Page 48 of Mistletoe

“An archer?” It was so primitive.

“The shotgun blast sends them running. If you use a shotgun or a rifle, your aim better be true, or else you’re going hungry.”

“I will have to learn,” he said, genuinely intrigued about using the ancient weapon.

“How’d you catch all those rabbits if you don’t know how to hunt with a bow?”

“Traps.” His derelict shack had a pair of rusty but serviceable traps. “Rabbits are from Earth. Where are the cows?”

“They can’t digest the tall grass. Goats and sheep do better,” she answered before crouching down and pointing to a cluster of thin green leaves. “Wild onion.”

She directed him where to dig, pulling up sunchokes and wild onions.

“We should forage what we can before the snow is too deep,” she said, balancing the basket on her hip.

Hal took the basket, ignoring her protest that she was perfectly capable of carrying it.

“My job description iscarry heavy things,” he said, refusing to relinquish the basket.

When they reached the top of a gentle hill, the farm and its outbuildings came into view. The main building was constructed of local field stone, a two-story building that was tall in the center and flanked by single-level additions. It reminded Hal very much of a chicken sitting on eggs. The barn, bunkhouse, workshop, and various storage sheds were constructed of wood. The timber had grayed in the sun. Fresh paint wouldn’t go amiss.

Animal traffic in and out of the barn and pens had turned the snow from pristine white to a dingy gray to mud.

Emma corralled the goats into the pen. How, he had no idea. It must have been witchcraft; she simply opened the gate and the goats trotted in without protest. The entire afternoon, they solidly ignored Hal. One had strayed too close to the edge of the creek and kept going back despite the very large orc blocking the way and frowning.

Hal leaned against a wooden fencepost, watching Emma have a very serious conversation with a goat as she inspected its hooves. It had developed a small limp during the journey back to the pasture.

“I don’t see a stone or a pebble. Are you being dramatic because Hal won’t let you play in the freezing cold water? Such melodrama. You should be on the stage,” Emma chattered.

Hal heard a rider approach. He stood upright, his body tense.

“What?” Emma asked.

“Someone’s coming.”

“The sheriff,” she said, springing into action and wasting no time by questioning his hearing. She grabbed the basket and pushed him in the direction of the workshop. “You need to hide.”

“The barn?—”

“Is the first place she’s gonna look. Hide in the workshop,” she said, pointing to one of the outbuildings. “Try not to disturb the dust on the floor.”

How he would accomplish that, he had no idea.

The workshop door required a solid nudge with his shoulder to open. Dust lay thick on the floor. Equipment and crates had been stacked inside, forming a narrow corridor to a workbench. A canvas tarp covered the largest item. He had only the vaguest idea of what purpose the equipment served. Some were lethal-looking farm implements and tools that could pound a nail or cave a head in, but also a weaving machine with an abandoned project still in the loom gathering dust.

Hal grabbed the top of the door frame and swung himself over the threshold, landing on a crate. It groaned under his weight. All the items were stacked haphazardly and threatened to topple with the smallest incentive.

Moving carefully, he crossed deeper into the room. Once far enough away that no one would notice disturbed dust on the floor, he returned to the floor and rearranged the largest crates. If anyone came into the workshop, he’d have a barrier to hide behind. Until then, he cracked the window and waited.

A horse approached.

Hal ducked out of sight.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” Emma said. “Is this a social call, or do I need to consult my lawyer?”

A woman’s voice answered. “We received a report of an orc sighting.”

“An orc? That green fella? Did Mrs. Fairfax say that? Her cataracts are horrible. You can’t trust her eyes.”

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