Page 65 of Far From Sherwood Forest
“So, you don’t…hate me?”
“Hate you?” His brow furrows as though he’s trying to make sense of those two words strung together. “Robin, you’re my fucking brother. I could never hate you. Even if you have had naked time with the former Sheriff of Nottingham.”
I snort, and my tension continues to ease. “And the fact that he’s a man?”
“You should know I don’t give a damn about that. How many laws did we break back in Sherwood Forest? Might as well keep breaking them here, especially the ones that were stupid anyway.”
I give him a sincere smile, feeling lighter than I have in a while. “Thanks, John.”
“But, I mean, this is…Henry. I guess I don’t understand thatpart. I’m pretty sure I remember stitching up a gunshot wound he gave you not too long ago.”
“Yeah,” I mutter with a grimace. “I don’t get it either if I’m being honest. It started as just physical, an attraction neither of us could fight apparently. But, then…” I sigh heavily, my lips tugging downward. “It turned into more.”
“That’s why you’ve been moping?”
“I have not been moping.”
With an arch of his brow, he gives me a pointed look.
“Okay, fine. I guess so. It was more for me. Not him.”
“I’m sorry, Robin. He’s a dumbass.”
I let out a short laugh. “Thanks. I probably shouldn’t have let it get that far. I think that’s why I never really tried harder with any of the girls you set me up with. I didn’twantit to get this far. I didn’t…”
“Want to be hurt again,” he finishes for me.
I nod. “I didn’t want to lose somebody again.”
John throws a large, heavy arm over my shoulders and pulls me into his side. “If it helps, you’ll never lose me.”
Leaning my head against his shoulder, I sniff back the building emotions. “It helps.”
We stay like that for a while, just staring out at the field while I lean on him. The sun is high in the sky now, the air warmer than it’s been in months. A breeze rolls over the ranch, carrying with it the smell of freshly cut grass.
Then the breeze turns into a gust.
John and I break apart as the wind ruffles our hair and kicks up grass clippings off the ground. They swirl in the air, joining together, and twist and turn like a ribbon. The loose blades of grass meet in the center of the field before us, forming a wall of green that spins into a vortex.
“What the hell is going on?” John asks gruffly, having to speak a little louder over the roar of the gale.
Shit.
I probably should’ve told him everything after all.
“It’s the Spirit of Sherwood Forest.”
“Excuse me?” he barks, giving me a look before both of our attention is once more drawn to the magic in the field.
The cyclone of grass spins faster and faster, howling louder and louder. After it seems to reach a peak, it slowly dies, grass and dirt and dust floating gently to the ground.
In their place stands three men.
Men out of time.
Like John and Henry and I were five years ago.
“Robin?”
