The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet, #1)(52)

At least, even with our days filled with people, our evenings and nights were still ours…alone.

That first week took a lot of getting used to. I had no choice but to take it easy with my lungs sloshing with liquid, and Della paced like a caged tiger cub, desperate to run and leap while confined to a small cage.

I couldn’t tell her stories to keep her mind off my commitment to be an employee because I coughed too much, and I couldn’t ask for a TV to continue our unconventional education as I had no right to ask for more than what had already been given.

All I focused on was taking my medicine religiously until I no longer rattled with coughs, did my best to settle my jumpy nerves at being around people, and calm Della enough with promises and assurances that the moment we wouldn’t freeze to death, we’d leave.

A few weeks passed where John Wilson gave me simple, easy jobs around the house, barn, and fields. He showed me his paddock boundaries, pointed out landmarks, and gave an overall rundown of what he expected.

His farm focused more on hay and produce rather than milk and meat and had more acreage but less livestock than Mclary.

This was a world I was familiar with, and my time in the forest had given me an even greater arsenal of skills so anything he tasked me with was easy.

I spoke politely, did what was asked quickly, and fought against the memories of doing similar chores for a much nastier boss.

It wasn’t that I hated working—the exact opposite.

I adored working with my hands, twisting metal back into place on broken fences, chopping firewood, or hammering nails into posts. Despite the conditions back at Mclary’s, I’d loved working the land, smelling the air full of animals and sweat, and waking up with the noisy cockerels every sunrise, knowing I was as connected to the land as I would ever be.

But there was something about working for someone else that itched and chewed, never allowing me to relax. I was still an asset to someone and not free. I didn’t own anything. I didn’t work my own stock or increase my own equity.

I was treading water, watching the frosts and judging when it would be time to run. I was fifteen, and although I had nothing and no way of knowing how, my dream was to have a place like the borrowed Polcart Farm with its boundaries in forest and bush.

I would have my own slice of wilderness one day where nothing and no one could touch me and Della without permission.

As the weeks went on, it wasn’t just me who preferred evenings when the farmhouse turned quiet and I finished work for the day. Della found more and more excuses to hide in our one-bedroom home rather than accept the offer of hanging with the Wilsons around their warm fireplace.

She tolerated Liam, glowered at Cassie, and didn’t let the adults get too close. She was a distrustful little thing, and I hated that I’d been the initial cause of such guardedness but also that her only experience with strangers had been good to begin with, then ended with teachers trying to rip us apart.

I didn’t blame her for her wariness.

I shared it.

And despite Cassie’s smiles as I worked around the farm and her offers of dinner with her family and the occasional gifted cookies as I repaired one of her horse jumps or helped stock hay nets, I never accepted an invitation.

Not because of the weird patter in my heart or tightening in my jeans whenever she was near, but because Della turned into a little monster whenever she saw us together.

I’d expected her to enjoy having another girl around. Instead, she took it as an offense whenever Cassie asked how she was or if she merely grinned her way.

I didn’t say anything or ask why my sweet Della Ribbon turned into a nightmare whenever Cassie was around, but something niggled inside me to reassure her in some way. To prove she hadn’t lost me. That we were still just me and her—an us.

On the third night at Cherry River, we’d pushed the two single beds together after being unable to sleep. We were too used to being within touching distance.

The bedroom was stark with its wooden walls and charcoal curtains but well insulated, protecting us much better than our tent.

We’d stayed sleeping with our beds together, hands occasionally touching, legs sometimes kicking, and I hadn’t thought anything of it until Cassie poked her head in one morning at the end of the fourth week.

I looked up from tying a bow with Della’s ribbon, securing a high ponytail she’d asked me to do. She might not like Cassie, but she copied her hairstyles often.

“Do you need something?” I turned from where Della sat on the bed to face the door, temper filling me that our sanctuary had been invaded. “I’m due to start work in ten minutes. I’m not late.”

Cassie glanced around the room, her eyes narrowing on the rumbled sheets and pushed together beds. “You guys sleep together?”

Della jumped to the floor and grabbed my hand. “We do everything together.”

“If I slept with my brother, I’d end up smothering him with a pillow.” Cassie smirked, and I couldn’t tell if she was being sweet or sarcastic when she rolled her eyes at Della. “Don’t you find he snores?”

My shoulders stiffened as Della bared her teeth. “I like it.”

“You like it even when he hogs the bed and kicks you?” Cassie’s eyes met mine, revealing her teasing. I didn’t know how I felt about her teasing Della when she’d never been tormented by anyone other than me. But I let her continue, holding tight to the tiny hand in mine, willing the ice to melt and Della to calm.