Page 3 of The Blacksmith in My Tavern: Tales of Bleakness

“I’m going to be alright,” she says, like she can read my mind and knows I need something—an indication that she has not been broken by what was done. “They don’t deserve to take my happiness away or change me.”

A small smile lights her face.

And I somehow know that the sweet, resilient Betsy will be okay.

Chapter Two

Heath

“Evening Heath!” Tim booms. The human-orc hybrid is used to shouting over noisy patrons. His hearty hail never fails to put a smile on my face.

“Evening, Tim!” I call back.

“It’s heaving tonight,” Callum says. “I’ll go to the bar and order. It’ll be quicker.”

“Thanks, son.” I pat him on the shoulder. After hanging my cloak on the hook inside the door, I go and find a table beside the fire.

I enjoy Friday night at The Green Man. After working hard at the forge all day, nothing is better than walking the short distance down the street and stepping inside the tavern. The fire is always well stoked against the bitter weather, and the greeting is always warm.

It wasn’t always like this, coming to the local tavern of an evening. When I was younger, I had a woman putting food on the table and warming my bed of a night—or of a day if I could get the chance. Callum was a young lad then. Now he’s a man,and even though it has been seven years since I lost his mother, memories of her still linger in our home.

“Callum sent this over for you, Heath.”

The husky voice stirs me from my memories—another one that greets me often when I drop by The Green Man for supper and ale.

“Aye, thank you, Betsy,” I say, glancing toward the bar where my son is chatting with the local wheelwright, doubtless also hoping to catch a moment with his lass, Ada.

Betsy smiles. The dimples on her cheeks are like sunshine warming this bleak night. For a moment, the rowdy tavern fades away, and there are only the tavern lass and me.

She sends me a coy look under her lashes. “I get a break in a bit if you wanted to?—”

“Just the ale, Betsy,” I cut her off gruffly, but not quick enough to stop the sudden rush of blood heading south. She has been playfully propositioning me for a few years now. I don’t mind it. She is the same with all the patrons. I feared her time in Blighten hands might have taken her natural mischief away—I’m glad that it didn’t even though her ways leave me hot and bothered.

The wench is sweet and pretty, with golden hair, freckles across her nose, and blue eyes that are clear and bright and sparkle in the cheery glow of the fire and lamps. They remind me of the spring flowers that grew in the forests of Hydornia whence I hail.

Fuck, listen to me comparing her eyes to spring blooms?! She is also too young—I’m too old for her. She flirts outrageously with me—she flirts with half the patrons and doesn’t mean anything by it.

Her eyes dance with mischief. Not at all bothered by my rebuff. Leaning over the table to put her ample cleavage ondisplay, she collects a couple of empty tankards from the table before she sashays off.

Fuck!

I adjust my collar, annoyed by how my body responds to her teasing. Maybe she sees my resistance as a challenge and is determined to make me sweat. At least, that is the only conclusion I can reach that makes some sense as to why she continues to proposition me.

“Heath!” Pete, the local carpenter, single like me, slips into the seat beside me. “You hear about that trouble down at the docks?”

“Trouble?” I fake innocence.

“Aye, I heard members of the rebellion liberated some prisoners.”

“No, I didn’t know about that.” I don’t tell him that I was involved in it. Although I reckon that Pete has some inkling as to the other side of me—the secret side that supports the rebellion against the orcs.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Betsy heading out the back door… followed by three sailors.

What the fuck is that about?

Pete is still talking, and I’m mostly listening, but I’m also staring at the door that leads out the back and where Betsy has gone.

I sip my beer.

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