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God, she was making such a muck of this already. If she couldn’t manage a simple conversation with the male, a task that had been quite easy since he’d done most of the talking, how on earth was she supposed to navigate their interactions when they got to her home?
“Does my title offend you somehow?” she offered hastily. “As I said, you may call me by my given name in private.”
The crude manner with which the angel shook his head sharply was a jarring upheaval of his otherwise delightful nature. Dismissive almost, and it unnerved her. He seemed to mutter something under his breath before addressing her more fully. “I’ll play along and do what you need.”
“Thank you.” Though she had no idea what she was thanking him for, exactly.
They walked in silence for a few moments, and the short respite was painstakingly needed. Clara brought her hands to the relic and fiddled with the fang’s tip while she sorted out the next phase of what she hoped would change the course of the rest of her and her people’s lives.
She thought back to the moment this entire odyssey of an idea had first occurred to her. The moment when her father’s actions had solidified into so much more than the base manipulations only he and other select males in the stronghold seemed to excel in.
The argument she’d witnessed had been between two rival farmers, both of whom maintained properties on the outskirts of her father’s lands. One was a dairy farmer, while the other operated an apple orchard, and both had solid footing in the human lands as well as the lycan territories, as dairy products and apples were among the top five commodities for the region regardless of species.
Traditionally, Clara had never been called on to hear civilian disputes, as the judgment from the king was all that mattered. However, she had already been speaking to her father about another subject. Once the king’s appointment to hear the farmers’ dispute arrived, he’d forgotten about her entirely, as was sometimes his way, and failed to dismiss her.
The doors to King Halpin’s receiving room remained open, despite the two males who had requested a private appointment with the king. Clara gripped the paper her father had signed after he’d flippantly tossed it her way. She’d managed to catch it before it soared into the fireplace behind them, thankfully. She didn’t want to examine the outcome if she’d been too slow.
Her frustration was quickly growing from a measured simmer to a full-blown boil, but when the two males stepped forward, her curiosity, both at not being immediately dismissed and why the doors had yet to be closed, intrigued her more than her anger distracted her.
The king jotted down some notes in a ledger but never looked up. “What is your complaint, Mr. McCready? I read something about fences being destroyed and losing some of your herd.”
The older dairy farmer ripped his flat cap from his balding head and crushed it nervously in his hands. “Yes, Your Majesty. You see, Mr. Blankenship has not been mending his orchard’s wooden fences, allowing the coyotes to get through to my farm and kill my dairy calves. Our families had an agreement some years back where we’d split the cost of fencing the perimeters where our properties joined. I’ve kept up with my half, but Mr. Blankenship has not held up his side of the bargain.”
“Your bargain was with my father, old man, not with me.” The satisfied smirk on the younger farmer’s face echoed the arrogance in his stance, his bony shoulders pushed back with a bravado his lanky frame could otherwise never fully muster.
“You are his pup,” the older farmer shouted, pointing a gnarled finger in the young man’s direction. “Why take on your father’s legacy after he died if you’re just going to see it ruined? You have a responsibility to your pack, to your?—”
When her father’s fist hit the desk, Clara shrank back farther against the tapestry on the wall. Still, he didn’t look at them and continued to scribble his notes, effecting a bored tone. “Tell me something, Mr. McCready. Can an apple harm a cow?”
The old male’s jowls wobbled as he shook his head in confusion. “Um, no, Your Majesty.”
“And do your cows harm Mr. Blankenship’s apples?” The king turned a page. More scribbling.
“No. I don’t feed my livestock apples. It bloats them up terribly, especially the Jersey cows.”
“Do coyotes eat apples?”
The old farmer’s face fell. “I couldn’t say, Your Majesty. I suppose they could.”
The young male chimed in. “I’ve secured all my trees in the orchard with tighter, more restrictive stone fences. Whatever Mr. McCready is referring to is obsolete for my uses. Any bargain he struck with my father was verbal only. I have no need for his fences.”
“We had an agreement,” the old farmer whined, the shock of where the conversation was heading dragging down his features further. “The cost was too high for both of us,” he said, his faraway eyes slipping into the past. “The acreage alone meant?—”
“Fix your own fences and don’t waste my time again.”
The two farmers were immediately dismissed, but before Clara could sneak out of the room as well, her heart heavier than the stones brushing along her palm that she held out for support, she caught her father’s final words to his chief of arms.
“Double your lycans next time. Blankenship provided me with his shipping receipts as proof of my earlier request of his farm and, as such, has officially cut business ties with the humans. He serves only us now. Our message to McCready was not strong enough, however. When he delivers his next dairy shipment to the human lands, have your males take out half his herd the following night. That should readjust loyalties quite nicely.”
A blurry palm waved across Clara’s vision, blending the helplessness of her memories with that of her present. She blinked and looked up.
“Hey, she’s back! Good. I got worried for a second. Thought I’d lost you. Again.” Bronze dropped his hand and smiled delicately at her, though it was clearly more for her reassurance than his own.
Had she just been . . . daydreaming? Where in the mother’s name was her wolf? She’d been overcome by more distractions in the past week than in her entire life. So much for her keen lycan senses.
Clara reached inward and immediately relaxed when the familiar canine whine rose up through her mind. Weaker, though. Much, much weaker.
How long had it been since she’d shifted? A few days, at least. No wonder her she-wolf was getting quieter. Clara had not let her roam in some time. Wonderful. A new guilt to add to her ever-growing pile.
