. It was the same backup plan, no matter what thing went awry: escape. Get out while the getting was good.

  Chapter 2 - Gothel

  Talking usually came easy to Stil. He could find something to chat about with anyone. Or more precisely, he could get them talking. An easy smile, a well-placed compliment, and usually the person would prattle on and on. But not this girl. She seemed content to walk in silence, content to ignore him, which was odd. People, ladies in particular, didn’t ignore Stil.

  His curiosity piqued, he’d tried to strike up rapport with some light conversation. He’d already managed to offend the other daughter, so it seemed of extreme importance to impress this one, even if she was strange and plain. However, she was completely reticent. She offered one-word answers for every prompt.

  “What’s the town like?” he’d asked.

  “Small,” she’d replied.

  “What do you like to do?”

  She’d laughed. “Watch.”

  “Watch what?”

  “People.”

  Usually people gave him more in conversations, but not this bird. Despite her quietness, Stil wanted to make it work. Even though Gothel was leading the way, he walked beside her, trying to keep his tone friendly. He remembered passing the baker’s shop on the way in. The shop was closer to the edge of town.

  “I like to watch people, too,” he admitted, hoping to get her talking. “People are interesting, because some are good, some are bad, but all want something. It’s interesting to listen to what they say, and watch their actions and see how they align.”

  She stopped walking, just a moment, and looked up at him. She seemed to be searching his eyes for something. Hers were a strange color, one he’d never seen before. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t noticed earlier. Perhaps because it had been somewhat dark in the pub or perhaps because he’d thought her strange, but as he looked at her, he was intrigued. Her eyes were violet. A rarity for sure, and quite entrancing when she stared at you. It was as if those strange eyes had the power to mesmerize any onlooker.

  They were in the middle of the road, and she inclined her head to the right, where a side path jutted off from this main drag. “We can go this way. You’ll get to see some of the rest of town.”

  He knew they’d be to the baker’s in a matter of minutes if they kept straight, so the fact that she’d decided they should deviate from the path meant something. It had to be a sign that she was warming to him. He wanted at least one daughter to think well of him. “Sure,” he said and smiled big. “I’d like that.”

  They took the small path that led away from the main road. They walked the lowly back road for several minutes, ambling along without speaking until they came to a farm with a couple dozen sheep grazing in the pasture. A wooly sheepdog was asleep near the fence. Gothel stopped and leaned on the wooden fence, facing the sheep, but said nothing. Stil stopped, too. “What is this place?”

  She put a finger to her lips, shushing him, and tilted her head toward the pasture, indicating he should watch. He stared at the sheep and the sleeping dog, its head lolling as it snored. He wanted to go. This was a complete waste of his time. The girl was strange. The father had even admitted it, and it was time to cut his losses. Being liked was important in a new town, but he’d given it his all and nothing had worked. He opened his mouth to tell her he needed to get to the baker, but then she shook her head before he’d even gotten a word out and stuck out her finger, pointing to something in the distance.

  An urge to ignore her, to insist on seeing the baker, bubbled up, but then was beaten out by curiosity.

  Stil turned to see a wolf at the far edge of the pasture, coming from the adjacent woods. It was tall, but thin, and its mouth hung open as it loped toward the sheep. Now, Stil thought, this is intriguing. A girl who liked to watch sheep eaten by a wolf. He glanced back at Gothel, and her violet eyes focused intently on the predator nearing the pasture. Anticipation filled her face, and somehow with that expression, she didn’t look plain anymore. It was almost lovely as she watched greedily for the coming slaughter. He wasn’t sure if he should be appalled or admire her fortitude.

  He turned back toward the field to watch, and as he did, the sheep began to bleat as they realized the wolf was near. The supposed guard dog appeared to be sleeping soundly, but as the bleats grew louder, the wolf moved from a lope to a run and headed toward his feast. Stil knew the gruesome part was coming, but he couldn’t take his eyes away.

  The wolf was a couple of paces from the smallest, weakest, sheep, the one who hadn’t managed to run as far as the others.

  That’s when the sheep dog rushed in, barking at the wolf. The long-haired dog was a blur of speed as it ran straight toward the wolf, who shivered at the sight. On all fours at full height, the sheep dog wasn’t as lazy or docile as he’d looked moments ago. He was tall and imposing: a thick mass of hair with giant, sharp teeth barreling toward the wolf with a bark that sounded like thunder. The wolf took a quick look at the sheep, which had managed to move a little further away, and then focused back on the mass of fur and teeth heading toward him. The wolf turned mid-stride and headed back to the woods it had come from. The spry sheepdog followed, barking furiously to claim its territory and remind the wolf to stay away from his flock.

  After a moment, it was all over, and the sheepdog ran back toward the sheep and herded them together before returning to his spot where he’d been sleeping. He lay his head down and closed his eyes again.

  “How’d you know that would happen?” Stil asked, turning to her.

