back on. The damp cloth felt good. The night scorched,
and the feel of late summer reminded Timothy of the last time he had seen Kyle
drunk. His friend had tried again and again to see how high he could jump, only
to fall flat on the ground. The air felt the same way now as it had that night.
Timothy offered a silent prayer, grabbed his boots, and padded back to the
barn, yawning.
Kit sat on barrel.
Thankfully, she wore a short brown shift she had found somewhere. A pair of
mules watched him from their stalls. Timothy sensed a hayloft looming just
outside the lantern's glow. Snorts whispered from the other stalls just beyond
the light. Straw piled against the corner of the back wall. Timothy's stomach
demanded more food.
Kit handed him a wooden
plate layered with a small piece of juicy meat, a biscuit, carrots, and various
other garden greens. "You now only smell like sheep. You were too slow for
the raspberries, Timmy."
The food tasted
wonderful. The biscuits were heavy and hearty, much like the ones they served
at home. Kit tugged at her shift and eyed him. He ignored her and gulped his
cider.
She huffed and pulled
the shift's shoulder strap back in place. "All right. No more teasing for
tonight. You are so fun to tease, though, shepherd. There is still the matter
of fleas."
Timothy chewed.
"Fleas are the least of our problems." He gestured with a biscuit.
"We are being hunted, you know. And, I don't know anything about
you."
"Fleas are most
certainly a problem!" She stroked her tail. "You are right. You have
helped me when no one else has. I have no way to repay you…"
Timothy held up a hand.
"I would be less of a person if I didn't help someone in need without
asking anything in return. It is our duty to God to help our fellow man.
Besides, you didn't leave me much of a choice."
"Quite right. But
still, for all the trouble I've caused"—her ears wilted, and she hugged
her tail—"I need to do something in return."
"Keep your fleas
to yourself." Timothy decided to give up on keeping his tongue reined.
Kit looked him up and
down. "You are wet." She twisted and rummaged behind her and finally
tossed a ball of clothes at him. "Put these on. The farmer gave us both
clothes. So wear them! I don't want my husband getting sick."
"I am not your
husband. I'm fine. It is warm tonight."
Kit crossed her arms.
Her feet kicked at the barrel. "Do you want me to take them off you?"
Timothy saw fangs in
her smile.
He sighed and set his
empty plate on a crate. He knew she would. He picked up the ball of clothes and
brushed the dirt and straw off of them. "Do you mind?" he asked.
She set an elbow on her
bruised knee and planted her chin in her hand.
Timothy yawned. He did
not have the energy for games. He turned away to change outside.
"No, Timmy. I
rewarded you!"
"I don't—"
"Just the shirt
then. Sheesh."
"I—"
"Off. Now. If it
makes you feel better." She grabbed the hem of her shift.
"Stop. Fine,"
Timothy said. Her hands kept moving upward. Her shift was already too short.
"I said fine!"
With one hand, Timothy
unlaced his shirt. It had seen better days. He dropped the rag.
"You are actually
not bad," she said.
Timothy's free hand
drifted to the scar on his shoulder. His face heated. "Happy now?"
"A wife must know
the measure of her husband." She smiled over her cupped hand and waved him
off. "You may go."
Timothy sighed and
stepped out into the darkness. The gray shirt was well made, if a little baggy,
and the knees of the brown trousers lacked wear. He made a mental note to thank
Abel.
Kit pointed to the
wooden crate beside her. "Come before you fall over."
He just wanted to eat
and sleep! Timothy settled into the straw a little distance away. Her tail
curled across her knees. Timothy did not know what to expect from a fox. He
couldn't think of her as a demon.
"Yes, well, I said
I would not tease you anymore more tonight. But you deserve to know a little
about me so you know how not to cause more trouble
and the feel of late summer reminded Timothy of the last time he had seen Kyle
drunk. His friend had tried again and again to see how high he could jump, only
to fall flat on the ground. The air felt the same way now as it had that night.
Timothy offered a silent prayer, grabbed his boots, and padded back to the
barn, yawning.
Kit sat on barrel.
Thankfully, she wore a short brown shift she had found somewhere. A pair of
mules watched him from their stalls. Timothy sensed a hayloft looming just
outside the lantern's glow. Snorts whispered from the other stalls just beyond
the light. Straw piled against the corner of the back wall. Timothy's stomach
demanded more food.
Kit handed him a wooden
plate layered with a small piece of juicy meat, a biscuit, carrots, and various
other garden greens. "You now only smell like sheep. You were too slow for
the raspberries, Timmy."
The food tasted
wonderful. The biscuits were heavy and hearty, much like the ones they served
at home. Kit tugged at her shift and eyed him. He ignored her and gulped his
cider.
She huffed and pulled
the shift's shoulder strap back in place. "All right. No more teasing for
tonight. You are so fun to tease, though, shepherd. There is still the matter
of fleas."
Timothy chewed.
"Fleas are the least of our problems." He gestured with a biscuit.
"We are being hunted, you know. And, I don't know anything about
you."
"Fleas are most
certainly a problem!" She stroked her tail. "You are right. You have
helped me when no one else has. I have no way to repay you…"
Timothy held up a hand.
"I would be less of a person if I didn't help someone in need without
asking anything in return. It is our duty to God to help our fellow man.
Besides, you didn't leave me much of a choice."
"Quite right. But
still, for all the trouble I've caused"—her ears wilted, and she hugged
her tail—"I need to do something in return."
"Keep your fleas
to yourself." Timothy decided to give up on keeping his tongue reined.
Kit looked him up and
down. "You are wet." She twisted and rummaged behind her and finally
tossed a ball of clothes at him. "Put these on. The farmer gave us both
clothes. So wear them! I don't want my husband getting sick."
"I am not your
husband. I'm fine. It is warm tonight."
Kit crossed her arms.
Her feet kicked at the barrel. "Do you want me to take them off you?"
Timothy saw fangs in
her smile.
He sighed and set his
empty plate on a crate. He knew she would. He picked up the ball of clothes and
brushed the dirt and straw off of them. "Do you mind?" he asked.
She set an elbow on her
bruised knee and planted her chin in her hand.
Timothy yawned. He did
not have the energy for games. He turned away to change outside.
"No, Timmy. I
rewarded you!"
"I don't—"
"Just the shirt
then. Sheesh."
"I—"
"Off. Now. If it
makes you feel better." She grabbed the hem of her shift.
"Stop. Fine,"
Timothy said. Her hands kept moving upward. Her shift was already too short.
"I said fine!"
With one hand, Timothy
unlaced his shirt. It had seen better days. He dropped the rag.
"You are actually
not bad," she said.
Timothy's free hand
drifted to the scar on his shoulder. His face heated. "Happy now?"
"A wife must know
the measure of her husband." She smiled over her cupped hand and waved him
off. "You may go."
Timothy sighed and
stepped out into the darkness. The gray shirt was well made, if a little baggy,
and the knees of the brown trousers lacked wear. He made a mental note to thank
Abel.
Kit pointed to the
wooden crate beside her. "Come before you fall over."
He just wanted to eat
and sleep! Timothy settled into the straw a little distance away. Her tail
curled across her knees. Timothy did not know what to expect from a fox. He
couldn't think of her as a demon.
"Yes, well, I said
I would not tease you anymore more tonight. But you deserve to know a little
about me so you know how not to cause more trouble
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