Page 3 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights
Not for the likes of me.
But my feet stay rooted, arms crossed over my chest.
A sudden flurry of wings explodes near her elbow—a pheasant, startled out of a nest it built under the overgrowth. Maddie lets out a squeal that somehow manages to sound delighted and horrified all at once, topples onto her rear, and then bursts into peals of laughter.
“Oh stars, I am so sorry little bird—I didn’t mean to ruin your whole morning,” she giggles, brushing leaves out of her hair. Her voice is warm, unselfconscious, full of life.
Something tightens in my chest.
I stand there like a damned stump, hidden by a thick stand of beeches, unable to tear my gaze away. Watching her shake out her skirts, still smiling like she hasn’t a care in the world despite the orchard’s sorry state.
She looks small in all that tangled green, but bright. Like a candle someone forgot to snuff out.
When she finally wanders back toward the farmhouse, humming under her breath, I let out sigh.
Then my eyes drift back to the orchard itself—barren patches, drooping limbs, a fence with new gaps wide enough to drive a cart through. Easy pickings for any developer sniffing around with gold in his eyes and no sense of the land’s slow, deep magic.
I clench my fists. Maddie Quinn’s troubles are none of my business. She’s a whirlwind of human fuss, and I’ve got my own problems—letters from fancy men who want to pave over my entire world.
But even as I turn back toward my forest, my thoughts snag on the way her smile glowed right through the weeds. On the way she murmured an apology to a damned pheasant, like the bird’s morning was worth more than hers.
A low growl rumbles in my throat, half annoyance, half something else.
I sling my pack over my shoulder and head for home, telling myself I won’t get tangled up in her problems. That would be foolish. Dangerous, even.
Still, my feet drag, eyes drifting back over my shoulder to the orchard—her orchard—long after she’s disappeared from sight.
CHAPTER 3
MADDIE
Icome out to the orchard bright and early, so early the dew is still pearling on the grass like tiny glass beads and the sun hasn’t quite decided if it wants to be warm yet. It’s chilly enough that I wrap myself in a thick, oversized cardigan that used to belong to Aunt Hester. The sleeves are too long and the shoulders are baggy, but it smells faintly of rosemary and cider, and that’s comfort enough.
The place needs me. The orchard looks more neglected by the day, drooping under the weight of untended branches and brambles that have decided this is their personal kingdom now. Aunt Hester would never have let it get this bad. She’d have been out here with her old straw hat and muddy boots, humming tunelessly while snipping away dead twigs like she was coaxing them back to life.
So here I am, armed with a pair of rusty clippers, a bushel basket, and a stubborn determination that feels bigger than my actual body.
“Alright, you cranky old trees,” I mutter, patting the rough bark of one twisted apple tree. “Let’s see if we can’t sort you out before the fancy developers come sniffing around with their gold coins and horrible blueprints.”
The tree, for its part, simply creaks in the breeze, dropping a solitary leaf right onto my nose. I laugh, brushing it off.
I get to work clearing away brittle branches and scraping moss off where it’s started to smother the trunks. It’s slow going—every few feet I get tangled up in another trailing vine that seems personally offended by my presence. By the time I’ve worked through half a row, my knees are damp, my elbows are scraped, and my basket is brimming with small, blushing apples that smell like September.
It’s satisfying, though. There’s something about watching the orchard slowly shrug off its burden that makes me feel lighter, too. Like if I can keep this patch of the world alive, then maybe everything else will be alright somehow.
Of course, that’s exactly when fate decides to have a laugh at my expense.
I’m dragging a pile of thorny cuttings toward a compost heap when my foot snags on a gnarled root jutting up like a little goblin hand from the earth. I let out a very dignified yelp—“Oh stars above, not again!”—and go sprawling flat on my face.
My basket flips, apples bouncing every which way, some rolling down the slight slope and disappearing into tufts of goldenrod. I push myself up on my elbows, wincing as bits of twig poke me in less-than-polite places, and then drop my head onto the grass with a long, muffled groan.
“Perfect. Just… perfect. Really putting on a show today, Maddie,” I mumble into the ground.
When I finally roll over and sit up, leaves in my hair, dirt smudged across my cheek, I’m ready to laugh it off. Then I freeze.
Because standing at the tree line, half-shadowed by tall beeches, is Thornak Ironjaw.
My heart gives an unhelpful little skip that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with how broad helooks, half lost in the dappled light, arms crossed over his chest like a wall of muscle and quiet disapproval. His dark green skin stands out stark against the gold of the orchard, tusks catching a glint of sun when he shifts. For a heartbeat, he just stares at me with this unreadable expression—eyes narrowed, mouth a hard line, brows drawn low.