  She shrugged and stepped away from the fence, back toward the little path they’d come from. “I didn’t know for sure,” she said. “I just saw old Duke was asleep and thought the wolf might come. That’s wolves’ way. They wait until he’s asleep and make their attack. He was snoring right good there.” She laughed, one of true merriment, and in that moment, she looked downright beautiful. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes sparkled, and a few strands of blonde hair poked out of her hooded cloak. She smiled, showing two rows of straight, white teeth. He was shocked at how much the strange young lady changed in so short a time.

  She swatted a hand at his arm, tapping him lightly as they walked. “Don’t look at me so shocked,” she said as she shuffled along the path. “I just thought you’d enjoy that since you like to people-watch, too.”

  He wasn’t sure what she meant. He put a little jocularity in his voice when he spoke next, trying to make certain he didn’t offend her. “How does this relate to people-watching?”

  She grinned up at him, wisps of blond hair, poked out from the hood of her cloak. “Well, they sort of represent the three types of people you have in the world. Most people are sheep, walking around happily, living their lives but not paying attention to much else. And then you have guard dogs. They’re big and strong, and even if they fall asleep at times, they come through when you need the
m. And of course, there are the wolves. Those are the people who try to take advantage of everyone and everything. They’re sly and cunning, and sometimes they can even convince you they’re a guard dog. They tell you because they’re big and strong and have sharp teeth, they’ll guard you. But the truth is, they’re just lulling you so they can get close enough to bite.”

  Stil stopped. He was amazed at how she’d perfectly captured the world at large. She’d captured him entirely. He was a wolf.

  “Hurry up,” she said, as she was now several paces ahead of him. “Our detour means we’re running behind.”

  He jogged to catch up to her and walked briskly at her side, silent for a bit as he contemplated her worldview. “So what kind of person are you? A wolf, perhaps?” he teased.

  Gothel shook her head, and the hood fell away. He could see the blond braid poking out of the red scarf she wore on her head. “I haven’t decided yet,” she said. “The life of the sheep is the easiest. You can be happy and carefree, but your life can go horribly awry in just an instant because you haven’t been paying attention. My mother’s a sheep. So happy and friendly, but she married Pa, and he’s a guard dog. He watches out for her, for me, and maybe even my sister, Giselle.”

  “That’s the girl with the red hair?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, the pretty sister,” she said darkly. “She stands out, and she takes after pa. She’s a guard dog in her own right. Sizes people up quickly and acts accordingly. Sometimes I think she decides too quickly. I think people are harder to categorize. You need to watch ‘em a long time to figure out their true nature. But I have to admit, my sis is pretty good at it.”

  Stil didn’t speak yet, just kept walking briskly beside her. It was a nice day. The air was pretty still, except for the occasional warm breeze. It reminded him a bit of home. Not necessarily the home he was from — that was a place of misery — but the home he’d always imagined. A place of calmness, a place that lacked turbulence.

  He banished the thought. He looked at the girl, speedily walking, plain, petite, and now something he hadn’t expected at all: insightful. “You never said what you were,” he prodded.

  “I said I wasn’t sure,” she reminded him. “I like the idea of a guard dog.” She threw a look back toward the field, which was now quite a distance away. “But it requires such vigilance. Old Duke can’t even get in a good nap, without some wolf trying to take advantage. That’s a wearying life, to be vigilant always. To bask in the joy of the sheep, but never quite experience it yourself. Not completely. Always knowing that the joy could be interrupted if you are not paying attention. But there’s a certain steadiness in knowing you are there to protect yourself.”

  He nodded. He supposed she was right about that. The guard dog was the least pleasant job. “So, you said your sister was good at sizing people up. How about you?”

  “I take my time,” she said, her voice earnest.

  “What kind of person am I?” he asked, curious to know how she sized him up.

  “Giselle thinks you’re a wolf,” she said, quite unabashed. “But I’m still deciding. You could be a wolf. You’re big and sturdy, and I imagine when crossed, you would be willing to bear your fangs. But your nature, the way you watch people … seems to me, you’re a guard dog. Or maybe you’re like me, you haven’t quite decided. Our hearts tend to sway one way or another, leaning us toward the life of a sheep, a guard dog, or a wolf. But somewhere along the way, we have to make up our minds as to what we want to be. Your heart is strong, I can tell,” she said, and she reached out a hand and placed it on his chest. He stopped, and so did she, looking him square in the eyes. Her hand felt warm through his shirt. “Yep, you’re strong at heart, fierce. That means you could be a wolf, but you could also be a guard dog. You could be an ardent, unyielding protector.”

  With that, she lowered her hand and started walking again.

  Chapter 3 - Trouble

  Stil and Gothel finished their circuitous walk to the baker with little else to say. Normally Stil preferred to chatter with his companions, making them feel he was their best friend. But he’d been perfectly comfortable walking along with Gothel without a word. There hadn’t been much else to say after she’d decided he might be a guard dog. That his path wasn’t settled.

