Summary

When Freya’s moment of passion with Daniel Goss becomes a public scandal, she’s forced to marry all three Goss brothers and establish a homestead in zombie-infested territory. What starts as survival becomes much more as she discovers that her accidental husbands might be exactly what she needs

Chapter 1

The chilly end‑of‑winter air carried the scents of woodsmoke and fermented grain, familiar perfumes that usually meant home and comfort to Freya Stirling. Tonight, they only smelled like obligation.

She pressed herself deeper into the shadow between two massive hay bales, clutching a stoneware bottle against her chest. From here she could see the festival torches painting the square in warm, flickering gold, could hear the fiddles starting up for another set. And she could see the Harriss‑Mother prowling the edges of the crowd with her youngest son in tow like a hunting dog.

“Freya? Freya Stirling, where has that girl gotten to?”

Freya held her breath. Madam Harriss’ voice carried like a crow’s caw over the music.

Three days. It had been three days since Mother had sat her down in the brewery office and laid out her future like ingredients for a recipe. The abandoned Stirling homestead, ten miles north of town. Good soil. Good water. Perfect for barley and corn. They’d set her up with everything she needed: tools, seed stock, a pair of horses, a clutch of chickens, three milk goats, and lumber enough for repairs and fences. Freya would grow and develop grain stocks for the Stirling family’s distilling and brewing operations.

All she needed were husbands.

“It’s time, love,” Mother had said, not unkindly. “You’re of age to start your own household. You’ve learned the trade. You’ve got a good head for cultivation. The family needs to expand our holdings, and we need more barley in the ground. Time for you to build something of your own.”

Your own. As if a holding ten miles into zombie country with a handful of men she barely knew would ever feel like her own.

The word had spread through town faster than Zombie Fever. Freya Stirling was to take husbands. She had a respectable family, decent looks, and decent teeth. She could shoot straight, knew her way around a still, and according to the gossips, was about the most marriable woman in Carbon. Freya tried not to think about who was doing the evaluating. Every mother with unmarried sons had suddenly discovered urgent business with the Stirling household.

Hence: hiding behind hay bales at the Breaking Winter’s Back festival while the Harriss‑Mother hunted her like a particularly matrimonial bloodhound.

“Looking for someone?”

Freya nearly dropped her bottle. Daniel Goss materialized from the darkness on the other side of the bales, moving with the easy quiet of someone used to patrol work. He grinned at her startlement, then peered around the hay toward the festival lights.

“Harriss,” Freya muttered. “With reinforcements.”

“Ah.” Daniel’s grin widened. He was flushed, she noticed, warm‑cheeked in a way that suggested he’d been drinking. His shirt was half‑unbuttoned despite the early spring chill, collar loose around his throat. “The great husband hunt. I’ve heard about that. My condolences.”

They knew each other, of course. Everyone in Carbon knew everyone. Daniel and his brothers Mattias and Edwin were fixtures at the garrison, and the Goss family had a sad history. Both fathers killed in the outbreak of ’71, leaving their mother to stretch two pensions across seven children. The three older brothers had already married into the Marsh family in a group arrangement, but Daniel and his brothers… well. They weren’t exactly prime prospects. Little wealth, no fathers, and worst of all, no sister of age to trade. On the frontier, brothers married together or not at all. Everyone knew that.

Which made Daniel Goss perfectly safe company for a woman trying to avoid matrimonial entanglements.

“What are you doing back here?” Freya asked, scooting over to make room as Daniel folded himself down beside her.

“Avoiding my mother, actually.” He produced a bottle from inside his jacket — cheap whiskey from the Bitter Creek distillery upriver. Competition. “She’s got opinions about how I spend my pay.”

“Does she know you were at the brothel?”

Daniel’s flush deepened. “How did you—”

“I can guess. You were thinking about the brothel, decided you couldn’t afford it, and bought rotgut whiskey instead to feel like you’d spent your money on something.”

He laughed, surprised and genuine. “Shit. You’re observant.”

“I’m a Stirling. I’ve been working a still since I was this high.” She waved an arm vaguely. “I know what men do with their pay.” Freya held up her own bottle. “Trade you. This is the good stuff.”

Daniel’s eyes lit with genuine appreciation as he recognized the Stirling family label. “Now that’s what I call a fair exchange.”

They traded bottles. Freya took a pull of the Bitter Creek whiskey and grimaced. “God, that’s rough.”

“That’s why I was angling for an upgrade.” Daniel sipped the Stirling spirits and sighed with pleasure. “Now that’s civilized. Your mother’s work?”

“Mine, actually. New recipe. Smoked barley.”

“You made this?” Daniel looked at the bottle with new respect. “Damn, Freya. This is really good.”

The compliment warmed her more than the whiskey. She took another drink, this one going down easier. For a while they sat in companionable silence, letting the festival sounds wash over them like a tide.

“You know,” Daniel said eventually, voice soft and slightly slurred, “you could put your head here. If you wanted.” He rolled his shoulder in invitation.

Freya hesitated only a moment before leaning into him. He was solid, reassuring, smelling of whiskey and leather and gun oil.

“Are you nervous about it?” he asked quietly.

“Taking on a homestead? Marrying? Being away from family, town, and garrison? Terrified.” The word came easier than she expected. “The old Stirling place is ten miles out. Not deep zombie territory, but far enough. And I’m supposed to just… move out there with however many men Mother selects and start producing for the stills like it’s nothing? Absolutely terrified.”

“That’s rough.”

“And marriage.” She sighed. “I don’t know how to be married. And suddenly I’ll be married to multiple someones. Men I’ll barely know. Men who’ll expect…” She gestured vaguely, unable to articulate the tangle of obligations and intimacies.

“Hey.” Daniel’s voice gentled. “Any man who gets you is lucky. You’re smart, you’re skilled, you’re—” He paused, recalibrated. “You’re a catch, Freya. Really. A set of brothers would be lucky to be chosen.”

She looked up at him. His face was close, warm brown eyes slightly unfocused. On impulse, she touched his cheek. His skin was warm, rough with evening stubble.

“I don’t feel brave,” she murmured. “Part of me wishes I could just stay home and… not.”

“S’okay, Freya. You’ll do fine,” Daniel slurred.

She rested her head on his shoulder again. They sat like that for a long while, passing the bottle back and forth. The fiddles wound through another tune, then another. The festival noise faded, leaving just the two of them in their small pocket of darkness.

“You know,” she said softly, echoing him, “you could put your hand here. If you wanted.”

She guided his hand to her waist. His fingers flexed, uncertain, then settled.

They stayed like that, his hand warm on her waist, her head on his shoulder. She could feel his heartbeat under her cheek — steady, then faster. His thumb brushed her hip in a small, unconscious circle. Heat bloomed between them, slow and undeniable.

“Freya,” Daniel said, voice low. “You’re drunk.”

“So are you.”

“I’m serious. You don’t want—”

She lifted her face and kissed him.

For a heartbeat he froze, then he kissed her back, one hand cupping the back of her head, the other tightening at her waist. It was messy and urgent and nothing like she’d imagined. She didn’t care.

They broke apart, breathless.

“Christ,” he whispered. “We shouldn’t—”

She kissed him again, deeper, more certain. His hand tightened in her hair. Her hands found his shoulders, gripping for balance as the world tilted.

“Freya,” he murmured, “if anyone sees—”

She kissed him again before he could finish. His hands came up to steady her, fingers warm at her waist. The touch sent a clear, sharp line of heat through her, not confusing or shapeless, but direct. She knew exactly what she wanted in that moment, even if she didn’t have the words for it.

Daniel’s eyes closed for a second, as if he was trying to gather himself. “Freya, we’re not thinking straight.”

She didn’t move away. She touched his jaw, the open collar of his shirt, the warm skin beneath. He made a low sound, not dramatic, just honest. She felt it in her chest.

“Do you want to stop?” she asked.

His answer was quiet. “No.”

The world around them softened. The music from the square faded. The cold spring air felt far away. Daniel’s hands slid up her back, careful and unsure, and she leaned into him without hesitation. The closeness was new and overwhelming in a way that made perfect sense. She wanted more of it. More of him. More of this feeling that had nothing to do with duty or marriage contracts or family expectations.

He touched her cheek. She touched his. Their foreheads rested together for a moment that felt steady and real.

“Freya,” he said, “we should slow down.”

She didn’t slow down. She kissed him again, and he answered her with the same urgency she felt. His hands held her firmly, not possessive, not careless, simply present. She felt the strength of him, the warmth, the way he wanted her even while he tried to be responsible.

The moment deepened. Her pulse climbed. His did too. Their bodies fit together with a rightness that felt solid and good, like boots made to measure.

She kissed him again. He answered her without holding back this time. His fingers tightened at her waist. She leaned into him, into the warmth and the wanting and the relief of wanting something for herself that had nothing to do with contracts or barley yields.

The moment rose around them, full and close and very simple.

A hand clamped around Freya’s upper arm and tore her backward.

She had one stunned instant of Daniel’s face, eyes wide, hands reaching for her, and then she hit the ground hard enough to knock the air out of her. Hay dust puffed up around her in a dry cloud.

Goss-Mother Clara stood over her, breathing hard, fury and shock written plain on her face.

“What in the holy hell do you think you’re doing?” Clara’s voice cut through the night. “Get away from my son.”

Daniel scrambled upright, trying to fix his shirt with hands that wouldn’t cooperate. “Ma, wait, I can explain.”

“Explain?” Clara turned on him. “I saw enough.”

Freya pushed herself upright, but before she could speak, her mother’s voice carried across the square.

“Clara. Step away from my daughter.”

Stirling-Mother Alexia stepped out from between the hay bales, calm and cold. Festival-goers drifted closer, drawn by the noise.

Clara pointed at Freya. “Your girl was on my boy.”

“I do not care if she was sitting in his lap in the middle of the square,” Alexia said. “He put hands on a Stirling daughter. You will step back.”

The two women faced each other in a silence that felt like a pulled bowstring. Then Clara stepped back, though her eyes stayed locked on Daniel.

Alexia moved to Freya and helped her to her feet with a steady grip. Her expression hardened again as soon as Freya was upright.

“Sheriff,” Alexia called. “I need you here.”

“Ma’am, that isn’t necessary,” Daniel said.

“You do not speak,” Alexia replied. “You had your chance to show sense.”

Sheriff Brennan pushed through the crowd. He took in the scene with one look: Freya disheveled, Daniel half-dressed, two furious mothers, a ring of witnesses.

“What’s the trouble?”

“This man compromised my daughter,” Alexia said. “In public. With witnesses.”

“She kissed me,” Daniel said. “I tried to stop her.”

“You are a grown man,” Alexia said. “You know the rules.”

Sheriff Brennan’s jaw tightened. He looked at Daniel, then at the crowd, then back at Alexia. He already knew how this had to go.

“Daniel Goss,” he said, “I’m placing you under arrest for public indecency.”

Daniel went still. “Sheriff, please.”

“Hands behind your back.”

Clara’s voice cracked. “You know my boy. You know he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“The law is clear,” Alexia said.

Sheriff Brennan secured Daniel’s hands. Daniel didn’t resist. His eyes found Freya’s.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

The crowd parted as the Stirling-Fathers arrived, four men moving with the kind of purpose that made people step aside without being asked. Papa John reached her first, fists clenched. Papa Marcus and Papa Will flanked him. Papa Thomas came last, quiet and controlled in a way that was somehow worse than shouting.

Freya opened her mouth to speak, but Papa Thomas set a hand on her shoulder. The message was unmistakable. Not now.

Chapter 2

Her mother didn’t speak until they were all in the sitting room. All four fathers arranged themselves around the perimeter like sentries, while Freya stood in the center of the room like a prisoner awaiting judgment.

“Do you understand what you’ve done?” The Stirling-Mother’s voice could have cut glass.

“I kissed him,” Freya said. “Why did you call the sheriff? I could have just explained—”

“Explained?” Her mother’s retort was sharp and bitter. “Explained to whom? The Harriss-Mother, who saw you sprawled across that boy’s lap? The dozen festival-goers who came running at the commotion? Explained that you put your hands on him because you were curious what it would feel like?”

Freya flinched at the bluntness.

“There were witnesses, Freya. Once there’s an audience, there’s no such thing as private explanation. There’s only damage control.” Her mother’s voice was hard. “There are only two versions of the story being told tonight: either you’re a wild, reckless harlot with no self-control, or you’re a respectable daughter who was taken advantage of by a man who should have known better. Which story do you think serves this family?”

“But it’s not true—”

The Stirling-Mother moved to the window, looking out at the dark street. “If I’d let Daniel Goss walk away tonight, do you know what tomorrow would bring? Whispers that the Stirlings can’t control their own daughter. Questions about what other lapses in judgment you might display. Mothers pulling their sons from consideration because who wants to marry into a household that tolerates that kind of behavior?”

She turned back to face Freya.

“Worse, it leaves Daniel free to make claims. His mother could argue that you compromised him, that you owe him consideration now. He and his brothers have cause to press for marriage because you initiated contact.” Her mother’s eyes were cold. “Arresting him ends that conversation before it starts. He has no standing to claim anything.”

“So you’re protecting me by destroying him? Even though everyone knows I started it?”

“Right now, the official story is that Daniel Goss put his hands on a Stirling daughter. That he showed an animalistic lack of self-control and respect for proper conduct. That story protects you.”

“And ruins him.”

“Yes.” Her mother’s acknowledgment was matter-of-fact. “A sensible man knows that. You walk away, because the consequences fall on you, not her. He knew this. He failed to act on it. And sadly, dear, yes, he pays the price.”

Freya felt tears burning in her eyes. “That’s not fair.”

The Stirling-Mother looked at her for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

“Fair has nothing to do with it,” she said. “This family survives because we make decisions others can’t afford to.”

She turned toward the door.

“You’ll learn to carry that weight, Freya. Or you won’t. Either way, it’s yours now.”

She opened the door without another glance.

“Thomas. You wanted a moment with our daughter.” She left, the other fathers following. The door closed with a soft click.

Papa Thomas didn’t move from his spot. He studied Freya with the careful eyes that had always seen more than his brothers did.

“You understand what your mother said is true,” he said at last. It wasn’t a question.

Freya nodded, her throat too tight to trust herself to answer.

“Daniel Goss is in jail because your mother did her job. She protected this family.” He paused. “But you should also understand the cost.”

He swallowed.

“Three men won’t marry now. Any woman who might have considered them will think twice. Not because of what you did,” he added softly, “but because of what people will believe they did.”

He exhaled, slow and weary. “You will weather the scandal,” he said quietly. “Daniel Goss and his brothers will not.”

Freya’s voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to—”

“That’s the terrible thing, child,” he said. “You don’t have to mean to hurt someone for the hurt to be real.”

She looked up at him. “What do I do, Papa?”

Papa Thomas cocked his head at her. “Time’s long passed for asking your papas what you should do. Your mother has made her choice clear. But I wonder what yours is.”

He shrugged slightly. “I won’t tell you what to do. But any daughter of age can offer marriage. Your fathers can witness it. That would stand, whatever your mother thinks.”

He left.

Freya stood alone in the parlour, heart hammering.

She should do what her mother wanted. Marry well. Let the Goss brothers fade into the distance. Forget Daniel’s face in the torchlight and the way he apologized even as they dragged him away. Forget Mattias, stony and silent. Forget Edwin looking like someone had stolen his whole future out from under him.

It made the most sense. It was for the best. It really was.

Freya opened the door.

All four fathers stood in the hallway. Papa Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll want to leave early in the morning,” she said.

Papa Thomas nodded once. “Then we’ll be ready.”

Daniel sat on the narrow cot, elbows on his knees, hands hanging loose between them. His gaze was unfocused, fixed on the wooden floor. Mattias occupied the single chair outside the bars. One hand rested on the arm, the other traced the iron lock of Daniel’s cell in an absent motion. Edwin leaned against the wall near the door, shoulders rounded, eyes lowered.

“I spoke to the Commander,” Mattias said at last. Daniel didn’t look up. “You’ll be remanded to garrison custody later this morning. After that, an official reprimand. Then transfer.”

“Where,” Daniel asked quietly.

“Fort Charles or Fort Bleriott.”

“Well, it’s better than hanging, I suppose,” Daniel said without humor.

Mattias stopped touching the lock.

Edwin cleared his throat. “Fort Charles is rough, but Bleriott’s not a death sentence,” he offered. “Prentice came back after his stint there.”

Mattias stared at him for a moment. He didn’t bother to mention that Prentice came back missing an eye and half his right arm. He let out a breath. “You touched a Stirling daughter. In public. With witnesses.” His voice was flat. “Hard to imagine how you could have messed up worse if you’d planned for it.”

“I know,” Daniel muttered.

“Do you?” Mattias asked. “Because this is beyond a mistake. It’s a complete failure to think.”

Edwin shifted. “Ma’s beside herself.”

Daniel nodded once. He accepted that as fact, not accusation.

