Total pages in book: 44
Estimated words: 41044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
“I might be,” he murmured, stepping closer, surprised by her perception. “Or they might be chasing me.”
That made her look up. Her eyes met his—sharp, steady, and not so easily shaken. “What did you see?”
He hesitated, then crouched beside her, letting the warmth of the fire thaw the chill in his limbs. “By the stream. There was a woman or something that looked like one, cloaked and watching me. But when I blinked, she was gone.”
Ingrid didn’t scoff or laugh. She studied him instead, as if weighing what the story truly meant.
“You’ve been speaking with Latham,” she said after a moment.
“He said this is the time of the witch. That she walks strongest now.”
She drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. “They say that every year when the seasons change. When the days shorten and the dark comes quicker. It’s the season of fear, Raff. Folks start to see things because they expect to.”
“And you?” he asked. “Do you believe there’s a witch in the village?”
Her eyes shifted to his, quiet and unreadable. “I believe people want something to blame when life turns cruel.”
He watched her in the firelight, how the shadows danced across her face, softening her in some places, sharpening her in others. “You sound like you’ve seen what fear can do.”
“I’ve seen what people can do,” she said quietly. “Fear just gives them permission.”
The words hung between them, until…
“What do you search for, Raff?” Ingrid whispered as if she shouldn’t be heard.
Did he trust her? Share with her? Was it fair to place his burden on another? He didn’t know but he sensed one thing… he could trust her.
Raff kept his voice low. “Do you think… if someone had been cursed, truly cursed… there’d be a way to undo it?”
The fire popped and crackled between them. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached out, brushing her fingers lightly over his hand where it rested on his knee.
“Is that why you’re so interested in witches?” she asked softly.
Raff’s breath caught at her touch. It was warm and comforting, and he reveled in it. It had been too long since he’d felt the touch of a woman or anyone for that matter. He had forgotten how good it felt. He glanced at their hands, then at her face.
“I want to believe I can fight whatever is holding me.”
She searched his eyes, then gave a small nod. “Then fight for the right things. Not shadows. Not whispers. Don’t let fear make you foolish, Raff.”
He closed his hand around hers, wanting to hold on to her, feel her warmth, her caring. “And if it’s real?”
“Then you’ll need someone to stand beside you, help you,” she said softly. “And I will gladly do that for you. But you must promise me something.”
“What?” he asked, a bit stunned and pleased that she offered to stand by him.
“That you won’t start looking for a witch unless you’re ready to face the consequences of being wrong, condemning an innocent person to suffer, to burn.”
He stared into the fire, his stomach turning at the thought. “I would never let that happen.”
“Be very sure, for words hold much power and can condemn easily.”
CHAPTER 7
The sun had barely crested the hills when Raff took up his place in the fields, the soil still damp with the morning’s dew, clinging to his boots as he moved down the rows. A gentle breeze stirred the air, and the scent of turned earth and drying grain settled in his chest like memory. The rhythm of labor, steady and honest, should have cleared his mind. Instead, it only turned his thoughts inward.
To Ingrid.
He was drawn to her like no other woman he had known. It began upon meeting her. One look and he felt it. It grew with shared words, passing glances, the quiet ease between them when no one else was near. And now he found himself thinking of her before his eyes had finished opening in the morning.
He liked talking with her. More than liked it. He liked the sound of her voice, how it softened when she was speaking of the land or the people, how it sharpened with wit when she challenged him. There was grace in the way she moved, too, not delicate, but purposeful. A kind of quiet strength that reminded him of a woman carrying both her burdens and her pride with equal weight.
And her smile. Good, Lord, her smile. It was something she gave freely, and when it came, it was like warmth in winter. It comforted. It made him forget, just for a moment, that there was something broken inside him. And her touch? He closed his eyes briefly recalling it. It was magical and he ached to feel more, to take her in his arms and hug her close.
But he had no right to get her involved with his problem even though she offered her help. And how foolish was he to even consider or hope for a future with her?