Page 123 of Bittersweet & Strange

“Gideon will take care of him,” Mara says.

“I should be there.”

“You should be somewhere you can sit down before you fall down.”

Boone opens his mouth, but whatever argument he intended to make dies before it reaches his lips. His shoulders slump. When I press my hand against his back again, he finally allows me to lead him toward the cottage, though he continues looking over his shoulder until I guide him through the door.

The moment we step inside, Boone stops.

So do I.

He looks around the room like he doesn’t recognize it anymore, his gaze moving from the small table near the window to the fireplace, then toward the narrow hallway beyond it. His mouth trembles, and I watch him swallow several times before he walks toward the rocking chair beside the hearth and lowers himself into it.

I remain near the door.

I’ve never been inside this house.

I brought Boone home once, left him outside and rode away without lingering long enough to see what waited for him beyond the door. At the time, I hadn’t wanted to know. This cottage represented everything he had chosen over me, everything he had been so desperate to return to that he’d rather brave the mountain alone than remain another night inside my castle. Seeing it would have meant acknowledging there was something down here worth leaving me for.

Now I see it.

The entire cottage could fit inside one of the smaller sitting rooms at the castle. The floorboards are worn pale along the paths most frequently traveled, the walls patched in places where plaster has cracked away, and nearly every piece of furniture bears evidence of having been repaired more than once. A stack of split wood sits beside the fireplace, carefully rationed even now. Jars line the shelves along one wall beside a few dented pots and dishes that don’t match.

This is what Boone called home.

Not because it was particularly comfortable, but because his father was here. A man I don’t know knocks quietly and hands Mara a small, leather tote. Then he leaves.

My gaze returns to Boone.

He sits perfectly still in the rocking chair with his hands lying uselessly in his lap. His father’s blood has dried between his fingers and under his nails, and his eyes remain fixed on the empty chair across from him.

Something about that empty chair makes me look away.

“Sit down, Rhys.”

I turn.

Mara has already placed her leather tote on the table. She opens it with the efficiency of someone who has done the same thing thousands of times, then points toward one of the kitchen chairs.

“Let me look at your arm.”

I stare at her.

I am not accustomed to being told what to do. I realize almost immediately that I particularly dislike being ordered around by a woman who barely reaches my shoulder and apparently considers my opinion irrelevant.

“Who the hell are you?” I growl.

Boone’s tear-swollen eyes snap toward me, but he doesn’t say anything.

Mara does.

She smiles.

It isn’t a particularly pleasant smile.

“Don’t you remember me?” She removes a clean strip of linen from her case and sets it on the table. “Has it really been that long?”

“I remember everyone who lived in my father’s castle.”