Silence settled again. Outside, the town was beginning to wake. A wagon rattled past. Voices carried faintly through the walls. Carbon was going about its day, unconcerned with the Goss brothers’ ruined future.

Mattias stood and tilted his head toward the window.

“What is it,” Daniel asked.

“Looks like the Stirling fathers. All four of them. Coming to demand frontier justice.”

Daniel scrubbed his hands over his face. “Oh Christ. Do you think they’re going to shoot me or just beat me?”

Edwin peered over Mattias’s shoulder, confirming the Stirling fathers were approaching in the dim light. “I’m not sure that makes any practical difference.” He muttered, “There’s four of them.”

Heavy boots sounded on the wooden planks. Voices in the front office. A muffled argument with the sheriff. A louder voice cut him off.

“Enough, sheriff. We will see the prisoner now.”

The door swung open.

The Stirling fathers filled the doorway, broad-shouldered and grim-faced. Behind them, barely visible, was Freya.

Daniel pushed himself to his feet. Edwin straightened.

Papa John stepped forward, hands on his belt. “Freya Stirling has come to make an offer to the Goss brothers.” The words hung heavy in the air.

“An offer?” Mattias said carefully. His eyes tracked Papa John, then the others. “What kind of offer?”

“Let me speak it, Father.” Freya pushed past Papa Thomas. Her hands were fists at her sides, knuckles white. She stepped right up to the bars, close to Mattias.

“I offer marriage to the Goss brothers. Mattias, Daniel, and Edwin.” Her words came out fast, like she needed to say them before her nerve slipped. “To bind our families in honorable marriage.”

Silence. Daniel’s hands closed around the bars, gripping hard. Edwin made a choked sound, half breath, half disbelief. Mattias said nothing. He studied the reckless girl who had gotten tangled with his brother and blown his life apart in a single night.

She looked like an unmade bed. Pale, with puffy eyes and shadows under them. Her hair was pulled back tight, but pieces had escaped. She had dressed carefully though. Clean shirt, clean pants, everything buttoned proper.

This girl had walked into a jail, past the sheriff, with four armed fathers to witness, to offer marriage to three broke soldiers with nothing to give her but scandal and hard labor. Against sense, reason, and her mother’s wishes. Mattias didn’t know if that made her brave or foolish. But she had come. That counted for something.

“Your mother know you’re doing this?”

She shook her head once. “No.”

The Stirling fathers didn’t contradict her.

“Well then.”

“And when she finds out?”

Freya held his eyes. “My offer stands.”

Papa Thomas nodded once.

Mattias studied her. This reckless girl had detonated his brother’s life the night before. Now she stood in a jail cell offering to tie her future to the wreckage. She was as stubborn as Daniel and then some.

“Give us a minute,” Mattias said.

Papa Michael’s hands went to his belt. “You’ll decide now.”

Mattias turned to his brothers.

“Daniel.”

Daniel’s voice was rough. “I don’t deserve this.”

“I didn’t ask what you think you deserve,” Mattias said. “I’m asking if you can live with it.”

Daniel looked at Freya through the bars. Then away. “Yes.”

“Edwin.”

Edwin swallowed. “I can live with it.”

Mattias turned back to Freya. She was still looking at him, still hadn’t dropped her eyes. Waiting.

Three capable brothers. One woman, skilled if reckless. A homestead ten miles into zombie country and a future none of them had chosen.

He had faced worse odds.

“The Goss brothers accept your offer.”

Freya’s face shifted. Relief, maybe. Or fear. Hard to tell.

Papa John’s hand landed on her shoulder. “Then it’s agreed.”

The Stirling fathers closed around her like a wall and turned her toward the door. She twisted back, caught Mattias’s eyes one more time.

He nodded once. Acknowledgment. Agreement.

Promise, maybe.

Then she was gone, her fathers shepherding her out. The door swung shut.

Daniel let out a long breath. Edwin slid down the wall until he was sitting on the dusty floor, head in his hands.

“Did that just happen?”

“Yes.” Mattias sat heavily in the chair. His hands felt cold and his bones felt heavy. He looked at Daniel, still gripping the bars and staring at the closed door.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You got us a wife.”

Chapter 3

The wedding had happened yesterday at the homestead.

The Stirling family and hands had camped for three days in tents scattered across the yard, helping make the place livable. The well was cleared, the barn roof patched, wagons unloaded. Supplies stacked in the granary and root cellar. The house was scrubbed, beds made, fires laid in the fireplaces.

A magistrate rode out from Carbon to witness. Freya put on a dress and stood on the porch with Mattias, Daniel, and Edwin and spoke her vows. They spoke theirs. Her mother watched from the yard with an expression like stone.

After the vows and feasting, Freya slept in a tent with the Stirling women. Her husbands slept elsewhere. This morning after breakfast, tents came down, wagons were loaded, horses saddled, and the Stirling party prepared to ride back to town. Tonight, Freya and her husbands would sleep in the house and make it theirs.

Her mother found her by the last wagon as supplies were being secured.

“You have everything you need,” the Stirling-Mother said. “Tools, stock, seed, defensible position. Good land, good water.”

Freya nodded. Her throat was too tight to speak.

“The Goss brothers would never have been my choice for you.” Her mother’s voice was even, honest. “But they’re soldiers. Trained and capable. They know how to work, how to defend, how to survive.” A pause. “They’ll do right by you if you do right by them.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her mother’s hand came up and gripped Freya’s shoulder. Almost gentle.

“You’re determined. You’re capable. You’ve chosen this path and these men.” The grip tightened briefly. “Now make something of it. Do yourself proud.”

Then she released Freya’s shoulder, turned, and mounted her horse without looking back.

Freya wrapped her arms around herself. She took a shaky breath and rubbed her knuckles against her eyes as everyone she’d ever known rode north out of the coulee that was now her home.

The Dead were out there. The isolation was real. And tonight there would be no family camping in the yard, no excuse left to avoid what marriage meant.

She looked around for her husbands.

Mattias was examining the granary like it was a tactical problem. He circled the building slowly, testing boards, checking the foundation, measuring angles with his eyes. Tall and broad-shouldered, he moved with the kind of precision that came from years of military discipline. He crouched by the corner post, ran his hand along the timber, stood, and looked toward the coulee entrance. Already seeing threats that hadn’t arrived yet.

Edwin paced the property with a notebook, making sketches. He stopped every few yards to measure distances with his eyes, scribble notes, draw diagrams. Younger than his brothers by several years, slimmer in build, he moved with the deliberate focus of someone who’d been educated. His eyes scanned the sagging fence line, the creek’s flow pattern, the approaches through the coulee. At the jail he’d looked pale and sick, as if watching his future die in real time. He looked much the same now.

Daniel she found crouched at the side of the house, pushing aside dead leaves with a stick. He looked up as she approached, and his face brightened with a tentative smile that stirred a small flutter in her chest.

“Prints,” he said, gesturing with the stick. “Look here. Deer came through recently, four maybe five animals moving together. They probably followed the creek bed, up here on the lee side of the house, then cut over to that marshy area by the canyon wall. There’s a spring there, feeding into the creek. That’s a good sign. Clean water, and nothing to scare them off.”

He pointed further along the line of the house. “Rabbit tracks too. Coyote prints circling those. If coyotes think this is a good place, there’s game around. Nothing spooking them either.”

He sat back on his heels, satisfaction clear in his voice. “And I didn’t find a single thing that shouldn’t be here. No fires, no boot prints, no horseshoe marks from strangers. Place has been quiet.”

Something flickered at the edge of Freya’s vision. A large greyish shape moving at a lope around the corner of the house.

Her hand went to the pistol at her hip. Wolf. That was a wolf. Christ, were there zombie wolves? Could wolves even turn?

Daniel’s head snapped toward her, saw where she was looking. “Freya, hold.”

The creature stopped, head swinging toward them.

“That’s just Bela,” Daniel said. “Mattias’s dog.”

Not wolf. Dog. A very large, very ugly dog.

The lurcher’s wiry grey coat stuck out in stiff tufts all over, neither smooth nor curly, just aggressively unkempt. He was rangy and rough, with a whippy tail that hung low, twitching at the tip. Pale yellow eyes fixed on Freya with intense assessment. One ear cocked at an odd angle where a notch disrupted its shape.

“Bela?” Freya said, hand still on her pistol. “Really.”

“Mattias has a sense of humor. Sometimes.”

The dog took two steps closer, nose working. Freya held very still. Bela sniffed her boot, her knee, then her hand, breath warm and reeking of something dead he’d probably eaten earlier.

She lifted her hand carefully. The dog’s lip curled, not quite a snarl but a clear warning. She lowered her hand again slowly, not quite daring to touch.

Bela flicked his ears, then pulled back and trotted off toward the granary.

“Well,” Daniel said, rising and offering his hand to pull her up. “That’s more than he gives most people. Usually he just snarls and pisses on your boots.”

“Charming creature,” Freya said.

“He’s Mattias’s dog,” Daniel said, like that explained everything.

He glanced at her face. She’d gone pale when she thought Bela was a wolf, and the color hadn’t quite come back. Her eyes were shiny and her chin was set too tight.

Women needed reassurance sometimes. God knew he was the wrong man for that job, but he was the only one standing here. He looked down at the stick in his hand and pushed aside more leaf litter near the foundation.

“Look at this, Freya.” He brushed dirt away from a cluster of tiny shoots pushing up through last year’s debris. “Someone planted something here. See these? Flowers, maybe?”

“Sweet peas,” Freya said quietly. She crouched beside him, touching the new growth. “My aunt must have planted them here. Before the outbreak.”

Daniel nodded slowly. “They’ve been here all this time. Six years, growing and thriving in this place with nobody to tend them.” He met her eyes. “That’s a good omen, Freya. Sweet, pretty, and tougher than they look.”

Her mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Like me?”

“Exactly like you,” he said, and meant it.

Freya paced the bedroom, bare feet whispering against the floorboards. The wife’s room. Her room now. The largest room in the house, with windows facing north toward the neck of the coulee. A tall wardrobe stood against one wall for her clothes, a writing desk against another, and a washstand with pitcher and basin in the corner. The bed dominated the space, ample room for two, more if they didn’t mind being close. The door to the nursery stood ajar on her right, the empty room waiting.

Downstairs, beyond the window, three male voices rumbled low. Her husbands. The word still sat awkwardly on her tongue.

One of them would come up soon.

She’d left her door open. That was the signal, wasn’t it? In houses like this, built for multiple husbands, the wife’s door told the story. Open meant welcome. Closed meant not tonight.

She’d combed out her hair and stripped down to her shift. The pale cotton was thin and showed the shadow of her body beneath. Her hair hung loose in waves. She felt like an offering laid out on an altar. Virginal sacrifice. Except she was the one who’d started this whole mess behind a pile of hay.

She sat on the bed. Shot back up. Gnawed her thumbnail.

It would be Mattias, probably. He was the eldest. That was the way these things worked, wasn’t it? Either that, or they were down there drawing straws.

She barely knew Mattias. Serious and stone faced. An officer at the garrison. What would he be like? Rough? Cold? Efficient?

Edwin was a stranger. He’d been back in Carbon less than a month since completing his studies down South. She’d exchanged perhaps a dozen words with him since the wedding. Even fewer before that, before he went away. She knew nothing about him, really.

And Daniel. Sweet, fumbling Daniel who had kissed her back like he meant it. Who had apologized even as they dragged him to jail.

What if it hurt? What if she hated it? What if marriage turned out to be closing your eyes and thinking of the Empire while a man grunted on top of you? And she’d have to do this three times. Three separate first times with three separate strangers.

Three men. Three times. God.

Footsteps on the stairs. A soft rap on the frame. Daniel.

Relief washed through her so hard she nearly sagged. Not Mattias. Not Edwin-the-stranger.

He stood in the doorway like he’d forgotten how doors worked. His hands hung at his sides, useless. His eyes dropped to her body and his throat worked as he swallowed.

“I suppose we should…” He gestured vaguely at the bed, fingers trembling.

“Yes.”

Neither of them moved.

“Or we could wait,” he said, voice rough. “If you’re not ready.”

The tension in his trousers said he was ready. Very ready. Freya shook her head. “Waiting just makes it stranger. Doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He swallowed. “Yeah, I suppose it does.”

She took a step toward him. Then another. Close enough to see the pulse beating fast in his throat. “I want to. I just don’t know how. Or what I’m supposed to do.” She looked down at her bare feet. “I’m scared.”

He reached for her hand. His palm was hot, damp with nerves. That helped.

“Neither do I,” he said. “Know what to do, I mean.”

“We’re terrible at this.”

“Absolutely hopeless.”

They both laughed, breathless and shaky, and the sound cracked something open between them. They were still fumbling beginners about to get naked together. It was absurd. Terrifying. Inevitable.

He unbuttoned his shirt with shaking fingers and pulled it off. Pale skin stretched over lean muscle, shoulders broad from hauling timber, arms corded from digging fortifications. His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths. A faint scar curved across his ribs, long healed.

He held out his hand.

She took it.

They climbed onto the bed together, clumsy as newborn foals. The mattress dipped under their weight.

He kissed her. Careful. Closed‑mouth. Chaste.

She kissed him back harder, with teeth. His lips were softer than she expected. Warm. Real. She leaned in, wanting more.

His hand slid down her side. Ribs. Waist. Hip. She shivered hard.

“Cold?”

“No.” Heat spread through her belly, like whiskey on an empty stomach.

He did it again, slower this time. She made a sound she didn’t recognize. Want crept in, along with the heat. His hands on her skin, his mouth at her neck, the solid weight of him beside her. Her body remembered the festival. Remembered wanting. Remembered the spark between them.

She touched him back. Tentative at first. His chest, the muscle of his shoulders. He sucked in a sharp breath when her fingers grazed his stomach.

“Okay?” she whispered.

“More than okay.” His voice had gone hoarse.

“This was so much easier when we were drunk.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” He shifted closer, hand settling on her hip through the thin cotton. “We could pretend. You know, pretend we’re back behind those hay bales. Hiding from your mother and the Harriss-Mother and every other scheming matron in Carbon.”

His voice dropped lower. “I think we were right about like this.”

He guided her hand down, but she froze, tears burning suddenly at the corners of her eyes.

“Daniel, I’m sorry.” The words scraped out of her throat. “I’m so sorry. About that night. About all of this. What I’ve gotten you into. What I’ve gotten all of you into.”

He sat up, looking down at her.

She kept her face turned aside, unable to bear whatever she’d see in his eyes.

“Freya.” His voice was quiet. Serious in a way she’d never heard from easy‑going Daniel. “Please stop. Don’t do that. Look at me instead.”

She didn’t.

His hand cupped her jaw, gentle, turning her face back to his. “My brothers and I never expected to marry.” Each word came out deliberate, like he needed her to hear them. “We never expected to have a wife. Ever. We have no sister to trade. No bride price. No prospects.” His thumb brushed her cheekbone. “Marrying you was completely unexpected.”

“I ruined you.”

“You gave us something we never thought we’d have.” His hand slid down, fingers spreading across her ribs. She could feel her heartbeat against his palm. “I never dreamed I’d have a wife. A real woman. You. In my arms. In my bed.” His voice cracked. “You’re a gift, Freya. I don’t care how it happened. I’m just grateful it did.”

“I nearly got you killed. I may yet get all of you killed, out here ten miles into zombie territory with nothing but some chickens and a line of broken fences.”

Daniel lay back down, pulling her with him until they were face to face, breath mingling. “I nearly get myself killed on a regular basis. And it’s not all that dire. Carbon’s only a half day away on a bad day. The water here is good and the well is sweet. The coulee’s defensible as hell. The house is solid.” He kissed her shoulder, soft and wondering.

“Your mother didn’t send you here to die, Freya. She sent you here to build something.” His hand slid higher, warm through the thin cotton. “And you couldn’t have picked three better men to build it with you.”

“I didn’t pick you. I destroyed you.”

He touched her cheek again, gentle. “You gave us a future.” His forehead rested against hers. “You gave us you.”

She kissed him then. Deep and desperate and meaning it.

His arms wrapped around her. Her fingers curled in his hair. Their bodies pressed together, clumsy and nervous and wanting.

Somehow, between the awkward laughter and the fumbling hands and the two of them trying very hard not to panic, they figured it out. Somehow they found their way together and sealed themselves as husband and wife.

He collapsed against her, breathing hard, face buried in her neck. For a long moment they just lay there, tangled together, hearts hammering.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled against her skin. “That was too fast. I wanted it to be good for you.”

She stroked his hair, damp with sweat. “It was good.”

“Liar.”

She kissed his temple. “It wasn’t awful.”

“Not awful,” he repeated slowly.

“Not awful. That’s good for a first time,” she said.

But he could see it in her eyes. The letdown. The uncertainty. The knowledge that she had two more first times waiting. Two more nights of “not awful.”

“Freya.” He rolled to his side, pulling her with him, tucking her against his chest. “I wish I’d been better for you. I wish I’d known what I was doing.”

