A Heart Deceived by Michelle Griep

the man had heard of Miri Brayden, thank God.
    Yes, thanks indeed. God had brought him thus far, but unless he found something to eat, he’d not go much farther.
    He lowered his gaze and leaned against the rough bark of an ash tree, crossing his arms to ward off the chill of approaching eve. Deep down a cough began, and he bent, hacking until shaky and short of breath. As much as he’d like to sink into the ferns at his feet, if he didn’t keep moving, he’d die here.
    He willed each step thereafter. Determination was all he owned, and a pitiful amount at that. Soon, an old farmhouse with shuttered windows came into view, smoke curling from its chimney like a sailor puffing a pipe. He brushed off his waistcoat, ripped in elbow and collar and long since barren of buttons. A pitchfork would pierce his backside before he’d have a chance to beg a crust or a crumb.
    Beyond the house sat an outbuilding. Small, though perhaps large enough for livestock. Worth a try. By now, pig slop would be a delicacy. He couldn’t stop the smile that curved his mouth. If only his father and brother could see him now—a prodigal in the flesh.
    His grin faded as he swung around to the back of the byre and entered the shadows. What a hovel. One wall leaned in at such an angle that it forced him to walk crooked, and the roof swagged so low, he needed to duck. Either the farmer was extremely short or worked with a perpetually bent back.
    A single cow lowed as he batted aside a cobweb, the silk of it wrapping around his fingers. He wiped it against his breeches while heading straight for the trough, gut clenching in anticipation. His feet hadn’t moved this fast in days.
    Reaching the manger, he stopped and stared, pushing down an insane urge to laugh. Even the Prodigal had pods or husks or whatever in the world pigs ate. Apparently this cow had already dined and in high style. Not a grain remained.
    He was left with nothing. As usual. How come running from the past never seemed to change the present?
    The whiny cry of a kitten sounded near his feet. Glancing down at a patch-haired fur ball, Ethan snorted. “You look as bad as me, little scrapper.” The tiny cat rubbed against his ankles, mewing all the louder.
    “Would that I could help you, Scrappy.” With a last glimpse at the licked-clean trough, Ethan stomped outside. “But I cannot even help myself.”
    Great. Not only had he sunk to speaking to animals, now he was talking to himself.
    The early evening air, while fresher than the stuffy byre, set off another coughing spell. Bracing both hands on his thighs, he rode out the attack. Long after it abated, he remained doubled over, exhaustion gaining the upper hand.
    “You there! Off with ye!”
    Straightening, Ethan faced the owner of the ramshackle barn, hardly twenty paces from him. Short as expected, the man stood much stockier and more muscular than Ethan could have guessed possible, and he did not wield the proverbial pitchfork.
    He held a scythe. The blade gleamed, honed to a fine and dangerous edge, catching the last glint of the setting sun. So that’s why the farmer didn’t have time to fix his byre—too busy sharpening tools into weapons.
    Ethan backed up, palms raised high. “As you wish.”
    The farmer’s scowl deepened, his wiry grey brows melding into one. “And don’t ye come back.”
    As if he’d want to. Ethan lowered his hands and walked away, feeling the man’s eyes follow him until he gained the road—if it could be called such. The thoroughfare was merely two ruts with grass worn low in between. Hah, some country gent he would make. All the years spent in London had clearly erased his rural roots.
    At any rate, villagers surely would not travel so far on this rugged road each Sabbath. Making an about-face, he retraced his steps toward the Downs. Perhaps he’d missed the turn-off he should have taken.
    Rounding a sharp bend in the road, he spotted another traveler en route from the small town, a musket