Sarah's fingers closed around Ben's wrist—and froze.
This hand, once soft as unbaked dough, now felt like sun-warmed stone beneath her touch. Not cold, but radiating a deep, unsettling warmth.
She remembered the work gloves she'd handled at last year's church bazaar—the ones belonging to old man Henderson's wrangler. They'd felt just like this when left near the forge.
"Lord above…" she breathed, steering Ben toward the kitchen's rocking chair. "Sit. I'll fix supper."
"Thank you, Sarah."
The earthenware ladle clattered against the cast-iron stove. Sarah whirled around. "What did you… say?"
Cold sweat prickled Ben's back. He grabbed the edge of the checkered tablecloth, grinning vacantly. "Hungry! Ben hungry!" His knuckles whitened as the coarse linen twisted in his grip.
Too close.
When Sarah brought the corn mush with its single fried egg (yolk hidden beneath the grits), Ben caught the faint bob of her throat.
"Sarah… eat!" He shoved the bowl back, the wooden spoon handle creaking under his grip.
"Bees work sweeter with full bellies," she deflected, forcing a smile. As she turned to scrub honey knives, the windowpane reflection caught Ben splitting the egg—tucking the larger half beneath her own empty bowl.
Shears bit through blood-crusted denim as Sarah cut away his shirt. A map of old scars and fresh bruises spanned his back—yet the newest wounds had already crusted over.
Her fingertip brushed a scab near his spine.
A current leapt between them. Both flinched. Grateful their faces were hidden, Sarah felt heat bloom across her cheeks like spilled berry wine.
"Where did Rex take you?" Her voice trembled.
"Bl–Blackwood!" Ben smeared mush on his chin. "Wolves! Howwwwl!"
Sarah had never ventured into those woods. She clutched the tattered fabric, the terror fresh. Feed a man to wolves? But what chilled her more was Ben's body: the old scar from barbed wire near his collarbone, the new muscle swelling like burlwood beside it.
As Ben scraped the last smear from his bowl, Sarah bent to gather dishes. Moonlight traced the flaking skin of her nape, each vertebra rising under her thin shift like baby chicks straining from their shells.
Sarah's back is beautiful.
The thought scalded him. "Full… walk!" He bolted outside before his hands betrayed him.
By the creek, scrubbing mud from his ribs, Ben heard rustling in the hayrick. He stalked like a buck through blackberry brambles—and found Rex pinning Martha Green against a feed sack. This same widow had stood in church three days prior, accusing Sarah of "bewitching the hives."
"Filthy dogs!" Ben's curse scattered crows from the oaks.
Rex froze, belt dangling. His face paled as if seeing a specter.
"You… you're s'posed to be–"
"Dead?" Ben stepped into the moonlight. "Takes more'n you to kill me."
Recovering, Rex shoved Martha aside. "Beat it, you used-up hag–"
Ben moved first. As Rex crashed into alfalfa, Ben yanked their clothes from the willow branch—tossed trousers and calico dress into the rushing creek.
"Bastard!" Rex spat a tooth. He dropped into a combat stance Ben knew too well—the same pose that shattered Jack's ribs.
Ben didn't dodge. He took the punch square to the sternum, gasped—then locked Rex's wrist with one hand while slamming creek-smoothed flint onto his knuckles with the other. The crack echoed Martha's shriek.
"For Jack." Ben's voice held the creek's winter chill.
Rex retched in the mud. Ben stomped on his good hand. "How many widows east of town you squeezed?"
"Her!" Rex wheezed, pointing at Martha. "She took silver to lie! Sarah's tax lien… her sworn testimony–"
Martha's weeping ceased. When her eyes met Ben's, pure animal terror stared back.
"I didn't!" Martha screamed.
"Shut your damn trap, bitch!" Rex snarled.
Ben ground his boot heel deeper. Rex's howl split the night air.
"Mercy! Please! Name your price—anything!"
"Price?" Ben's voice was ice. "What's your offer?"
"Her!" Rex jerked his chin toward Martha. "Take the whore! Ugly as sin, but she'll warm your bed—"
Ben's palm cracked across Rex's face. "You think I'm some rutting hog like you?" He hauled Rex up by his collar. "Every woman deserves better than that. Run. Next time I see you, I break both legs."
Rex scrambled away like a whipped dog. The shame burned deeper than his broken hand—outsmarted by the town idiot. Had the fool been faking all along? Or did the Blackwood change him?
After sending Martha home, Ben lingered by the creek. Moonlight silvered the water where Rex's pants still snagged on rocks.
Back in his attic room, sleep wouldn't come. He sat cross-legged on the straw mattress, breathing as the witch taught him.
Darkness gave way to light.
First came emerald radiance—drifting pollen motes from a phantom hive. Then crimson pulses like a thousand beating hearts. Last, sapphire flares that danced along the rafters.
Deep in the night, the cabin blazed like a struck match. No soul saw the colors bleed through the cracks in the walls.
The next morning, Sara woke in the chill of dawn, her bladder aching. As she hurried outside to relieve herself, she noticed Ben's door stood ajar. Fighting the urgent pressure in her abdomen, she crept toward his room.
Through the crack, she saw Ben sprawled on his straw mattress, shirt rucked up to his chest.
Dawn light carved the valleys between his ribs and abdominal muscles—not the sculpted showiness of town gymnasium boys, but the rugged topography forged by years of hauling hive boxes and splitting oak logs.
Sara's throat went dry. Five years she'd tended him—wiping fever sweat from his back, bandaging hands swollen from stings—yet never seen his body like this, baptized in morning light.
Five years is no small span. Even caring for a simple-minded soul, day after shared day, can weave threads of unnameable feeling.
Sara was no stone-hearted woman. She carried the same tender longings as any other.
Ben might lack sharp wits, but he'd always been fair-featured.
Countless times she'd tried to bridge the distance between them. But the boy remained oblivious as a stump, shattering every fragile moment with his artless interruptions.
She pinched the chilblain on her thumb. The sting confirmed she wasn't dreaming.
Pushing the door open, she was met with the tang of liniment and male sweat. Sara halted an arm's length away. Ben's steady breath carried the faint sweetness of beeswax—the scent of her own herbal salve.
She drifted closer. Her fingertip hovered above the scar on his collarbone, pale as old bone. A relic from the Blackwood.
Suddenly, she snatched her hand back as if stung.
The urgency returned in a flood. She fled to the outhouse at the yard's edge. The wind clawed at her thin nightdress.
Fumbling with frozen fingers, she couldn't work the button on her drawers. By the time she stumbled back inside, the floorboards overhead were creaking—Ben was already up.