“You were fine.”

“I was terrible.” He said it without self‑pity, just honest. “But my brothers won’t be.”

She made a small skeptical sound.

“I mean it.” He shifted, propping himself up so he could see her face. “Don’t worry about them. I’m the biggest lout of the three of us, truthfully. And we’re yours now. Yours to do with whatever you like.”

He smiled, trying to give her something to hold onto. “And besides, you and Edwin, you’re going to get along like a house on fire.”

“Oh? How so?”

“You’re very much alike. Peas in a pod, practically. You both see the world the same way. Always curious about how things work.”

Freya stared at him. “You do have only one brother Edwin, right? The youngest? The one just back from engineering school?”

Daniel laughed. “Yeah, that’s Edwin. Tough to get a word in edgewise with him sometimes.” He paused, considering. “I saw him poking around down at the creek. Probably wants to divert the watercourse or something.” He considered a moment longer. “Whatever you do, don’t let him start talking about sluice gates or cross‑currents or some other engineering nonsense. You’ll never hear the end of it.” He grinned. “He’ll be showing you sketches of irrigation systems and asking you about soil composition before breakfast.”

Freya blinked, filing that away for later. “And Mattias?”

Daniel’s expression softened. “Ah, Mattias can be a bit intimidating if you let him. Economical with his words, like it’s a point of pride, being the oldest and having been an officer. But don’t let that fool you.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “He feels things right proper. Deeper than anyone I know. He just doesn’t show it. If I were you, I’d make him work for it. Don’t let him go all silent and brooding. He likes that too much.”

She was quiet for a moment, processing. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”

“Is it working?”

“A little.”

He kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her mouth. Soft and sweet. “It’ll get better, Freya. All of it. We’ll figure it out together. All four of us.” His hand tightened on her hip. “And next time, I promise, I’ll do better. I’ll make it good for you. Really good.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

His breathing started to slow, even out, his face beginning to go slack. She felt the exact moment sleep began pulling him under.

Freya lay in the darkness, listening to his heartbeat beneath her ear. Between her thighs, she ached. Two more husbands waited downstairs. Two more first times lay ahead.

Chapter 4

Freya woke to grey dawn light and the sound of male voices carrying through the floorboards. She stretched and lay still for a few moments.

Her body ached in unfamiliar places, a pleasant soreness that made her flush remembering the night before. Daniel’s hands. His mouth. The fumbling, genuine wonder of it.

No time for that now. She was a married woman with a place of her own and a daunting amount of work to get done. There were thirty acres of ground for planting. It would need turning, rock and debris pulled, harrowing, and finally seeding. To be done with three men used to hard work, true, but who had probably never hitched a plough in their lives. Time to set them to the plough. With luck they’d forget they’d been soldiers soon enough.

She dressed quickly. The voices downstairs went quiet when her boots hit the floor.

In the kitchen, all three brothers were arranged around the table like soldiers awaiting orders. Mattias stood by the stove with coffee. Daniel smiled, blushed, looked down at his boots. Edwin seemed engrossed in studying his hands.

Freya accepted coffee from Mattias and took a seat at the table, carefully spreading her gaze around so as not to embarrass anyone, least of all herself. Three capable men, all military trained, all waiting for her to tell them what needed doing. The realization settled over her like a coat.

“There’s a lot that needs doing,” she began. “We’ve got six weeks before barley needs to be in the ground. Which means we need the south field turned, harrowed, and cleared of rocks before then.” She held up a hand. “We’ve got nearly thirty acres, but not enough time to get it all planted with barley. We’ll make up the difference later with corn.”

Mattias’s eyebrow went up fractionally. Not challenge. Assessment.

“Daniel, you’ll start off on the plough. Mattias, Edwin, you’ll be pulling rocks and hauling. The horses will tire fast. Rest them every hour and give them water. Check their hooves for stones. Don’t push the horses, and don’t push yourselves. We’ll need to do this all over again tomorrow, and the next day, until it’s done.”

“Freya?” Daniel asked hopefully. “An army marches on its stomach, you know. When do we eat?”

“You’re not in the army anymore, Daniel. First toil, then the grave. That’s the order of things on a homestead.”

She let that hang for a moment, then relented. “Get the horses hitched and get the plough in the ground. I don’t expect you to turn sod on an empty stomach, but I can’t cook and supervise at the same time.”

Daniel grinned, relief obvious.

“One more thing,” Freya added. “Stay in sight of each other. Always. No one goes off alone. Understood?”

“Understood,” Mattias said, approval creeping into his response.

They were not great farmers. They were able, though, to get the right end of the plough into the ground, attached to the right end of the horses. By the time the horses were taking their first rest, there was a respectable pile of rocks gathered, a properly deep furrow churned in the earth, and Freya walked out with a basket of bannock and brisket.

The men had stripped down to shirtsleeves despite the chill. The early spring sun was deceptive, bright and warm on exposed skin even as breath still fogged in the air. Sweat darkened the fabric between their shoulder blades and under their arms. Daniel had rolled his sleeves past his elbows, forearms corded with muscle as he worked the plough handles. His dark hair was damp at the temples, curling slightly.

Mattias hauled a boulder the size of a pig’s head to the growing pile, the motion smooth and practiced despite being new to this particular labour. His shirt pulled tight across his shoulders with each lift. Edwin worked beside him, thinner but wiry, surprising strength in his frame. Both men moved with the efficiency of soldiers, bodies accustomed to hard use even if the specific work was unfamiliar.

But their hands told the real story. Red palms, blisters already forming where the handles and stones had worn at skin more used to rifle stocks and reins. Tomorrow would be worse.

The horses stood patient in the traces, sweating lightly. Unlike the men, they already knew this work.

Daniel saw her first. His face split into a grin that warmed Freya’s chest.

“Is that food? Please tell me that’s food.”

“Bannock and brisket. Water in the jug.”

They fell on the basket like men who’d been working since dawn, which they had. Daniel ate with shameless enthusiasm, making appreciative noises that Freya tried very hard not to think too much about. Mattias ate methodically, efficiently, refuelling rather than enjoying. Edwin sat apart slightly, stretching his back, wincing at muscles that would scream tomorrow.

One by one they finished eating and sprawled on the turned earth, faces to the sun.

Freya gathered the remains of the meal, wrapping the last strip of brisket in cloth.

Something hairy and ugly caught the edge of her vision. Bela. The dog had been lurking about all morning, obviously too proud to beg but also too curious to slope off entirely.

She glanced at Mattias. His eyes were closed, face tilted toward the sun.

Freya held out a morsel of brisket.

Bela regarded her with profound suspicion. This was not his human. This was the new one, the female who had disrupted the proper order of things. His yellow eyes assessed her with canine skepticism.

Then, with the air of conferring an enormous favour, he stretched his long scruffy neck forward and took the meat from her fingers. Gently and precisely. His teeth never touched her skin. He chewed once, swallowed, and retreated to a dignified distance. But his tail moved. Just once.

Freya shook her head. It was a mystery how one dog could have come to be so ugly.

“Right.” Daniel pushed himself upright with a groan. “Another few hours and we’ll have twice the ground turned.”

“No.”

Three heads turned toward her.

“When this row is finished, the horses are done for the day.”

Daniel blinked. “But we’ve only worked half a day.”

“You’ve only worked half a day. The horses have worked a full one.” Freya stood, brushing dirt from her trousers. “They need to be walked cool, groomed, watered, fed, and turned out to the paddock. Pushing horses past their limits does no one any favours.”

Edwin was already nodding. Mattias too, once he thought it through.

“There’s plenty of work for humans,” Freya continued. “More rocks to clear from the north section. Water to haul from the well. Coal for the stove. Supper won’t cook itself.” She looked at each of them in turn. “But the horses are done.”

The groans that followed were gratifying.

Daniel hauled himself to his feet, moving like a man twice his age. Edwin managed to stand but pressed both hands to his lower back uncomfortably. Mattias rose slowly, rolling his shoulders with a grimace.

They’d toughen. They had to.

Daniel gathered the horses’ leads, murmuring to them as he prepared to walk them back toward the barn. Mattias and Edwin squared up to the rock pile, resigned to an afternoon of hauling.

Freya collected the basket, the empty water jug, the cloth that had held the brisket. She straightened. Turned toward the house.

And froze.

To the north, rising high above the canyon rim and into the bright blue sky, a thick roiling plume of sulphur‑yellow smoke stained the sky.

“Mattias.”

Her voice came out strange. Flat.

His head turned instantly to the direction of her gaze. His whole body came alert.

Daniel dropped the horses’ leads. Edwin straightened from the rock pile.

They stood in silence, four people watching yellow smoke climb into the blue sky. Freya’s fingers had gone cold on the basket handle. She shaded her eyes against the bright sunshine, then looked between her men. “How far out is that? Do you know whose place it is?”

“The Grimley place,” Mattias said. “About twelve miles north of here.”

She turned to Mattias, grasping for answers. “Where will help come from?”

“Depends who sees it first.” Mattias didn’t look away from the smoke. “Carbon’s got the bigger garrison, but Stolz outpost is closer to the Grimleys by a few miles. They’ll both respond. A disposal crew, medical officer, a patrol to sweep the area.”

The smoke kept rising. Freya’s hands had gone stiff. She recalled Martha Grimley from her visits to Carbon. Grey‑streaked hair and laugh lines and a way of haggling that made Freya’s mother smile despite herself. Four husbands. A handful of sons, and a daughter, maybe ten years old.

Someone at the Grimley place had just killed a zombie who used to be a person.

Daniel made a sound. Low, rough, caught in his throat. His weight shifted forward, toward the horses, and then stopped. Muscle and instinct pulling one direction, reality yanking him back.

Edwin still held a rock. His knuckles white from the grip.

Mattias didn’t move at all. That was worse, somehow. The absolute stillness of a man who knew exactly what needed doing and couldn’t do any of it. His eyes stayed fixed on the horizon, tracking the smoke, calculating distances and response times and probabilities that weren’t his to calculate anymore.

A week ago he’d have been shouting orders. Horses saddled in minutes. Disposal kit packed. Riding hard toward that yellow smear with his brothers at his back. Now he stood in a half‑ploughed field with blistered hands and watched.

“Garrison’ll see it,” Daniel said. The words came out wrong. Too loud. Trying to convince himself. “Stolz or Carbon. They’ll send men.”

“That they will,” Mattias said.

The smoke thinned. The sulphur burning itself out, signal sent. Somewhere twelve miles north, a Grimley was standing guard over a corpse and waiting for help that was hours away.

Freya did the math without wanting to. They were ten miles from town. Half a day’s ride if the horses were fresh and nothing went wrong. If a zombie stumbled into their canyon tomorrow, she’d light that signal fire and then she’d wait. Three hours. Four. Hoping help arrived before something else did.

The last of the smoke dissolved into the blue.

“Back to work,” Mattias said. His voice was quiet. Stripped of everything.

He turned first. Edwin dropped the rock onto the pile with a thud that seemed too loud. Daniel gathered the horses’ leads, and Freya saw his hands weren’t quite steady.

She walked back toward the house with her empty basket. She didn’t look at the sky again, but she felt it there. All that blue, all that empty space, pressing down.

The day didn’t stop for yellow smoke. There was still work, still supper to cook, still the grinding rhythm of a homestead that didn’t care what any of them had seen.

By the time the dishes were cleared, Daniel could barely keep his eyes open. Edwin had stopped pretending his back didn’t hurt. They said their goodnights and climbed the stairs like men twice their age, leaving Freya and Mattias alone with the cooling stove and the silence.

He lingered, checking and rechecking the door and the shutters. Finally he nodded and headed upstairs.

In her room, Freya sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

The night before, Daniel had come to her door. Knocked softly. Asked if he could come in. Tonight was supposed to be Mattias.

She waited.

The floorboards didn’t creak. No soft knock came. The house stayed quiet except for the wind outside and the settling of timber.

Freya pulled her wrapper tighter around her shoulders. She thought about the yellow smoke. About Martha Grimley and her family. About twelve miles of empty badlands between here and there, and ten miles of the same between here and town.

She thought about Mattias standing in the field, absolutely still, watching smoke rise from a place he couldn’t help.

She waited until she couldn’t anymore.

The floorboards were cold on her bare feet. She pulled her wrapper close and knocked.

A pause. Footsteps, and the door opened.

Mattias stood in the lamplight, shirt hanging open, barefoot. He had a book in one hand, finger marking his place. His hair was mussed and his eyes were tired, but he hadn’t been sleeping. Hadn’t tried, from the look of it.

“Freya.” Not a question. Not quite surprise either.

“You didn’t come.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then stepped back, opening the door wider. An invitation.

His room was spare. A narrow bed, a chair, a trunk for his things. The lamp on the bedside table cast warm shadows. Freya stepped inside and heard him close the door behind her.

“Didn’t seem right,” he said. “After today.”

She turned to face him. “After the smoke.”

“You were shaken. Are shaken.” He set the book down on the trunk. Didn’t move toward her, kept his eyes carefully away from the figure of her body under the thin wrapper. “Didn’t seem right, coming to your door expecting what I’d be expecting. Not tonight.”

Freya studied him. The careful distance he kept. The way his hands hung at his sides, palms raw and blistered from the day’s work.

“You thought I wouldn’t want you tonight.”

“I thought you had enough weighing on your mind without me adding to it.”

Some of the tightness in her chest eased. He wasn’t avoiding her. He was giving her room to be frightened.

“I can’t stop thinking about the Grimleys,” she said. The words came out before she could stop them. “I wonder how many of the dead there were. Just one? A dozen? I keep wondering which one of them had to do the shooting.” Her lip quivered. “I wonder if there’s more shooting to be done when the medical officer gets there.”

Mattias nodded. He knew. Of course he knew. He’d seen it before. Been there before. He’d probably been lying there rolling the same thoughts around in his head.

She pulled her wrapper tighter against the chill in the room. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Her voice sounded small, even to herself.

Mattias didn’t move for a long moment. Just looked at her, standing there in her thin wrapper with her bare feet and her fear showing plain on her face.

Then he crossed to her in two strides.

His arms came around her and Freya discovered that Mattias Goss gave nothing by halves. He pulled her against his chest and held her there, solid and warm, one hand cradling the back of her head. She could feel his heartbeat through the open shirt. Steady and sure.

“You’re decent safe here,” he said. The words rumbled through his chest. “We’ve got good sightlines, clear approaches. Spring water, no contamination risk. You’ve got a good defensible position.”

She almost laughed. Trust Mattias to offer comfort in tactical assessments.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It’s supposed to be true.” His hand moved on her back, slow and soothing. “Can’t promise you nothing will ever come. But I can promise you won’t face it alone, and we’ll stand up well to it if it does.”

Freya pressed her face against his shoulder. He had a clean shirt on and smelled like soap underneath. Her hands found the warm skin of his sides, and she felt his breath catch.

“Freya.” His voice had gone rough. “You came here for comfort. I can give you that. I can take you to bed too, if you’re sure.”

She pulled back enough to look at his face. The lamplight carved shadows under his cheekbones, made his eyes unreadable. But his hands on her were gentle, and he was still giving her room and space.

Freya thought about the dark pressing in outside. About tomorrow, and the day after, and all the days stretching ahead full of work and worry and the constant weight of danger. She thought about this man who’d watched smoke rise from twelve miles away and knew exactly what it meant. Who’d torn his hands raw on rocks without complaint. Who’d stayed away tonight because he didn’t want to impose on her fear.

“I’m sure,” she said.

His face warmed. Not quite a smile. Not quite sympathy. Perhaps the beginnings of respect.

He kissed her forehead first. Then her temple. Her cheek. Taking his time, letting her settle into it. When his mouth finally found hers, it was slow and thorough, the kiss of a man who’d learned patience the hard way.

His blistered hands were careful on her skin. He touched her like she was something precious.

And when he finally took her to his narrow bed, Freya found that his cool reserve and patience had another side to it.

He paid attention. To every sound she made, every shift of her body. Adjusted, responded, improvised, and tried to please her.

And the rest of it belonged to the dark and the quiet and the two of them alone.

Afterward, he didn’t let go. Just pulled her close against him in the narrow bed, her back to his chest, his arm heavy and warm across her waist.

“Sleep,” he said. “Right now Edwin’s on the roof, keeping watch. Daniel will relieve him in a few hours. You’re safe. You’ve got me until dawn.”

Outside, the wind moved through the canyon. The empty prairie stretched dark in every direction. Somewhere twelve miles north, the Grimleys were facing whatever they were facing, and there was nothing anyone could do about it tonight.

But here, in this room, Freya was warm. She was held. She slept.

Chapter 5

The afternoon sun was warm on Freya’s shoulders and the soil was cool under her knees. Good soil. She worked her fingers through it, breaking up clods, making space for the carrot seeds. The vegetable garden wasn’t large, but it would keep them in greens and roots through the summer and into fall, if she could keep the rabbits out.

