The Last Man in Blackwater
The cart’s wheels caught in the last muddy ruts of the mountain track and stopped. Elias set the brake and sat for a moment, listening to the quiet. No dogs. No children. Just the wind in the pines and the distant sound of water.
The village of Blackwater sat in a shallow bowl of the mountains, a dozen timber houses and a communal barn clustered around a stone well. Smoke rose from two chimneys. A woman stood at the well, drawing a bucket. She was tall, broad through the shoulders, maybe thirty-five, with dark hair pinned up and a simple wool dress. When she turned and saw him she didn’t startle. She just watched him approach, one hand resting on the well’s edge.
“Tradesman?” she asked.
“Blacksmith, mostly. Some carpentry. Name’s Elias.” He nodded at the cart. “Got tools, nails, a few finished pieces if anyone’s buying.”
“No one’s buying,” she said. “But we could use the work. I’m Mara. The others will want to speak with you.” She hauled the bucket the rest of the way up and set it on the stone. Water sloshed. “We’ve been without men since the fever took the last of them two winters ago. You’ll sleep in the loft of the barn if you stay. And if you stay, there are… arrangements.”
He raised a brow. She didn’t look away.
“Come inside,” she said. “I’ll explain.”
The common room of the largest house held four women when he entered. Mara. A younger one with freckles and a wary mouth—Lena, twenty-two or so. An older woman, silver-streaked hair, strong hands, late forties, introduced as Hester. And a quiet blonde in her early thirties named Sera who kept her eyes on the table. They fed him bread and stew without ceremony. While he ate, Mara spoke plainly.
“We need the work done. Roofs, fences, the well winch is failing. In return you eat with us and sleep dry. And if you want more—if you want any of us—you ask. Most will say yes. We’ve been without for a long time and none of us are interested in pretending otherwise. You don’t take what isn’t offered. You leave when the work’s finished or when we tell you. Clear?”
Elias swallowed. “Clear.”
Hester studied him over her cup. “You’re not the first to come through. The last one stayed three days and ran when Lena climbed into his bed. We’d rather you know the terms up front.”
Lena’s mouth twitched. “He was soft.”
“I’m not soft,” Elias said.
Sera spoke for the first time, voice low. “Then finish your food. Mara’s the one who decides who has you first.”
Mara stood. “Tonight it’s me. The loft has a pallet. Come when you’re ready.”
He found her already there, the barn warm from the animals below, a single oil lamp lit. She’d washed; her hair was down, damp at the ends, and she’d pulled the wool dress off so she stood in a thin shift that clung to heavy breasts and the curve of her belly. She watched him climb the ladder.
“Door’s barred,” she said. “No one will interrupt unless there’s fire.”
He crossed to her. She smelled of soap and woodsmoke. When he put his hands on her waist she stepped into him, unhurried, and kissed him once—testing. He kissed her back harder. She made a low sound and tugged his shirt free of his trousers, palms sliding up his chest, then down again to work his belt.
“It’s been a while,” she murmured against his throat. “Don’t be careful.”
He wasn’t. He pushed the shift up and over her head, leaving her bare in the lamplight. Full breasts, dark nipples already tight, a soft stomach, thick dark curls between her thighs. He cupped one breast, thumb dragging over the nipple, and she arched into it with a ...