  It was the first time that someone had ever proposed that notion. It had always seemed, from every word from his Mama to the way the people at home had looked down on him every day, that he was destined to be a wolf. That he was destined to roam and poach and never quite be at peace. This notion that he could be something more than that unsettled him.

  When they stopped at the baker, Stil cloaked himself in his usual persona: friendly, easy-going, helpful, and hard-working, a guy who would do right by you if you just gave him a chance. He told the baker he’d be glad to help out, if he got paid a fair wage. The baker, clearly still desolate from his son’s death, had nodded and offered Stil a decent day’s pay to help him bring the heavy bags of flour from the mill, milk the cow out back, and do whatever else was needed around the shop. Stil agreed, and, having spoken with Gothel, felt a certain sense of obligation to do right by the man. This baker was broken, and Stil didn’t think it would be right to behave wolfishly toward him.

  Even though Stil knew he was a wolf, he didn’t want to be a wolf to this man. Fred Jones reminded him of his mother. She was broken the same way this man was. Only, his mother had been broken by his father. Stil had never learned much about his Pa, but he had figured out that he didn’t want to be like him. He couldn’t stand the idea of leaving someone broken in his wake. He always wondered, though, why his mother had named him after his father when his father had hurt her so badly.

  Tired of the baker’s melancholy, Stil had made the excuse that Gothel needed to be walked home. He hadn’t asked for her guidance on the way back, swiftly darting through town with her at his side. She didn’t seem to mind. Seemed to relish it, almost, a steady calm beside his stormy mood. And he realized that is exactly what he was now, a little tempest that had been stirred up by her words. The notion that he could be anything but a wolf, he told himself, was ridiculous. But then he thought of his mother. Should he have guarded her? Should he have stayed and protected her? Had she given him his name because she wanted it to be worn by a good person? Had he failed her?

  “Looks busy,” Gothel said, as they neared the inn. The sound of chatter filtered out the door as they neared. She was right, of course. It was crowded.

  He nodded and headed inside with her trailing behind. He walked straight to the bar, where Geoffrey McGinty stood pouring a drink.

  “Thanks for your help with the baker,” he said. “I’d like to get to my room, if you don’t mind.” Shit. He’d sounded brusque. He hadn’t meant to, but he didn’t like how he was feeling. It had thrown him off.

  “Fred had work for you, then?” the older man asked.

  “Aye,” he said. “I appreciate the introduction and the help.”

  Geoffrey patted Stil’s shoulder with a meaty hand. “Glad to help out a hard-working young man.” He turned his head and extended his other hand in the opposite direction. “Gothel will show you the room.”

  Stil suppressed a grimace. He hadn’t wanted to be with her again. Forcing a smile to his lips, he greeted her with a small hello when she approached.

  “Take Stil around back to the room,”

  Gothel was wordless again, just walking through the crowd toward the back of the establishment. He hurried behind her, knowing she wouldn’t look back to see whether he followed. Through the hubbub of the merry townspeople at the pub, and then through a back door and down a dimly lit hallway. Then she opened a door and slipped into a darkened room.

  He followed her into the darkness. A moment later, she lit the lantern, and dim light filled the room. She stood in the corner, a smile on her lips. She looked almost angelic the way the low light of the lantern bathed her. He smiled back.

  “It’s not much,” she said, waving he
r arm to show him the room. A straw mattress on the floor, a chair in the corner, and a dresser to put his things in. Though he didn’t have anything with him. He’d left it in the wagon headed for the port city. Another hedge to keep The Terror on the wrong trail, giving the teen in the group his clothes.

  “It’s fine, thank you,” he said.

  She gave him the once-over and started toward him. He wondered for a moment if she meant to come to him, to offer herself to him. He wasn’t sure why that prospect even entered his head, but it did. No sooner than it had, it left him because he realized he was blocking the door. She wanted to leave.

  “You can run,” she said, as she got close to him.

  “What?”

  “I see the look in your eyes,” she said, her voice soft but certain. “You don’t like being stuck in one place. You move around a lot, and don’t take nothing with you. But that’s okay. You don’t need to settle into a place until you feel its home. So, if you need to run, go.” She jerked her head toward the hallway. “Turn left and there’s a back door. Run free. And if you feel like coming back, you’ll know this might be a good place for you to stop running.”

  With that, she reached down and grabbed his hand, her warm, soft fingers wrapping tightly around his and pressing a key into his palm. “This locks your door, but no one here steals.” With that, she walked past him and out the door. He saw her head back toward the raucous main room of the pub.

  He swallowed, wondering why the hell she felt the need to say that to him, but at the same time knowing she was right. He stepped into the hallway, closed and locked the door, turned toward the sounds of the pub, its cacophony where he was usually drawn.