Bela sat about twenty feet away, near the corner of the house. Not watching her. Definitely not watching her. His attention was fixed on something in the middle distance. A rock, maybe. A tuft of grass. Certainly not a woman planting vegetables. Every time Freya glanced up, the dog was there. Aloof. Disinterested. Just happening to be in her line of sight. It was becoming a habit.

“Ah, so you have my dog.”

Freya didn’t turn at Mattias’s voice. “I don’t have your dog. The menacing lout has taken it upon himself to supervise the planting of the vegetable garden.”

She tilted her head toward Bela. The dog’s ears twitched. He looked pointedly away.

“He’s doing that because you keep feeding him.” Mattias came around to where she could see him, arms crossed. “He’s supposed to feed himself. I’ve seen you. You hand‑feed him tidbits and drippings‑soaked bread like he’s some pampered lapdog in the queen’s court. Of course he’s dogging your steps. He’s waiting for you to bestow a knighthood upon him in the form of scraps.”

“What?” Freya sat back on her heels. “You don’t feed him? No wonder the poor creature is so damn thin. What on earth is he supposed to feed himself on?”

Mattias looked genuinely offended. “Of course I feed him. But he’s mainly supposed to catch his own supper. Rabbits, ground squirrels, frogs, mice, birds. He’s built for this. He’s a lurcher, for heaven’s sake.”

“A lurcher.” Freya looked at Bela, who was still pretending indifference. “He certainly looks like one. I’ve never seen a dog so thoroughly ugly. He looks like an assortment of leftover dog bits that got stirred together and taken out of the oven half‑baked.”

Mattias smiled, just a little. “A lurcher is a cross between a wolfhound and a collie.”

“On purpose? Please tell me the wolfhound was the mother.”

“On purpose. And yes, that’s the usual way of it.” Mattias’s arms uncrossed slightly. “Wolfhounds are tall, fast, bred for bringing down large game. But they’re expensive to keep. Eat as much as a man. And they’re not clever, not really. Good instincts, but you can’t teach them complex work.”

“And collies?”

“Smart as hell. Learn anything. But small. Friendly. Not a dog for a soldier.” Mattias looked at Bela with something that might have been pride, quickly suppressed. “Cross them, you get the best of both. Big enough to matter, smart enough to train, fast enough to run down anything.”

“Not just game then?”

Mattias considered her. “No. Not just game. He weighs about eighty pounds. At full sprint, if he hits a man at that speed, the man is going down. Doesn’t matter how big he is. Or sick. Or crazy.”

It was a chilling picture. Bela, all legs and teeth and patchy fur, transformed into something lethal, slamming into a body at full gallop.

“He doesn’t bark,” she said slowly, pieces connecting.

“No. Lurchers hunt quiet. Sight and speed, not noise.”

“So he can hunt.”

Mattias nodded once.

“Or…” She hesitated. “Or take down a threat. Hold it for you to get there with a gun.”

“So he’s a weapon,” Freya said. “That ridiculous‑looking dog is actually a weapon.”

“He’s a working dog.”

“Doesn’t explain why he’s so standoffish,” she said.

“Probably because he knows nobody loves him. Being so ugly and all.”

Freya watched Mattias’s face, the way he wasn’t quite looking at the dog or at her or at anything.

“You love him,” she said.

Silence.

“Dogs don’t turn,” she said quietly. “Do they? If they’re bitten.”

Mattias’s throat worked. “No. Animals don’t turn. Pigs can carry the sickness, pass it to humans, but everything else just dies from it. Cows, horses, chickens, dogs. A bite’s a death sentence. A long, slow death sentence. But they don’t turn.”

“Not your first dog then, is he?”

Mattias didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Freya turned back to her planting, giving him the space not to speak. She pressed another seed into the soil, covered it, moved on to the next. The rhythm was soothing. Seed, cover, pat. Seed, cover, pat.

After a while, she said, “Frogs?”

“What?”

“You said he catches frogs. For food.”

“Among other things.”

“That explains why he’s been after my salamanders, then.”

Mattias frowned. “Your salamanders.”

“There are salamanders in the spring.” Freya gestured toward the marshy ground near the sweet pea trellises. “Bright little things. Purple with orange spots, if you can believe it. Like something out of a fairy story. They live in the wet patches, between the reeds, under leaves. I’ve been seeing them since we arrived.”

“And Bela’s been catching them?”

“Harrying them, more like. Chasing them down, picking them up, mouthing them.” She shrugged. “But he doesn’t eat them. That’s the strange thing. He catches them, chews on them a bit, then just drops them. Lets them crawl away. I’ve seen him do it four or five times now.”

“That’s not like him. If he catches something, he eats it.”

“Well, he’s not eating these. Maybe they taste bad? They’re slimy. Perhaps it’s bitter.”

As if reminded by the conversation, Bela’s head snapped toward the marshy ground by the spring. His body went rigid, ears pricked forward, every line of him suddenly focused.

The dog lunged forward, all pretense of laziness abandoned. He covered the distance in three massive bounds and plunged into the reeds, water splashing, tail high and wagging.

“Bela. Leave them alone.”

Freya pushed herself up from the garden, brushing soil from her knees. By the time she reached the spring’s edge, Bela was already emerging, something clamped in his jaws.

The salamander was perhaps six inches long, fat‑bodied and glistening. Its stubby legs paddled uselessly in the air.

Bela pranced back toward them, thin legs lifting high, clearly pleased with himself.

“You horrible creature.” Freya advanced on him. “Those salamanders aren’t hurting anyone. If you’re hungry, go catch a rabbit. Leave my salamanders alone.”

The dog’s jaw worked, not quite biting down. Mouthing. Tasting. The salamander squirmed and Bela made a face, nose wrinkling, but he didn’t let go.

“Bela,” Mattias said. “Leave it.”

Bela lowered his head to the ground and released the salamander, who shuffled away with slow, painful dignity.

“What is wrong with you?” Freya exclaimed. “You didn’t even want to eat the poor thing.”

“Damn fool dog,” Mattias said from behind her.

“I don’t understand it.” Freya watched the salamander disappear into the reeds. “He’s been doing this for days. Catches them, mouths them, lets them go. What’s the point?”

Bela sat down.

Or rather, Bela’s hindquarters dropped out from under him without apparent input from the rest of his body. He sat hard, tongue lolling from his mouth.

“Bela?” Mattias took a step toward him. “Are you all right?”

The dog’s head swayed. His eyes had gone glassy. He lolled his tongue at Mattias and wagged his tail.

“Something’s wrong.” Freya knelt beside him. “Mattias, something’s wrong with him.”

Mattias was already there, hands running over the dog’s ribcage, checking for wounds. “Breathing’s steady. Heart’s strong.” He tilted the dog’s face in his hands, studying. “What the hell…”

Bela’s tail wagged. Slow, dreamy. His whole body swayed with the motion.

“Is he having a fit?”

“Doesn’t look like a fit.” Mattias sat back, frowning. “He looks…”

Bela sank down into the grass on his side. Not a pained collapse. Not a sick collapse. He simply melted onto the grass like his bones had turned to water, rolled onto his back, and waved his paws in the air. His tongue hung out the side of his mouth. His tail kept wagging in slow, blissful sweeps.

“Drunk,” Freya finished.

Mattias stared at his dog. “He really does.”

Bela made a sound that might have been contentment. His paws kept waving, slower now, like he was swimming through honey. His eyes drifted closed, opened, drifted closed again.

“The salamanders.” Freya’s mind raced. “That slime on their skin. What if it’s not poison? What if it’s…”

“Intoxicating?”

“He’s been chewing on them for days. Absorbing that mucus through his gums.”

They both looked at Bela, who had given up on paw‑waving and was now lying flat on his back, all four legs splayed out, snoring faintly. His lips were pulled back in what looked disturbingly like a smile.

“My dog,” Mattias said slowly, “has been getting himself drunk on salamander slime.”

“It would appear so.”

“For days.”

“At least a week, I’d guess. Maybe longer.”

Mattias rubbed his hand over his face. “Christ.”

He reached out and rubbed Bela’s exposed belly. The dog’s back leg kicked reflexively, and he goggled at Mattias happily.

“At least it doesn’t seem to be hurting him,” Freya offered.

“Yet. Who knows if they’re poisonous long term.” He sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to feed him more to keep him from eating them.” He looked at the dog. “Or fence off the spring.”

“Can’t say as I’m sure that will work. I don’t think he’s after the meat. He’s after the drunk.”

Mattias stared at the reeds where the salamander had disappeared. Stared at his dog, lolling happily in the grass. Stared at Freya, kneeling in the mud, petting an intoxicated lurcher and trying not to laugh.

“Damn fool dog,” he said finally.

Chapter 6

Freya sat at her dressing table, wrapper pulled around her, yanking a brush through her hair. The bristles caught on a tangle and she yanked harder, wincing.

Three days. Three days of marriage, and Edwin had managed at best twenty words to her. He answered direct questions with the minimum syllables required. He looked at the ground, the walls, the horizon, anywhere but her face. At meals he said nothing. Even working he positioned his body so she couldn’t easily approach.

She’d tried. Asked him about his studies. Complimented his sketches. Inquired about his time away down South. Each attempt met the same response: a mumbled word or two, a ducked head, a hasty retreat to some urgent task that apparently only he could perform.

Daniel said they’d get along like a house on fire. Daniel was an idiot. Clearly Edwin disliked her so much he could barely stand to be in a room with her.

And tonight was his night. Mattias, then Edwin. She’d left her door open. The signal.

Now she sat here, wrapper thin across her shoulders, hair loose down her back, waiting for a man who clearly wished he wasn’t married to her and was dragging the point out.

The knock, when it came on the frame, was soft. Tentative.

She looked up.

Edwin stood in the lamplight, and Freya’s irritation faltered. Just a little.

He had on a clean shirt, crisp and white, buttoned properly to his throat. His dark hair was combed back from his face, curling slightly at the temples. A fresh shave and a faint waft of lavender water.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He held something small in the palm of his hand.

Freya set down the brush and turned on the chair to face him.

“You won’t talk to me.”

Edwin’s eyes dropped to the floor.

“You won’t look me in the eye.” Her voice came out harder than she intended, but she didn’t soften it. “I know you don’t like me. And it’s only fair if you don’t. I did nearly get your brother killed. Nearly got all of you killed or transferred to some godforsaken outpost.” She stood, pulling the wrapper tighter. “You don’t have to like me, Edwin. But you do have to respect me. I’m your wife. The head of this household. You can’t go on pretending I don’t exist.”

Silence stretched between them. Edwin’s jaw worked. He opened his mouth, closed it. His hand tightened around whatever he was holding.

“Say something,” Freya said. “Anything. Tell me you hate me. Tell me you resent being trapped in this marriage. Tell me I ruined your life and you’ll never forgive me. But for God’s sake, stop standing there like I’m not even in the room.”

“I don’t hate you.” The words came out strangled. “Freya, I could never…”

He sighed. Stepped further into the room and set a stone on her dressing table.

She looked down, thrown off balance. A shell, but not like any she’d ever seen. Grey stone, spiraled tight, whorls and ridges perfectly preserved.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “What is this?”

“A fossil. From the creek bed.” His hand came up, raked through his carefully combed hair, destroying the effect entirely. “I wanted… I’ve been trying to find the words to say… I’ve been working up the nerve to talk to you since… I thought if I brought you something I’d found, maybe I could…” He made a frustrated sound. “Find the words.”

“Edwin.” She set the fossil on the dressing table, keeping her eyes on his face. “Why can’t you talk to me? What did I do?”

“Nothing. You didn’t do anything.” He swallowed hard. He ran his fingers through his hair again, ruining the careful combing. “Didn’t the garrison surgeon ever tell you about me?”

Freya’s head came up sharply. “The surgeon?”

A cold tingle trickled down her spine. Why would the garrison surgeon tell her anything about Edwin? Was there something wrong with him? Something medical? Some deformity or condition or… Her eyes dropped involuntarily toward his trousers, then snapped back up, heat flooding her cheeks.

Edwin must have seen where she looked because a strangled sound escaped him, somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

“Not like that.” He scrubbed both hands over his face. “God. Not like that. I’m not… everything’s normal. Physically.” His ears had gone red. “It’s just… Christ. I’ve been dreading this.”

“Dreading?”

“We met before, but you probably don’t remember. I was fourteen.” Edwin moved to the window, putting distance between them, his back to her. “I’d just started as a sapper’s apprentice. I was green as grass and twice as stupid. The surgeon needed a crate of raw spirits from town. His own apprentice was occupied, so he sent me.” He paused. “To the Stirling distillery.”

Freya tried to remember. She would have been fifteen, maybe. Barely more than an apprentice herself, working the stills with her mother and older sister, learning the trade.

“I don’t remember you,” she said gently. “The garrison often sent boys to the distillery for spirits.”

“No. You wouldn’t.” Edwin’s voice was quiet. “I was nobody. Just another garrison boy in a dusty uniform, collecting supplies. But you…” He turned, finally, and met her eyes. “You were definitely there.” He closed his eyes, remembering. “I hadn’t seen many women, you understand. You had on a worn work shirt, soft and thin from washing. It pulled—” he gestured vaguely at his chest. “You were wearing a skirt that day, a long one, like a real grown‑up lady. It came down nearly to the floor. I could hear your boot heels on the boards, but you looked like you were floating. Like a swan.”

He looked up again, pained. “It was warm. Your hair was in a plait but most had escaped and were sticking to your neck.”

Freya’s breath caught.

“And your hands…” His voice cracked. “So small and dainty. But you hauled that heavy crate onto the counter like it was nothing. You had grain dust on your clothes, a flush on your cheeks, and I had no idea that girls’ eyes could be so pretty.”

He wasn’t looking at the floor now. He was looking at her like she was something holy.

“I was meant to run the spirits straight back to the garrison. The surgeon was waiting. But I didn’t.” Edwin’s throat worked. “I went to my bunk first. I couldn’t… I needed…” The red had spread from his ears down his neck. “The surgeon found me. He was furious. Not because I was… not because of what I was doing. Boys do that. He was furious because I’d delayed delivering his supplies. Because I’d shirked my duty.”

Freya’s hand came up to cover her mouth.

“He dumped a bucket of water on me. On my bunk. On everything. And he said…” Edwin’s voice went thin. “He said if he ever caught me shirking again, he’d tell Freya Stirling to her face what a disgusting, horrible boy Edwin Goss was.”

The room was very quiet. Freya could hear her own heartbeat.

“The other boys teased me for months. Years, really. Not for the… not for that part. For being stuck on a Stirling.” A bitter smile twisted his mouth. “For imagining a Stirling would ever have anything to do with me. That’s what they said. And they were right. You were so far above me. So completely impossible.”

“Edwin…”

“But I never forgot you.” The words came faster now, tumbling out like he couldn’t stop them. “When I went South for my training, when I was homesick and lonely and so far from everything I knew, I’d think of home. And I’d think of you. When I imagined what it might be like to have a wife someday, it was always your face. When I dreamed about a future I knew I couldn’t have, you were always there.”

He took a step toward her. Then another.

“And then Daniel… the festival… the jail cell. When you walked in and offered for us, I thought I was dreaming. I thought I’d finally lost my mind entirely. Because this couldn’t be real. You couldn’t be real. Freya Stirling couldn’t possibly be standing there saying she’d marry us.”

He was close now. Close enough that the lavender water curled around her senses, and she could see the pulse jumping in his throat.

His hand came up, trembling, hovering near her cheek but not quite touching.

“I haven’t been avoiding you because I don’t like you, Freya. I’ve been avoiding you because I’ve been dreading waking up. Because if I looked at you too long, if I spoke to you too much, if I dared to touch you, the spell would break. And I’d be back in my bunk at fourteen, drenched and humiliated, knowing you’d never be mine.”

“I’m sorry, Freya. I never meant to make you feel like you were anything less than extraordinary. I do respect you. More than you could possibly know.” He knelt slowly in front of her chair. “Will you allow me to show you how much?”

Freya’s throat tightened. All this time. He’d been carrying this all this time. A fourteen‑year‑old boy, soaked and shamed, dreaming of a girl who didn’t know he existed.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Something shifted in Edwin’s face. The nervousness didn’t vanish, but something steadier rose beneath it. Purpose. Intent.

He laid his hands on her knees.

Freya’s breath caught. “Edwin, what are you—”

“Let me,” he said softly. “Let me show you.”

He eased her knees apart, gentle but certain, and the wrapper slipped aside. His hands slid up her thighs, warm and deliberate, and Freya shivered at the touch.

He leaned in.

And then the world went molten.

The lamplight blurred. The chair blurred. Her own breath blurred. Everything dissolved under the shock of what Edwin did next — not clumsy, not hesitant, not anything she expected from the quiet brother who could barely look her in the eye.

He was confident. He was focused. He was devastatingly, impossibly good.

Freya’s hands found his hair without thinking. Her head fell back. A sound escaped her that she didn’t recognize as her own. The world narrowed to sensation and the steady, patient way Edwin learned her, adjusted to her, coaxed her higher and higher until she was shaking.

