Page 60 of The Otherworld

As we unload the freshly harvested produce in the kitchen, I notice how low I am on firewood. Papa warned me to always keep the indoor supply well stocked in case of a sudden turn in the weather. He didn’t want me to be chopping wood in a storm.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Adam, pulling up the hood of my cloak and vanishing outside before he can question where I’m going.

Whistling gusts of ocean wind chase me around the corner of the lighthouse, rain blowing sideways as I yank the tarp off the woodpile. My shoulders sag when I realize that I forgot to split the logs ahead of time. Digging through the stack, I find a few pieces cut from narrow branches—but it’s not enough to keep the fire going for the rest of the day.

I’m just going to have to split them now.

With a groan of frustration, I haul an armload of logs over to the chopping block, where Papa’s ax is stuck. It’s not my favorite chore, especially in this weather, but it must be done.

I steady a log on the block and slam the ax down, splitting it into pieces with a CRACK! I toss the wood aside and start on the next log just as a gust of wind blows my hood off. I carry on splitting logs, unfazed by the temperamental weather. Papa wouldn’t mind it, and neither shall I.

“Orca?”

I glance over my shoulder and find Adam standing a few yards behind me, bewilderment in his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“Chopping wood! We need more.” I drive the ax into the next log, but it takes a few tries to split the wood in two. “Go back inside. There’s no sense in both of us getting wet.”

“I can’t let you do this yourself,” Adam insists. “Chopping wood is a man’s job.”

“Excuse me, I’ve chopped wood many times, and I’m good at it, too!”

Though I’m not providing much of an example right now, as I wrestle with the log, which is locked around my ax like the jaws of a hungry shark.

“I need to do this, Adam! Go back inside.” Gathering my armload of newly split firewood, I start marching back to the door. Adam steps forward to take the burden off my hands, but I dart out of his reach—immediately tripping on a root and falling on my face.

I hiss in pain as I crash to the ground, skinning my arms when I land on the scattered firewood.

“Orca!” Adam is at my side in seconds, only intensifying my embarrassment when he asks me if I’m all right.

“I’m fine. I just tripped—Adam!” I scoff as he grasps my arm and begins pulling me back to the lighthouse. “Adam, let me go this minute.”

“You are the most stubborn girl in the world. Has anyone ever told you that?”

“I’m my father’s daughter,” I snap, frustrated and comforted in equal measure by how quick he is to swoop in and protect me.

He pulls me through the front door and into the kitchen, insisting that I sit on the table and not move. I’m a breathless, soggy mess, grass stains on my knees, wet hair sticking to my neck.

“You’re so funny—I keep asking you what I can do to help, and you don’t tell me. Instead, you sneak outside to chop wood in the rain.”

“I couldn’t ask you to chop the wood, Adam. You’re hurt.”

“And now you’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

“Let me see.” He gently turns my arms over to assess the damage. “You’re bleeding, Orca.”

“Not much. Not nearly as much as you were bleeding when I first found you.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to point this out—it’s not as if we’re competing to see who is more equipped to look after themselves.

“Well, then,” Adam says softly, his gaze roaming over my face, “allow me to return the favor.”

My heart gives a fluttery thud when he says that; his thumb lightly skims the inside of my arm. I don’t notice how close he is until he steps away, but he returns moments later with a warm, wet cloth and the jar of ointment I used on his ribs just this morning.

“Adam, you really don’t need to—”

“And you didn’t need to chop that wood,” he says, carefully lifting my forearm and washing my wound with the wet cloth. “So why did you?”

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