And when she finally broke apart, it was with a force that left her boneless in the chair, breathless and stunned.

Edwin rested his forehead against her thigh, breathing hard, waiting for her to come back to herself.

Freya stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling. Her whole body felt molten, remade.

“I’ve… done that before,” she managed, voice thin. “Pleasured myself. Lots of times.” She swallowed. “It never felt like that.”

Edwin lifted his head. His eyes were dark, steady, and deeply satisfied.

“Good,” he said simply. “I mean to make you feel like that. Every night you spend with me. Every time you come to my bed, or I come to yours.” His voice softened. “Like that. And more.”

Her breath caught. “More?”

Edwin rose, hands finding her hips, drawing her gently toward him.

“Only if you want it,” he murmured.

Freya nodded.

He touched her again — slower this time, deeper, careful in a way that made her chest ache. She hadn’t wanted to admit how sore she was. Three days ago she’d never even had a man. Three firsts in three nights. She’d been gritting her teeth through some of it, hoping she’d get the knack of it.

Edwin felt it instantly.

He adjusted. Shifted. Found the angle that made her gasp without adding to the ache.

“Let me make it good,” he whispered. “Let me make you feel nice.”

The pleasure built differently this time. Slower. Deeper. A warm wave rather than a sharp crest, rolling through her in long swells that eased the soreness even as they overwhelmed her.

“Edwin…” Her voice broke. “I’m going to…”

“I know.”

And when she came apart again, it was like sinking into honey — slow, golden, all‑consuming.

He held her through it, steady and sure, until she sagged against him.

Then he withdrew gently, careful not to hurt her, and pressed a soft kiss to her thigh before rising. He set her upright and pulled her wrapper around her shoulders like she was something precious.

He stood before her still fully clothed, hair mussed, chest rising and falling.

“I’m yours, Freya,” he said quietly. “Would you like to see me?”

She nodded.

He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, one button at a time, revealing lean lines and sun‑warmed skin. When he shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, the lamplight caught the long planes of his chest, the narrow line of hair down his stomach, the tension in his breath.

“Turn around,” Freya said.

He did. Slowly. Letting her look.

When he faced her again, his eyes were dark. Waiting.

“Would you like to touch me?”

She nodded again.

He placed her hands on his ribs. Warm skin. A rapid heartbeat. Muscles tensing under her touch. Her hands moved up, over his chest, down his stomach. He trembled.

“You’re mine?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Always.”

“Then show me.”

She led him to the bed.

What happened there belonged to the quiet of the room, the warmth of his hands, and the stunned realization that the shyest of her husbands was anything but shy when it mattered. He was gentle where she was sore, attentive where she was uncertain, and confident in ways she had never imagined.

When it was over, they lay tangled together in the wide bed. Freya’s head rested on his chest, rising and falling with his breath. The faint scent of lavender water clung to him still, softened now by warmth and sweat.

None of it was unpleasant.

That was the remarkable thing.

All of it had been good.

“Edwin,” she said quietly. “How?”

Chapter 7

Edwin was silent for a moment. His fingers traced idle patterns on her shoulder, and she felt his chest rise and fall beneath her cheek.

“Ah.” He paused. “This is delicate.”

Freya waited.

“You know that I was sent away to the South, to Stagmouth City to be educated.”

“Yes, of course. It was quite the news for quite some time. When you came back, all educated, too.”

“Stagmouth, Freya, is an entirely different world. Not just bigger. Different.”

He shifted into the cadence of a storyteller.

“Stagmouth is the end of the river. It’s as far south as one can go. The Mighty Red Stag River ends at Stagmouth, fanning out into a massive delta at the continent’s southern edge. The city itself spreads across a half‑dozen islands, connected by bridges and ferries and canals. It’s hot. Muggy. Damp. The air gets so thick with moisture you can taste it. It’s warm, very warm, even in winter. It never snows. Trees stay green all year.”

Freya tried to picture it. Failed.

“The buildings are stone. Brick. Some fronted with marble. Four stories tall, five. Glass in every window. Inside, the floors are tile or polished wood. Carpets thicker than your mattress. Wallpaper.”

“That sounds like a palace.”

“That was a boarding house. A middling one.” Edwin’s voice was dry. “The wealthy live in mansions with fountains in their courtyards. Servants for the gardens. Porcelain so fine you can see light through it.”

Freya thought of the Stirling household. Their great luxury was rugs on the parlor floor.

“The port never closes,” Edwin said. “Ships from everywhere. Spices that burn your tongue. Fabrics that flow like water. Fruits in colors I didn’t know existed.” His fingers lifted a strand of her hair. “They make jam from oranges.”

“Oranges? Like we get at Winterfest?”

“The very same. But common as apples. Lemons too. Limes. Citrus grows in courtyards.” He turned her hair in the lamplight. “They make marmalade from the peels. Gold and amber and burnt orange. Almost exactly the colors in your hair.”

Freya pulled her hair free. “What about Mongolian Spice? Is it real?”

Edwin laughed, short and harsh. “For sale on every street corner.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Every corner. None of it real. Sawdust and poppy seeds sold to desperate parents. Their children turn anyway.” His voice went flat. “If you want real Mongolian Spice, you need an aristocrat’s purse and a private parlor.”

Freya shivered.

“It sounds dangerous.”

“Dangerous. Beautiful. Overwhelming.” He settled back, pulling her with him. “The markets alone could swallow Carbon whole. Perfumes. Silks. Music pouring out of every window. People everywhere. More than you could ever count.”

Freya tried to imagine it. Failed again.

“People live differently there,” Edwin said carefully. “Women live differently. Some retreat into leisure. Others break away entirely. Become architects. Physicians. Scholars.” A pause. “Teachers.”

Something in his tone made her wonder i hed me such women there. .

“The rules are different,” he said. “Men and women take lovers outside of marriage. Quietly. Everyone knows.”

Freya stared. On the frontier, a man was expected to come to marriage untouched.

“And at the highest levels,” Edwin continued, “they serve meat.”

“We have meat.”

“Not that kind.” His jaw tightened. “Swine.”

Freya went rigid.

“They raise them behind walls. Monitor them. Slaughter them under controlled conditions. And then they serve the cured flesh at dinner parties.”

“That’s…” Freya couldn’t find a word.

“I know.”

“How can anyone?”

“Stagmouth is another world,” Edwin said. “Beautiful and terrible. Full of pleasures I’d never imagined and horrors I’ll never forget.”

Freya narrowed her eyes.

“Edwin.”

She poked him in the ribs. “You said this was delicate. You said you’d explain. But you haven’t.”

Edwin’s mouth twitched.

“How,” she said firmly, “did you learn to do what you just did to me? And don’t tell me about the architecture.”

He sighed.

“I was two years in Stagmouth City. After my apprenticeship, the army paid for me to have formal schooling as an engineer. Same lessons as the Royal Corps. Same examinations.” His mouth twisted. “The education assumes students are gentlemen. And that gentlemen will need to marry well.”

Freya blinked. “You mean…”

“How to please a wife.”

Freya stared. “The Empire teaches its Royal Engineers how to—”

“How to conduct themselves in the marriage bed, yes.” His ears went pink. “A well‑satisfied wife makes for a stable household. Stable households make for a stable Empire. Very logical.”

“Logical,” Freya echoed faintly.

She thought of his hands, his mouth, the devastating precision of it all.

“That was… book learning?”

“Diagrams. Anatomical models. Detailed descriptions.” A hint of amusement. “Very thorough descriptions.”

“But that wasn’t just book learning,” she said slowly. “What you did. That was… real.”

Edwin’s hand stilled.

“No,” he admitted. “That wasn’t from the lessons.”

“You mentioned teachers. Did you have a teacher, Edwin?”

He met her eyes. Held them. And nodded.

“Did you love her?”

“No.” No hesitation. “And she didn’t love me. She was the finest engineering instructor at Stagmouth. Brilliant. Exacting. She took an interest in my education because I showed promise. I was a diversion. Entertainment. She made it clear romance was not appropriate.”

“But she…”

“She taught me well.” His eyes held hers. “In both curriculums.”

Freya absorbed this. A brilliant woman in a decadent city, taking a young frontier boy to her bed. Teaching him things that had nothing to do with engineering. Sending him home when she was done.

“I didn’t come to your bed a virgin,” he said quietly. “And I didn’t come to this marriage innocent.” His voice dropped. “Do you think me sullied? Are you horrified?”

Freya considered him. A boy who’d dreamed of her. A man who’d seen wonders and horrors she couldn’t imagine. A husband who had just undone her completely.

“No,” she said. “I’m not horrified.”

Relief flickered across his face.

“But,” she added, poking him in the chest, “I do think you should tell your brothers.”

Edwin blinked. “Why? So they can share in my shame? Shelter you from my corrupting influence?”

“No.” Freya folded her arms. “So you can teach them what you know.”

Chapter 8

They were just slightly ahead of schedule. That was a happy astonishment. The south field was already half turned, the rock piles growing like cairns marking their progress. The brothers were stiff and blistered, but they moved with a rhythm now. Not quite graceful or practiced, but competent. Freya felt a little proud of them. And a lot more optimistic.

Edwin had even started talking at breakfast. Not much, but enough to begin explaining atmospheric stability and cloud formation. The brothers listened with blank faces until Edwin trailed off, though Freya would have happily heard the rest.

After midday, Freya walked out with the lunch basket to share a break with her husbands. The sun was warm, warm enough that Daniel had stripped off his shirt while he worked the plough, skin going pink across the shoulders. Sweat gathered in the hollow of his throat, running in thin lines down his chest before disappearing into the waistband of his trousers. His gloves were still on, dark leather scuffed and dusty, the fingers worn shiny from gripping the plough handles.

He looked solid. Broad through the chest and shoulders, arms corded from the morning’s work. Not sculpted like a statue, but built like a man who used his body, who hauled and lifted and strained without thinking twice. He moved earnestly, like he was trying his best at every task set before him.

He saw her then, and the basket, and his face lit up in a welcome smile. Then, remembering himself, he snatched up his shirt and dragged it over his head quickly.

She held up the basket. “Lunch.”

Daniel’s grin widened. “Sweet merciful angel.”

They took their time over the meal, sprawled in the grass like schoolchildren. Bannock, cold roast chicken, pickled carrots. Freya brushed crumbs from her shirt and lay back to watch clouds drift across the pale blue sky. Daniel didn’t see the sheep she did. Edwin corrected him. Clearly it was a cow. Mattias told them both they were wrong without offering an alternative.

For a moment it felt like the world had shrunk to this coulee, this patch of sky, these four people. Work behind them, work ahead, but right now there was sun on their faces and food in their bellies. Even Bela had laid down with his big ugly head on his paws.

Freya closed her eyes and let herself breathe.

“Mattias,” Daniel said quietly.

His tone made Freya sit up. Daniel wasn’t looking at the clouds anymore. He was squinting toward the north, shading his eyes with one hand.

Mattias followed his gaze, rising to his feet. Edwin too.

A faint smear of dust above the coulee rim. Freya’s stomach tightened.

“Can you tell how far?” she asked.

“Couple miles,” Mattias said. “Riders. Six, maybe.”

“Patrol?” Daniel asked, though he already knew.

Mattias nodded once. “That’s a certainty. Response to the Grimley signal.”

The easy mood evaporated. Freya felt the shift in all three brothers, the way their bodies came alert, the way their eyes sharpened. Soldiers again, even if just for a moment.

She stood, brushing crumbs from her trousers. “Tidy up and let’s get ready for company.”

They moved quickly, efficiently. Daniel led the horses toward the barn, murmuring to them as he loosened the traces.

Freya walked briskly to the house, filled the big jug with well water, then uncorked the stoneware bottle and added a generous splash of spirits. Old fashioned, maybe. But she was a Stirling. And Stirlings didn’t serve unfortified water to anyone, least of all men who’d just ridden from a place where someone had died of zombie fever.

By the time she stepped back into the courtyard, the brothers were assembled. Shirts straightened, boots brushed off, faces set. Dust and the clatter of horses came through the coulee’s neck and into the flat area at its base. Distinct shapes emerged.

Bela trotted to the edge of the courtyard, hackles lifting, tail stiff. He hadn’t decided to hate the people arriving, but he certainly wasn’t welcoming them either.

The riders left the coulee neck at a trot, then slowed as they approached the yard. Bela gave one sharp bark and Mattias laid a hand on his head.

Six men. Dust coated, sunburned, horses sweating from the ride. The man in front swung down first, broad shouldered, sun creased, sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve.

“Sergeant Prewitt,” Mattias said, stepping forward.

“Lieutenant Goss,” Prewitt said with a broad smile. He checked himself. “Stirling‑Father Goss.”

Mattias nodded, acknowledging the new title. “Not your officer anymore.”

“Still feels like you are,” Prewitt admitted, then cleared his throat. “We’re riding from Grimleys. You saw the signal? We’re checking in on you and your holding.”

Freya stepped forward with the jug and tin cups. Prewitt accepted a cup, sniffed, and his eyebrows rose. “Stirling whiskey,” he said appreciatively. “Thank you, ma’am.”

The others dismounted, stretching stiff legs, accepting the fortified water gratefully. Daniel pointed the youngest trooper, barely more than a boy, toward the creek. “Water the horses there. Slow, not too much at once.”

“Yes, sir,” the boy said, and hurried off.

Mattias waited until the men had drunk, until the horses were tended, until the dust had settled.

Then he asked, quietly, “What’s the report from the Grimley place?”

Prewitt’s face shifted. “Just one. A woman. Poor shape, terribly thin. Medic thinks she would’ve lasted another day, maybe two.”

Mattias’s voice stayed steady. “What was the vector?”

Prewitt hesitated. “Between bite, blood, or bacon, medical officer says bacon.”

Mattias kicked his boot sharply. Prewitt winced. “Begging your pardon, Stirling‑Mother,” he mumbled, turning pink.

Freya swallowed. “I’ve heard the word before, Sergeant. Kindly explain what you mean by it.”

“Garrison talk, ma’am.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Zombie fever spreads four ways. We call that the vector.”

He lifted his cup slightly. “Contaminated water’s rare nowadays. Folks are smarter. Mostly it’s one of the big B’s. A direct bite from one of the Dead. A blood splatter into eyes, mouth, or broken skin. Or pigs. Pigs are filthy with it. They carry the fever even if they don’t turn. Touch them, get bit, or… consume the flesh. Any of that’ll do it. We use a rude word for it in the garrison.”

Daniel exhaled. “Boars, then.”

Prewitt nodded. “This one had no bites, no head wounds, but a deep gash on her leg. Pine needles in her hair and clothes. Officer thinks she ran afoul of a wild boar up in the boreal north of Bitter Creek. Ran when she realized. She would have turned out there, alone, and wandered south till she hit the Grimley draw.”

Freya pressed a hand to her chest, face going pale.

Mattias’s voice cut in, low and firm. “And the Grimleys, Sergeant?”

Prewitt shot a quick look at Freya and saw the distress there. He straightened. “The Grimleys are all untouched. The zombie never got within a hundred yards of the house. Grimleys keep dogs. Good ones. Grimley‑Father Graham was alerted and dropped her with a single rifle shot, clean, from distance. She never got close enough to trouble the family.”

The boy returned with the horses. Freya offered the jug again, but Prewitt shook his head. “My thanks, Stirling‑Mother, but we want to reach Carbon before dark.” He looked to Mattias. “Patrols from both Carbon and Stoltz are sweeping. No other sign yet. Keep sharp. We don’t have the trees for boar this far south, but we’re asking everyone to stay alert.”

Mattias nodded. “We will.”

Prewitt swung back into his saddle. “Ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat. “Stirlings. Let’s go, boys.”

Then they were gone, dust rising behind them, the sound of hooves fading into the coulee.

Freya stood very still in the courtyard, the empty jug hanging from her hand. The sun was warm, but she felt cold. Her eyes kept darting to the coulee neck, the creek, the distant hills. Imagining shapes. Imagining shadows. Imagining boars and zombies and the thin line between them.

Her chin trembled.

Edwin stepped up beside her, quiet as a shadow. “Your relatives built well,” he said softly. “The house and yard can easily be defended by three guns.”

Freya swallowed.

“The well is deep and clean,” Edwin continued. “A zombie would have to fall straight into it to contaminate it.

“The coulee is a natural defense. The south end is blind except for the creek break. The walls are tall. The only real approach is the neck. The house faces it, makes a funnel. A kill box. Shooters from the second‑floor gun slits. Even the cupola, if needed.”

“And we have Bela.”

Bela was currently glaring at the retreating patrol like it had personally offended him.

“Bela hates everyone,” Edwin said. “Especially zombies.”

Freya tried to smile. It didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Edwin touched her elbow. “Come up to the cupola. I’ll show you.”

Mattias gave him a look that said he already knew what Edwin was about, and Daniel fell in behind them without question. The four of them climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor, then up the steep ladder into the cupola.

Edwin waited until Freya had taken it in, then pointed toward the narrow mouth of the coulee.

“That’s the only real way in,” he said. “Everything funnels through that neck. Nothing comes at this house from the sides. The walls are too steep.”

He pointed to the layout below. “Your family built this place like a fortress. Three wings in a U shape. The courtyard faces the neck. Anyone coming in has to walk straight toward the open end of the U.”

Freya frowned. “And that’s good?”

“It’s perfect,” Edwin said. “Look at the angles. The wings aren’t square. They’re set a little wider. That gives you overlap. If you put one shooter in each wing and one up here, you cover every inch of ground between the neck and the front door.”

Daniel leaned forward, following the lines with his eyes. “Crossfire.”

“Exactly,” Edwin said. “Three guns. One in each wing, one above. No blind spots. No dead ground. Anything that comes through that neck walks straight into a triangle of fire.”

Freya looked again. The coulee neck seemed narrower from up here. More contained. More manageable.

Edwin tapped the timber wall beside him. “Gun slits on the upper floors so you can shoot out without exposing yourself. And the cupola gives you height. Height means time. Time to see. Time to aim. Time to act.”

Mattias nodded. “Your people knew what they were doing.”

Freya let out a slow breath. “So we could really hold this place.”

“Easily,” Edwin said. “Zombies don’t flank. They don’t think. They don’t talk. They don’t shoot back. They walk straight at whatever they want.”

Freya’s shoulders loosened a little. Not much. But enough that she could breathe again.

Mattias added, “Three guns really could defend, Freya.”

“Four,” Freya answered. “I can shoot.”

Mattias glanced at her, slow and sideways, like he was reassessing her from the boots up.

“She’s won the ladies’ shooting contest at the midsummer festival two years running,” Daniel said. “Didn’t even break a sweat.”

Mattias’s mouth curved. “Is that so? Care to show me?”

They headed downstairs. Mattias grabbed the rifle from its place by the front door and handed it to her without ceremony, like he already knew she’d handle it right.

“Can you hit that rock?” he asked, pointing to a chunk of limestone halfway down the slope.

Freya lifted the rifle, sighted, and fired. A clean crack echoed off the coulee walls. A pale chip jumped off the rock.

Daniel let out a low whistle.

Mattias pointed to another rock, farther, half hidden behind sage. “What about that one?”

Freya broke open the gun and reloaded smoothly. She took her stance again, breathed out, and fired. Another chip flew.

Daniel laughed. “Give it up, Mattias. She’s good. She’s really good. Got the ribbons to prove it, too. Don’t you, Freya?”

“I do,” she said, lowering the rifle.

She looked at the three of them, then cocked her head. “Of the three of you, which one would you say is the best shot?”

Daniel straightened. Mattias jerked his chin toward him. Edwin didn’t argue.

“Daniel,” Mattias said. “No question.”

Daniel shrugged. “Zombie fodder’s gotta be the best shot. Officers get to hide behind maps. Engineers hide behind sandbags. I had to hit what I aimed at or die tired.”

Freya smiled. “Alright. Let’s settle this with a wager.” She reloaded again. “Me against your best shooter.”

Daniel blinked. “What’re we wagering?”

“Loser heats and hauls the winner’s bathwater tonight. Pick a target.”

Daniel pointed to a reddish rock near the far fence line. “That one.”

Freya lifted the rifle and smiled slow and wicked. She sighted carefully. “Daniel? I like my bathwater very hot and all the way up to my chin.”

She fired. The shot cracked sharp and clean, and a fist‑sized chunk jumped off the rock.

Daniel took the rifle, jaw set. He loaded, sighted, fired, and came very close. His shot kicked up dirt just to the right.

Mattias clapped him on the shoulder. “Best light a fire and get to hauling, brother. She beat you fair and square.”

Daniel groaned, handed the rifle back, and trudged toward the wash house like a man heading to his own execution.

Mattias made to put the rifle away.

“I could’ve hit that with my pistol,” Freya said.

Both Mattias and Edwin stopped mid step.

“You have a pistol?” Mattias asked.

“Yes,” Freya said. “A birthday present from my fathers.”

Mattias looked at her like she’d just told him she slept with a knife under her pillow. “Freya. You need to wear your pistol. Like boots. Like a hat. You have it, you wear it. It’s no good if you don’t.”

She nodded. “Alright.”

Edwin’s gaze swept over her, thoughtful and appreciative. “Pistol’s not about distance,” he said. “It’s about steady hands and presence of mind. Remember that.”

Freya nodded. Steady hands. Presence of mind.

She thought of the woman from the Grimley place. Thin. Terrified. Running south through country she didn’t know, already feeling the fever take hold. Knowing what she was becoming.

Freya might have to shoot a woman like that. That was the awful truth of it.

She went inside to fetch her pistol.

Chapter 9

The bath had been worth every bucket Daniel hauled and heated. Worth every lump of coal it cost. Worth the grumbling he did trudging back and forth from the pump, feeding the copper boiler until the water was finally ready, even if he’d resolutely kept his shirt on the whole time. Freya had won her wager fair and square, and a Stirling always collected a debt.

As she walked to the wash house, wrapper tied tightly around herself, Edwin pressed a small glass bottle into her hands. “Lavender. For your bath.” A wink, and he was gone, offering no explanation this time.

Mattias poured her a generous measure from the stone crock of whiskey and set it on a stool beside the tub.

All of it was worth it. Freya sank into the wash tub until hot water lapped at her chin, wiggling her shoulders in the spreading warmth. She was sore, she admitted. All over. Days of bending, hauling, kneading, hoeing, planting, wringing, lifting. Running a homestead was more work than she’d calculated. Husbands were the least of it. It was the endless work that tired a woman out.

She drank her whiskey. Closed her eyes. Slid under until only her nose poked above the water. She wondered, idly, what would happen if she called out for Edwin to read to her. Or for Daniel to bring more hot water. Or for Mattias to bring more whiskey. All of which appealed.

She stayed until the water cooled and her fingers pruned. Eventually she hauled herself out, dried off, wrapped in her cotton wrapper, and made her way upstairs, unsteady from the heat.

Back in her bedroom she left the door open.

The bed was wide and soft. Freya loosened the wrapper, let it fall to her waist, and collapsed face‑down onto the mattress, arms spread, cheek pressed to the pillow. The evening air was cool on her bare back. She might never move again.

Footsteps on the floorboards.

A pause at the doorway.

“The door’s open, Mattias,” she mumbled into the pillow.

His steps came closer. Something thunked softly on the bedside table. Freya opened one eye, hoping faintly for more whiskey.

“Oil. For sore muscles.” A pause. “If you want.”

Freya turned her head just enough to see him. Mattias stood by the bed, hand on a small clay bottle. He looked uncertain, which was strange for a man who usually looked like he’d already decided how every situation would end.

“Oh. God, yes.”

The mattress dipped. She heard him warm the oil in his hands. Then his thumbs found the knotted spot between her shoulder blades, and she groaned into the pillow.

His hands were big. Warm. Steady. They moved across her back with slow, firm pressure, finding every place the work had settled into her body and easing it loose.

“Right there,” she murmured. “That spot.”

He didn’t answer. Just worked. Shoulders. Shoulder blades. Down along her spine. The tension unwound under his hands.

“There is a mountain of work to be done on a homestead,” she said. “Most of it involves lifting something heavy.”

He chuckled. “Don’t need to tell me that.” His thumbs traced her ribs. “Hard to find a patch of hand that isn’t torn or blistered to rub the oil with.”

“It’ll get easier. Eventually.”

“Certainly can’t get harder.”

She smiled into the pillow. His hands kept moving, sweetly warm and soothing.

“Mattias.”

“Mm.”

“What would you have done if my door had been closed tonight?”

His hands didn’t pause. “Found my way back to my own bed. Reckoned you were tired. Or wanting time alone. Had your courses. Didn’t want to fuss with a husband.” A shrug she felt rather than saw. “Sometimes a man wants to sit quiet with his own thoughts. Can’t imagine it’s different for a wife.”

“We’re all grown men. Know how to take care of ourselves.”

Silence. His hands stilled.

Freya waited.

More silence.

“What.” His voice was flat. “You think Edwin’s the only one who knows how to take matters into his own hands in his own bunk?”

Freya laughed, surprised and genuine. “Oh god. Does everyone know about poor Edwin?”

“What do you mean, poor Edwin?” His hands resumed their work. “Every boy in the garrison knows how to do that. Edwin just did it more often than most. Developed a name for himself.” A pause. “Did he tell you a different story?”

Freya kept her face pressed into the pillow, voice carefully blank. “No. Has he been telling you any tales of his time in Stagmouth?”

A long silence. Mattias’s hands slowed.

“He might have mentioned a thing or two.”

“Educational things?”

“Mm.”

So Edwin had been coaching his brothers already. Freya bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She rolled onto her side, pulling the wrapper up to cover her breasts, and looked at him. Mattias sat on the edge of the bed, oil gleaming on his hands. His face was unreadable, but his ears had gone faintly dark.

“Edwin shared some anecdotes,” she said. “With me.”

“Did he?”

“Detailed ones.”

Mattias’s jaw tightened. Not anger. Something else.

“He does talk in details,” he said. “Hard to follow sometimes. Did he give you a demonstration?”

“He did.”

Another silence. Mattias looked at his hands. At the oil. At her shoulder, bare where the wrapper had slipped.

“He’s better at explaining than I am.”

“I’m not asking for explanations.” Freya reached out, caught his wrist, tugged gently. “And my door wasn’t closed.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he stretched out beside her on the bed.

He kissed her like he’d been thinking about it all day. Maybe he had. His oil‑slicked hands slid over her skin, leaving trails of warmth, and when he cupped her breast she arched into his palm. His hand found her hip through the wrapper and stayed there, not pushing, just holding. She tugged at his shirt.

“Mattias.” She pulled back enough to see his face. “I’m not made of glass. And this needs to come off.”

He pulled back long enough to strip off his shirt, then he was pressing her down into the mattress, the weight of him settling over her. Skin to skin. His mouth found her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breast.

His hand slid between her thighs and she was already ready for him, had been since he’d started working her back, and his breath caught.

“Christ, Freya.”

“Touch me.”

He did. Not with Edwin’s devastating precision, but with a rougher, earnest hunger that made her gasp. He paid attention. Adjusted when she arched. Pressed when she pulled him closer.

“Mattias.” Her voice was strained. “I want—”

“Yeah.” He was already fumbling with his trousers. “Yeah.”

He settled between her thighs. She felt him press against her, hot and certain.

“Mattias. If you don’t—”

He entered her.

Not smooth, not perfect, but good. Full. Right.

They both went still, breathing hard, adjusting to the feel of each other.

He moved. Slow at first, finding a rhythm. It wasn’t graceful. His elbow caught the pillow wrong. Her knee bumped his hip. But then he found a better angle, deeper, and she made a sound that seemed to undo something in him.

“Christ.” His forehead dropped to hers. “You feel—”

“I know.”

He moved faster. The careful restraint cracked open into something urgent. Freya wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer, and he groaned against her neck.

“Not going to last,” he managed. “Freya, I can’t—”

“It’s okay.” She dug her fingers into his shoulders. “Come on.”

He made a broken sound and buried himself deep. She felt him shudder, felt the moment he gave in, and held him until he stilled.

He didn’t move for a long moment. Just breathed against her neck, heavy and spent. She stroked his hair, damp with sweat.

He pushed out a long exhale. “Should’ve—” he began.

“Mattias.” She tugged his hair until he lifted his head. “It was good.”

“Wasn’t long enough for you.”

“We’ll practice.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Yeah?”

“Every night my door’s open.”

He kissed her, soft and slow. Then he rolled onto his back and pulled her against his side, her head on his chest. His heartbeat was still settling under her ear.

They lay like that while the house settled around them. Wind moved through the coulee. Somewhere downstairs, a door closed softly. Daniel or Edwin, checking locks.

Freya was drifting toward sleep when Mattias spoke, voice low in the darkness.

“Edwin tell you why he came back?”

Her eyes opened.

She knew why Edwin had gone to Stagmouth. Knew about the engineering studies, the gentleman’s lessons, the teacher who’d taken him to her bed. He’d told her all of that, tangled together in this same room.

She knew why he’d gone to Stagmouth. But she’d assumed he’d always meant to come back. She hadn’t asked why he’d left.

“No,” she said slowly. “He didn’t.”

Mattias was quiet for a long moment. His hand moved on her shoulder, absent, thoughtful.

“Hm,” he said.

And nothing else.

Chapter 10

The ploughing and harrowing were done. The south field lay in neat dark furrows, ready for sowing. The work was still hard, still long, but no longer the bone‑grinding labour of breaking new ground.

As the weeks passed, the rhythm of it all had begun to feel less onerous. Predictable. Safe, even. Pleasant at times.

They generally broke for lunch in the field now. A ritual that had grown up without anyone deciding on it. Each day, Freya brought out a basket a little after midday. Bread, cheese, cold meat, a jug of well water cut with a splash of spirits. They’d find a patch of shade and sprawl on the grass, four people and one ugly dog, watching clouds drift across the pale spring sky.

Today Daniel had made her laugh with an old story about a mule and a sergeant. Edwin had pointed out a hawk circling overhead and explained how it used thermals to stay aloft. Mattias had eaten in his usual silence, but when she offered him the last piece of cheese, he passed it back to her, his fingers brushing hers and lingering.

Freya gathered the empty basket, brushed off her trousers, and set off toward the house, leaving the men to finish the last rows of the afternoon. She was almost at the door, basket bumping gently at her thigh, when Bela yelped a single warning bark — sharp, loud, unmistakable — from across the field.

Freya dropped the basket and spun.

A lurching horror came around the corner of the house.

She had been a woman once. But she was Dead now. Dirty and ragged, clothes hanging off her. One shoe gone, the toes of her bare foot broken and bent. Thin, terribly thin, and tall. Hair a wild, snarled tangle.

Her eyes were wide and rolling, no spark of humanity left. Only rage. Rage and pain and hunger. Her mouth hung open, but she made no sound at all, just hop‑shuffled toward Freya in a silent, frantic run, hands clawing at the air.

Freya stumbled backward, horror locking her breath. Her fingers found the pistol at her hip. She drew. Raised it. Time stretched — thick and slow between the draw and thumbing back the hammer.

Twenty yards. Fifteen.

Behind her, shouting. Mattias’s voice. Daniel’s. Boots pounding on dirt. Too far. A world away.

Ten yards.

She exhaled. Fired.

The blast punched through the afternoon quiet. The zombie jerked, stumbled. A dark hole opened in its chest, spreading wet and black across the ruined fabric.

It didn’t stop.

Freya scrambled backward. Her boot caught on something and she went down hard, landing on her backside, still clutching the pistol. The zombie lurched forward another step. Two.

Then it crumpled.

Freya kept scrambling, heels digging into the dirt, unable to stop, unable to breathe. The pistol shook in her grip. The body lay still, three yards away.

Bela was a streak of wiry grey fur, sprinting at full gallop. He slid to a stop between her and the corpse, head down, teeth bared, body braced.

The world went quiet.

Not silent — quiet in that strange way where sound still exists but doesn’t register. Freya sat where she’d fallen, legs splayed, pistol limp in her hand. The Dead woman lay collapsed in a heap, one arm still reaching toward her.

Freya didn’t look at the body. She couldn’t.

Her eyes locked instead on a single blade of grass by her boot. Green. Bent. A tiny ant crawling up its length, pausing, turning, continuing.

Her breath came in tiny, shallow pulls. There was a drum. Someone was beating a heavy drum somewhere close by.

The thought drifted through her like a leaf on water.

Bela’s growl rumbled through his chest. He stood in front of her, trembling, ears flicking wildly — toward her, toward the body, toward the field where the men were running.

Freya blinked. The ant reached the tip of the grass blade and hesitated.

The drumbeat grew louder. Faster. Pounding.

Boots hit the ground behind her. Hard. Fast. Three sets, thundering across the field.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t look. Didn’t hear the shouting.

Her vision tunneled, the world shrinking to a patch of earth the size of her palm.

Then hands grabbed her.

Strong hands. Rough hands. Hands that shook.

Mattias hauled her upright so fast the world tilted. She swayed, blinking at him, trying to understand why his face looked so strange — pale, wild‑eyed, mouth tight with terror.

He was panting hard, chest heaving, sweat streaking the dust on his skin. Daniel and Edwin were behind him, bent over, hands on their knees, gasping for breath, eyes darting between Freya and the corpse.

Bela circled them, unsure whether Mattias was helping or hurting her.

Mattias grabbed Freya’s shoulders.

“Did she touch you?” he shouted. “Did she touch you, Freya? Did she—”

“Freya.” His voice softened. “Freya, look at me.”

She tried. Her eyes kept drifting back to the ground.

Grass. Dirt. Ant.

“Freya.” His grip tightened. “Come with me now. To the house. Come on. This way.”

One step. Two. Another. And they were on the wooden porch. Bright sunshine. Smooth boards. The house. Edwin and Daniel below on the grass, backs toward her, guns drawn, scanning.

“Quickly, Freya. Take your clothes off now.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You need to get out of your clothes.” His voice cracked. “Right now!”

Freya stared at him, confusion blooming into anger. Why was he shouting? Why was he shaking? Why was he telling her to take her clothes off?

Somehow, she did. Hat, shirt, pants, kicked off over her boots. She stood naked and shaking. Mattias turned her face this way and that, lifted her hair from the back of her neck. He took her hands and peered between her fingers. Dropped to his knees, hands running over her arms, her sides, her legs, frantic, searching for something she didn’t understand.

Freya swayed. The world tilted again. The drumbeat thundered on in her ears.

Distantly, she realized there was no drum. Just her own heart pounding.

Mattias’s hands froze on her waist. His head bowed. His breath shuddered.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, God. Please.”

Freya looked down at him — her husband, on his knees on the porch, shaking, terrified — and finally, finally, the world began to come back into focus.

The corpse. The gun. The bark. The sprint. The fall. The shot.

And Mattias’s fear.

Her own fear.

Daniel and Edwin, guns drawn, forming a protective perimeter.

The world returned all at once, sharp and bright and unbearable.

Freya gasped. Her knees buckled. Mattias caught her before she fell.

“Clean.” His voice cracked on the word. “She’s clean.”

Daniel was already moving. He was up the stairs and opening the door as Mattias led her stumbling inside. Into the parlour and into the armchair, pulling her into his lap as he sank into it. He held her against his chest, one hand cradling her head, and she felt him shaking. Mattias. Shaking.

Freya started to cry.

Great heaving sobs tore out of her chest and wouldn’t stop. She cried into Mattias’s shoulder while he held her and Daniel wrapped a throw around her.

When the sobs finally slowed to hiccups, Daniel rose and went to the door, nodding at Edwin where he still stood, facing out, gun trained on the Dead woman.

“Edwin,” Mattias said, voice steady now, officer’s voice. “Light the signal.”

Edwin nodded and moved away from the door. Yellow smoke would soon be rising into the sky.

Chapter 11

Her hands still shook. She sat on the sofa between Daniel and Mattias, holding a cup of tea with generous amounts of sugar and whiskey. Daniel had brought her wrapper from upstairs, and she still had the blanket tucked around her.

Edwin sat in the armchair across from them, pulled close and angled toward her. Bela lay at the threshold, worry evident on his homely, whiskered face.

She gulped half the tea and stared into the cup. Mattias laid a hand on her knee.

“That was close,” he said. “Terrifying, even. But you did all the right things.”

Freya shook her head. The tea sloshed.

“You kept your wits about you,” he continued, as if she hadn’t moved. “You drew and fired. And it was a good shot, right when it mattered.” He leaned in slightly, enough that she felt the weight of his attention. “You did everything right, Freya.”

“But I was so scared.” Her voice cracked on the last word. She clenched her jaw. She was not going to cry again. “I fell apart. I couldn’t even think. After you came running, I just stared at the ground. I didn’t understand what you were saying.”

Daniel’s hand brushed her shoulder, quiet reassurance. Edwin shifted forward in his chair. “But that was after,” he said. “After you’d already acted to make yourself safe. You did it right.”

She looked at Bela, lying on the floor by the door. He’d been the one to alert them, with a single urgent bark, then racing across the coulee to stand between her and the Dead woman.

“Is it true?” Freya asked. Her voice came out steadier than she expected. “What they say. That the Dead are usually women. That women are more susceptible to zombie fever.”

Silence.

Mattias glanced at Edwin. A question in the look.

Edwin didn’t warm to the topic the way he usually did. No comfortable rhythm of explanation. He just shook his head.

“If you’re bit, you’re dead,” he said evenly. “Man or woman makes no difference. The fever takes everyone the same.”

“Then why…” Freya trailed off. She’d seen the woman’s face. The ruined dress. The long hair matted with dirt.

“Women fight harder against the disease.” Edwin’s voice was quiet. “They last longer after the symptoms take hold. A man gets infected and the fever burns so hot it sometimes kills him before the madness truly sets in.” He paused. “A woman, the fever isn’t so hot. She can last longer. Weeks, even, after she’s Dead.”

Freya’s stomach turned. “Weeks.”

“Both men and women die if they’re bit. Women just…” Edwin spread his hands. “They can walk around Dead a lot longer before they finally lay down.”

Freya stared at the table. The grain of the wood blurred.

That hadn’t been a thing in the coulee. It had been a person. Someone’s daughter. Someone’s sister. Somewhere, there were probably four husbands frantic over the loss of their wife. Dead from the moment the fever took her, but her body too stubborn to stop. Walking and starving, fevered and freezing for weeks until Freya shot her.

“The Dead are dead,” Mattias said, reading her face. “They just haven’t laid down yet. Putting one down isn’t killing. It’s mercy.”

“Doesn’t feel like mercy.”

“No,” Mattias said. “It never does.”

Freya went to bed alone.

The house was dark and still, the coulee outside silent. She lay in the big bed in the wife’s room, covers pulled tightly around her. Exhaustion tugged at her bones, but her mind refused to settle.

Every time she closed her eyes she saw the Dead woman’s face. Heard Bela’s bark. Heard her men shouting her name. Heard the drum of her own heart.

She opened her eyes again. The ceiling was only a darker shade of black.

The house creaked as it cooled. A soft step overhead told her someone was in the cupola. She listened a moment longer and recognized Edwin’s tread. He was on watch.

Bela sighed outside her door, a low doggy wuff. He wasn’t sleeping. She could tell by the way he shifted now and then, by the faint scrape of his claws on the floorboards. Awake because she was awake, or for reasons of his own. Bela was inscrutable at the best of times.

She closed her eyes again. Opened them. Nothing changed.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway.

She didn’t sit up, but she turned her head toward the sound. The door eased open a few inches. No lamp. No candle. Just a darker shape in the dark.

“Freya.”

Mattias’s voice, low enough not to wake anyone else. Or low because anything louder would break something in him.

She pushed herself up on her elbows. “I’m awake.”

He stepped inside, nudging Bela gently with his foot. Mattias came to the side of the bed and sat on the edge, close enough that she felt the mattress dip, close enough that she sensed the warmth of him, but he didn’t touch her.

For a moment he didn’t speak. She could hear his breathing, steady but not quite calm.

“I shouldn’t have shouted,” he said finally.

Freya swallowed. “You were scared.”

“I was scared. Bad.” The word came without hesitation. “I’ve lost people before. I didn’t want to see you added to the list.”

In the dark, she could just make out the line of his shoulders, the tension still held there.

“I thought…” He stopped. Tried again. “I thought I wouldn’t reach you in time.”

Freya’s throat tightened.

He let out a slow breath. “And I didn’t. You took care of yourself.”

Silence settled between them, but it wasn’t empty. It was full of everything he wasn’t saying, everything she didn’t know how to say back.

Mattias didn’t move to leave. He didn’t move closer either. He just stayed, a quiet shape in the dark, keeping watch beside her bed the way Edwin kept watch in the cupola.

Freya lay back against the pillows, her heartbeat finally slowing.

“Thank you,” she said.

Mattias nodded once. She felt it more than saw it.

He stayed until her breathing evened out and her eyes drifted closed.

Only then did he stand and slip out, leaving the door cracked just enough for Bela to keep his vigil.

Morning dawned pale and cold. Wisps of clouds scudded across the sky and fog shrouded the edges of the coulee. They waited on the porch. Freya sat wrapped in a blanket, boots planted on the boards, hands hidden in the wool. The sun might burn through enough to warm the rail, but not her bones. Bela lay six feet away, stretched long, head up, watching the coulee with wary attention.

Mattias stood at the porch post, one shoulder against it, arms folded. Daniel sat on the step below Freya, elbows on his knees. Edwin paced across the yard, then stopped, listening.

The sound reached them before the riders came in sight. The clatter of tack, men calling to each other as they funneled down the narrow neck of the coulee. More noise than last time. More formality. Prewitt wasn’t taking chances today.

Freya pulled the blanket tighter. The wool rasped against her cheek.

The patrol came into view: eight men, rifles slung, gear stowed, horses blowing from the quick pace. Prewitt led, the medic riding behind him, two laydown men and their gear bringing up the rear.

They slowed at the yard. Prewitt raised a hand.

“Good day, Stirlings,” he said formally. “Corporal Prewitt, with Sweep and Laydown Team responding to your Deadfall Signal.”

Mattias straightened off the post. “Prewitt.”

Prewitt inclined his head. “Sir.” He kept his seat.

Mattias gave a short nod. “You’re welcome in.”

Only then did Prewitt swing down from the saddle. The medic dismounted behind him. The laydown men and sweep riders stayed mounted, waiting for orders.

Prewitt stepped forward, stopping at the edge of the porch steps. “I’ll need your account.”

Mattias didn’t look back at Freya. “Half past two. One Dead. Female. Came in by the road, through the neck. Engaged at close range. No wounded. No contact. No other sign.”

Prewitt’s gaze swept the porch. Freya in her blanket. Mattias’s rangy hound on alert. Daniel and Edwin flanking her like a wall. His jaw clicked.

Edwin stepped off the porch. “I’ll take your sweep.” Prewitt nodded and gestured to the mounted men. The sweep riders advanced, fanning out to either side while the laydown men headed directly for the body, out of view around the corner of the house. After a nod at Mattias, Prewitt and the medic followed on foot.

They returned ten minutes later, all three carrying the same knowledge in their faces.

Prewitt stopped at the foot of the steps. “The shot was taken from very close range.” A beat. “Medic needs to confirm the shooter’s clean.”

Mattias didn’t blink. “The shooter was not touched.”

The medic stopped at the bottom step. He looked up at Mattias. “The range was inside the contamination risk, sir. I’ll need to see the shooter.” His hands were steady, but he winced when he said it, eyes darting to Freya’s blanket‑wrapped figure.

Mattias shifted, just enough to put himself between them.

“No.”

The medic blinked. “Sir. Protocol—”

“I know the protocol.” Mattias’s voice stayed low, even. “She’s clean.”

Prewitt stepped in, not crowding, but close enough to tighten the air. “Mattias. The shot was taken from less than six yards. Keene needs to see her.”

Mattias didn’t look at him. “I checked her. Thoroughly.”

Keene’s mouth tightened. He’d been silent until now, but the silence had weight. “Sir,” he said, and it wasn’t habit. It was the old chain of command speaking. “I still need to see for myself.”

Mattias tipped his head a fraction. “Private Keene, you will not be taking my wife inside my house and putting your hands to her. If she’d been contaminated, I would have shot her myself.”

Freya swallowed. The blanket felt too heavy.

Keene exhaled once, steadying himself. He knew that tone. He’d heard it in places where men didn’t walk away.

Before he could speak, Prewitt cut in. “Keene,” he said, eyes still on Mattias, “put in your report that former Officer L. Goss conducted a thorough field assessment and declared the shooter clean.”

A beat. A long one.

Keene nodded. “Yes, Corporal.”

Mattias didn’t move. But the air around him eased, just slightly.

Prewitt nodded. “We’ll finish the sweep. Laydown crew will dispose of the remains. We’ll be on our way after that.”

Out of view past the corner of the house, the laydown team moved the body downwind and built their fire. Burn ring, accelerant, canvas — quick, practiced motions. When the ashes cooled, they packed them into a metal box and took them away to bury far from the Stirling homestead.

By the time Prewitt and his men had ridden out, the sun was past its height and a west wind had blown in. Freya finally stopped imagining she could taste oily smoke on the back of her tongue.

She didn’t feel inclined to move from the porch. Her men didn’t feel inclined to leave her.

Daniel took out his pipe and packed it. Edwin struck a match on the rail. Mattias lit his on his boot heel, the flare brief in the dimming light.

Freya watched the three of them smoke, their shoulders easing by degrees. She breathed in the sweet, fragrant curl of it.

Daniel glanced over. “You want a draw?”

She hesitated, then held out her hand.

He passed the pipe to her. She took a slow pull, coughed once. None of them reacted. She tried again, steadier.

The porch settled into a quiet that wasn’t so heavy anymore. Shared air. Shared relief. Shared exhaustion.

“I am,” she said at last, “not enjoying Corporal Prewitt’s visits.”

Daniel snorted. “Want me to take a shot at his hat next time he rides in?”

Her mouth twitched. “Tempting.”

Mattias didn’t look over, but his jaw eased. “Leave his hat alone. He’s doing his job.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“No,” Mattias said. “It doesn’t.”

She took one more draw before handing the pipe back. Her hands didn’t shake anymore.

“Mattias.”

He looked at her.

“Would you really have shot me?”

The silence stretched.

“Yes.”

The word landed like a stone.

Freya swallowed. “If I’d been bitten, scratched, or… contaminated… you would have—”

“I would never leave you with that.” Mattias’s voice was quiet. “I would never let you suffer the turning. The fever. The madness. I would never let you become one of those things.” His jaw tightened. “No matter what it cost me, if it pulled my own heart right out of my chest, I would have put you down clean rather than see that happen to you.”

Her eyes burned. “That’s…” Her voice cracked. “That’s oddly touching. In a way.”

Mattias looked away. His throat worked.

Daniel let out a breath. “Christ, Mattias.”

“It’s true,” Edwin said softly. “It’s the truth of this world. It’s a mercy. Mercy is the kindest thing you can give someone who’s Dead.”

Freya looked at him. “Would you have?”

Edwin held her gaze.

His voice was steady, but his eyes held the darkness of memory. “I would never let that happen to my wife, Freya. Not to any woman. Not ever again.”

The words landed heavy.

Not ever again.

Chapter 12

Freya had been sitting on the edge of the coulee with the wind in her hair and the whole badlands falling away beneath her for the better part of an hour. She’d set out gathering herbs for beer. That much was true. The yarrow and sage and mint in her lap were real enough. But mostly she needed the air, needed distance from the memory of yesterday.

Every time she blinked she saw the woman’s face. The blue dress. The way her body had folded when it fell.

Bela had come with her, ambling ahead, sniffing here and there. Now he sat six feet away, serenely scanning the horizon, his big ugly head moving slowly from side to side.

Freya put a leaf in her mouth. Bitter. Dry. Prairie. Even her own spit tasted like dust and the copper tang of—

She spat the leaf out and wiped her mouth.

At the sound of boots on stone, her hand went to the pistol on her hip before she recognized Edwin’s tread. He lowered himself beside her and let his boots hang over the drop.

They sat like that for a while, the wind tugging at their clothes, the coulee yawning below.

“What are you doing?” Edwin asked, voice careful and soft.

Freya held up a leaf. “Tasting herbs. I’m going to brew beer this week.”

“Ah.” Edwin’s mouth twitched. “That’s good. Don’t let me interrupt.”

She went back to her tasting. He sat quiet beside her. Down the slope, Daniel hammered at the granary roof, the sound carrying all the way up the coulee.

Freya picked up another herb. Put it down. Picked it up again.

“I keep seeing her face,” she said.

Edwin didn’t answer. Just waited.

“Before I—” She stopped. Breathed. “She was wearing a blue dress. Did you see it?”

“I did.”

“And I shot her.”

“Yes.”

“I know I had to. I know that.” Her fingers tightened in her lap. “But I keep seeing it. The dress.”

She breathed out, slow and uneven. “You’ve seen things like this before, haven’t you. With the army. Away South.”

Quietly. “Yes.”

“Tell me one of your stories, Edwin.”

He picked up a stem from her lap, turning it between his fingers. “Alright. What kind of story?”

“A dark one.”

“Freya.”

“I’m serious. I’m not asking for comfort.” Her voice was quiet. “I just… I need to know I’m not the only one who feels like this. Like something’s gone dark and hollow inside me and I don’t know what it means.” She swallowed. “I don’t feel like I’m me right now. Share something with me. Something real. I need to come back.”

He looked away.

“You think you want that,” he said. “You don’t. You don’t want mine.”

“I do.” She didn’t blink.

Edwin watched the coulee instead, the way the light caught on the rocks. When he finally spoke, it was quiet.

“You want to know why I came back from Stagmouth.”

She didn’t interrupt.

“I never cared for soldiering,” he said. “Not really. But it was what Gosses do. There wasn’t anything else for me.”

He paused.

“I liked the engineering. The sapping. The work where things made sense. You build something. You take something apart. You understand the pieces.” A faint, tired breath. “The rest of it. The orders. The blood. The way the army grinds you down until you can’t tell the difference between duty and habit. I didn’t have much use for that.”

He shifted his weight.

“So when I was offered the chance to take lessons in Stagmouth, I went. I didn’t intend to come back. Not if I’m honest. There wasn’t much reason to stay in Carbon. Between me and my brothers… we had no marriage prospects. No sister to trade. No means to pay a bride price. I wasn’t needed to help secure a marriage that was never going to happen.”

The wind gusted. Freya pulled her coat tighter.

“I was the poor boy from the frontier,” he said. “Second class. The other students were polite. Friendly, even. But I was never one of them. Never invited to homes. Never included in the right conversations. I was tolerated. Appreciated for my skill. But not equal.”

He picked up another stem of yarrow and twisted it.

“The day we graduated, there was drinking. A lot of drinking. Even I got invited along. Late in the afternoon, one of the wealthier students invited me to his home. A man named Ashe. Wealthy family. Well connected. We’d never been close, but he’d always been decent enough. That night he was friendly. ‘Come meet my wife,’ he said.”

He let out a breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh.

“Do you want me to keep going?” he asked. “You can leave this story untold if you’d rather.”

She shook her head.

“But if you’re asking me to open that door, Freya, then you’d better be ready for what’s on the other side.”

He looked back at the coulee.

“When we got to his house, it was late. Lamps lit. But the place felt… wrong. Empty. I didn’t notice at first. I was drunk. Proud of myself. Proud of being invited somewhere by someone important.”

Freya’s skin prickled.

“It didn’t fit together. Small things. No flowers in the hall. No mirror by the door. No sign of a woman living there. Just a man’s house.”

“I asked about servants. He said he’d given them the night off.” Edwin’s fingers tightened on the stem. “We had a drink. Shared a pipe. I kept waiting for the wife to appear. She didn’t.”

“I wanted to be proper. After a while, I asked to pay my respects to the lady of the house.” His jaw worked. “Ashe smiled. Said, ‘Alright. But you mustn’t tell anyone.’”

Freya stared at Edwin’s face. His tone was flat and even. His words smooth, neutral. But the hair on her arms stood up.

“He took me to a door at the back of the house. I thought perhaps his wife was an invalid, with rooms on the ground floor. It happens in wealthy families.” Edwin’s voice had gone thin and distant. “The door opened onto stairs. Going down.”

Cold sweat prickled across Freya’s back.

“I knew something was wrong. But I was drunk. Curious. Ashe was already halfway down the stairs, holding up a lamp.”

“The cellar was large. Stone walls. Stone floor. Cold. And at the far end…” Edwin stopped. His throat worked. “There was a bed.”

“A woman was chained to it.”

Freya’s breath caught.

“She was Dead,” Edwin said quietly. “There was a hood over her head. Restraints on her hands. The chains were bolted to the wall. She was moving. Straining toward us. Making sounds.”

Freya swallowed hard.

“The smell hit me then. Fever. The kind that burns a body from the inside.”

“Ashe walked right up to her. ‘My wife,’ he said. ‘She’s quite fresh. Would you like to have a go?’”

Freya covered her mouth.

“I don’t remember deciding to hit him,” Edwin said. “One moment I was standing there, and the next I was on top of him. I don’t remember the blows. Just the rage.”

He looked down at his hands.

“When I stopped, he wasn’t fighting anymore. People came. The law came. They hauled him out. He didn’t die right away.”

He shook his head.

“I close my eyes sometimes and I still see her. Still smell the fever. Still hear the way she struggled. I wish to God I’d given her grace first, instead of wasting time on him.”

He let out a slow breath.

“Ashe’s family had money. Influence. Friends in every office that mattered. They made it clear I wasn’t safe. Not in Stagmouth. Not anywhere near it. I packed what I had and left before sunrise.”

Freya sat very still. Her stomach roiled. Her palms were damp.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was low.

“So,” he said, “now you know. All of it. You want to go wash your hands? Take a bath? Pretend you never touched me?”

He tossed the broken stem over the edge of the coulee.

“Most people would,” he added quietly. “Once they know what I’ve seen. What I’ve done.”

Freya watched his profile. The fine bones of his face. His elegant fingers. She thought about chains bolted to a cellar wall. The desperate hunger of the Dead woman. Edwin, proud and happy and drunk, thrown into horror. Rage and regret.

She reached out and touched his hand.

“Edwin,” she said softly, “I don’t feel clean either. I don’t know if that will ever wear off. But I don’t want to sit alone in my darkness wondering what kind of person I am now.”

She turned his hand over. Laced her fingers through his.

“What you saw in Stagmouth… that’s an awfulness I can scarcely comprehend. I wish I could make it so it never happened. I can’t. But I won’t turn away from you because of it. I won’t let you lie awake in the dark holding it by yourself either. I won’t.”

She stood, tugging gently at his hand.

“So get up. Take my stupid hand. Let’s go home and see what Daniel’s been doing to the roof. And don’t ever think I don’t have the courage to stand against your darkness or mine.”

Chapter 13

The house had been quiet for hours. Spring had finally begun to hold sway. Even the nights were cool now, not bitter. Even so, her bare arms prickled with chill as she leaned against the window frame, watching the full moon climb over the coulee.

Silver light spilled across the floorboards. It touched the tips of her toes where she stood, bare feet cold against the wood. Her hair hung loose, brushing cool against her shoulders. She’d let it down earlier, thinking the air might soothe her restlessness, but it only made her more aware of herself. The weight of her hair. The thin cotton of her nightshift against bare skin. The memory of Edwin’s fingers entwined with hers as they’d walked down the road that afternoon. The way his voice had gone quiet and thin when he told her his story. The way he’d looked at her afterward, as though he expected her to step back, to flinch, to leave him alone with the memory.

Now, with the moon rising and the house silent, her thoughts leaned toward him. A wanting that wasn’t about fear or darkness. Perfectly natural to want to be close. To take comfort in each other. And she wanted to. Simply wanted. Wanted him. Wanted the steadiness of him, the thought behind his words, his trust in her. Wanting a husband. Well, that was a wife’s prerogative too.

Her body felt oddly alive to her. Not unfamiliar, but heightened. Aware. The cool air on her arms made her shiver, and the shiver traveled deeper than the skin. Her shift brushed lightly against her legs as she moved, and the soft friction made her lean into it. Even the cold floorboards felt sharper, as though every part of her wanted to feel awake.

She slipped out of her room.

The hallway was dim. The floor cold beneath her bare feet, each step a soft whisper of skin on wood. Her hair slid forward as she walked, curling around her collarbone. She held her arms close to herself as she made her way down the hallway.

Edwin’s door was slightly ajar. A thin line of lamplight spilled across the floor.

She pushed gently against the door and slipped inside.

Edwin stood at the window, braced on his forearms, the moonlight outlining him in silver. His boots were off, his feet bare on the floor. His suspenders hung loose around his hips, and his undershirt clung to him in the soft lamplight.

Unguarded. Alone with his thoughts. Not expecting to be seen.

Freya leaned back against the door, and the latch clicked softly into place.

Edwin’s shoulders lifted with a breath. He didn’t turn right away. But his voice, when it came, was warm and sincere.

“I hoped you’d come.”

He pushed away from the window. When he turned, the lamplight caught him first, then the moonlight. Pale gold and silver outlining the lean shape of him.

His eyes swept over her in a single, unguarded pass. From her loose hair to the thin cotton of her nightshift. Not crude or greedy. Just seeing her. Wanting her.

Freya’s skin dimpled in the cool air. She took a small step forward without meaning to. Edwin’s chest rose on a slow inhale. He didn’t look away.

“Freya,” he said, and her name sounded different in his mouth. Lower. Rougher. Threaded with longing.

She stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body, close enough to see the faint twitch of his fingers where they hung at his sides.

He didn’t reach for her. Only waited, needing her to choose the moment.

She lifted her hands and touched his arms, just above the elbows.

His eyes closed. That was all it took. He folded into her with hunger and fierce relief mixed together.

His arms wrapped around her, strong and warm, drawing her against him. She lifted her face and kissed him. Soft at first, then with growing urgency of her own.

A sound escaped him. Low. Involuntary. Relief and wanting tangled together.

He shivered and his hands tightened at her waist, drawing her close. The warmth of his body was unmistakable even through clothes. She had a sudden sharp awareness of him, of the nearness of him, of the way her own body answered without hesitation.

He breathed her name again, softer this time, almost reverent.

“Tell me how it feels,” she whispered.

His breath caught. “Like I’ve been waiting for you all night.”

He swallowed hard. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come. Afraid you might choose one of my brothers instead. Afraid that when you had time to think about what I told you today, you wouldn’t want me anymore. That you’d be afraid of me. Or disgusted.”

She touched his cheek, thumb brushing the warm skin beneath his eye. He searched for more words, but she smiled — quick, unexpectedly bright.

“Really?”

Edwin let out a startled, helpless laugh.

“Yes. Really.”

She stepped closer, her voice softening. “You told me the truth today. About Stagmouth. But you’re wrong to think I’d be disgusted. Or that I wouldn’t want you.”

“There’s ugliness in the world,” she said. “But us — being close like this, telling the truth to each other — that’s the antidote.”

“I’m here to give you comfort,” she murmured. “And I need your comfort, Edwin. I need you.”

His eyes closed. When they opened again, they were dark with want and relief, and the pain behind them had eased.

He exhaled, a soft, shaky sound, and lifted his hands to the hem of his undershirt. He pulled it over his head, the fabric whispering against his skin. Lamplight caught the lines of him — the long, lean muscles, the fine‑boned strength.

Freya reached out, her fingers tracing the warm skin of his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breath. She guided him toward the bed. He went slowly, but willingly, as though every step mattered.

They moved together, hands and mouths and soft, breathless laughter, sharing warmth and closeness and relief.

When the backs of his knees hit the mattress, he sat, looking up at her.

She lifted her nightshift over her head and let it fall.

His breath left him in a quiet, reverent rush.

She stepped forward. He held out his hands and she took them, letting him steady her as she climbed onto the narrow bed, one knee on either side of his thighs.

He looked up at her, eyes wide, full of awe and wanting.

She leaned down and kissed him again — slow, deep, certain — and the rest unfolded between them in the quiet, lamplit dark.

Later, when the quilts were pulled up over them and the room had gone still, Freya curled into his side, head on his shoulder. His arm came around her, holding her close. For a while they just lay there, breathing together, letting the warmth build under the quilts.

His fingers found a strand of her hair, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger.

“Marmalade,” he murmured.

“Gold and orange, brown and yellow, all stirred together.” He wound the strand around his finger, then let it spring free. “An exact match.”

She smiled against his chest. “You’ll have to show me someday.”

“I will.”

They lay quiet for a bit. She was almost drifting off when he spoke again.

“I’ve met your sister, you know,” Edwin said quietly.

Freya felt a sharp pang. “Jane?”

Edwin nodded. “The very same.”

Her bold, fearless, gorgeous sister who lived aboard the Kingfisher with her riverboat family. Freya hadn’t seen her since freeze‑up last winter. The Kingfisher hadn’t been in Carbon since — well, not since Edwin came back to town.

She turned to look at him, suddenly wary.

“Oh god. She didn’t…”

Edwin’s eyebrows rose. “Put me in a dress and face paint and make me be nice to her paying passengers?”

Freya studied him critically in the dim light. “Well… with the right dress and a close shave…”

Edwin laughed. “No. She had me working eighteen hours a day on her boilers. Shoveling coal, fixing, repairing, and maintaining that massive boat all the way to Hart Creek.”

Chapter 14

It was late in May, and the homestead had settled into a rhythm that felt almost like breathing. Heavy, laboured breathing, to be sure. But the frantic, backbreaking labour of planting was done. Now it was the steady work of watering, weeding, mending fences, and checking seedlings for frostbite in the early mornings. The goats had kidded, leaving the yard full of wobbling legs and soft bleats. There was fresh milk every day, and Freya had learned to make a soft, tangy cheese that Edwin claimed was “indecently good on bread.”

The days were long. The work was constant. But the edge of desperation had eased.

In the evenings now, when the sun dipped low and the prairie turned gold, Freya walked to the edge of the coulee and sat in what had become her usual spot. She sat still and silent, gazing at the southern horizon. Tonight, she had her arms around her knees, breathing the scent of prairie grass and watching the empty distance with longing.

Bela had taken to joining her. He took his job of providing companionship seriously. He sat like a sentinel, gazing impassively along with her. Possibly he sat a little closer now, almost but not quite within arm’s reach. It was equally possible he sat no closer at all, and his shaggy hair had simply grown longer.

Freya couldn’t have said when the ritual had started. Only that it had become necessary.

She heard Daniel’s footsteps before she saw him. He didn’t walk heavy, but she knew his footfalls now, able to distinguish his easy, rolling stride from his brothers’.

He lowered himself beside her with a soft grunt, stretching his legs out in front of him, joining her in her nightly ritual of staring off to the south.

After a moment, he said, “Does Mattias know?”

Freya blinked. “Know what?”

Daniel tipped his chin toward Bela, who was staring down the endless prairie with serene indifference.

“That you’re subverting his dog.”

Freya snorted. “Subverting?”

“Look at him.” Daniel gestured broadly. “He’s practically fawning on you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You call that fawning?”

“For Bela?” Daniel said. “Yes. Yes I do.”

Bela, as if offended by the accusation, lifted his head higher and blinked slowly at the horizon.

Daniel plucked a blade of grass, stuck the end between his teeth, and chewed thoughtfully. He watched her for a long moment.

Then, quietly, he said, “You’re waiting for something, Freya. What is it?”

Freya’s throat tightened.

She hadn’t meant for anyone to notice. Or maybe she had. Maybe she’d wanted someone to ask.

She drew her knees closer, resting her chin on them. “It’s… nearly June.”

Daniel waited.

“And June means the quarterly dividend,” she said. “My family should send supplies. Letters. Money. Things from home.” She swallowed. “It’s how Stirlings take care of each other.”

Daniel nodded, still listening.

“And the Kingfisher should be making her first run north about now. Jane will be aboard, and she makes a long stop in Carbon on the first run of the season. She might visit.” Her voice softened. “I haven’t seen her since before winter.”

She didn’t say the rest. She didn’t have to.

Freya had grown up in town surrounded by her large, wealthy family. She had sisters — a rarity, a gift — and she missed them. She missed her whole family. She missed her life in Carbon. She was hoping for news. Hoping for proof she hadn’t been forgotten. Hoping for proof she was loved, remembered, and a source of pride.

She stared at the horizon, voice barely above a whisper. “Everyone in Carbon must know we had a zombie by now. And still… no one’s come. Not even to check.”

Daniel didn’t interrupt.

“I’m not ashamed!” Freya said quickly. “There’s nothing for me to be ashamed of. That night… at the Spring Festival. I don’t regret it. I don’t regret the marriage. I’d do it all again.” She drew a shaky breath. “I just… I know I was sent out here to learn hard lessons. To toughen up. And I’ve tried. I’ve worked so hard. I just want—”

Her voice broke.

Daniel reached for her hand.

He lifted it gently, turning it palm up, and pressed his mouth to her fingers, then to the new calluses she’d earned — the ones she hadn’t had when she first arrived. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear with a touch that made her eyes sting.

“It has been a hard season,” he said quietly. “Hard in ways that change people.” His thumb moved slowly over her knuckles. “Most folks don’t stand up to that. But you did. You’re still standing.”

Freya shook her head, but he kept going.

“I’m proud of you,” he said. “Edwin’s proud of you. Mattias is proud of you. And your family — of course they’ll be proud.”

He leaned in, voice low. “I love you.”

Her breath caught.

“You know your mother, your fathers, your sisters — your whole family — of course they love you too. How could they not? They’ve known you longer. They’ve had more time to come to love you.”

Daniel glanced at Bela. “Hell, even Bela loves you.”

Bela turned his head, looked at her, and with glacial dignity, inched — ever so slightly — closer.

Freya laughed, wiping her eyes. “I’ll take that as agreement.”

Daniel stood, brushing off his trousers, then offered her his hand. She took it, letting him pull her to her feet.

“I’m certain they’re coming,” he said. “And very soon.”

She gestured helplessly at the empty southern horizon. “How can you know that?”

Daniel didn’t answer. Instead, he turned her gently by the shoulders — not south, but east.

“Because I make that, over there…” He pointed.

“…to be about a dozen people, horses, and a wagon approaching from the east.”

Freya’s breath stopped in her chest.

“You’ve been looking south, for the direct route, but they’ve come around east. It’s the longer but easier route. Now that the ice is gone and the river’s in flood, that’s the fastest way to get here. They didn’t forget you, Freya. They came as soon as they possibly could.”

Freya dashed sparkles of happiness from her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to count the number of riders and wagons and horses in the distance.

Daniel squeezed her hand. “I’ll watch here until I know how many folks are coming to us for certain. I’ll come down just as soon as I know and make sure Mattias and Edwin make themselves presentable.”

“Maybe I’ll even brush Bela.” He made to smooth the wiry hair on Bela’s ribs, then reconsidered and drew his hand back. He settled for admonishing Bela instead. “You are not to growl at the Stirling Mother when she gets here.” Freya threw her arms around Daniel’s neck, kissed his cheek noisily, and took off running down the slope toward the house, heart pounding, breath catching, joy rising like a tide.

The End…