"Give them back!"
From where browsing the nutmegs in the marketplace, Luke Cahill's sharp ears picked up the sound of his little sister. Jane's voice was edged with frustration, bordering on panic.
Luke sighed. Lately, the village boys had taken to molesting his little sister when she tried to go outside to the meadow to paint. This had happened a few times, but Jane had only tearfully confided in him the previous night. He had sworn to deal with those boys.
Luke Cahill's word was not gold.
It was iron.
Dropping the nutmegs, he darted through the market, weaving and gliding swiftly around people who looked up in startled surprise as he passed. He was gone before they could get a better look. He reached the market's edge and began a full-on dash toward the meadow.
...
Three boys were standing around a small six-year-old girl when the Luke reached them. Jane's straw-colored braid was swinging in agitation as she reached for the paintbrushes that one of the boys as holding just out of her reach. The other two were holding a rough-woven bag and were dumping out the contents onto the ground.
"I believe," Luke said with a pleasantness in his voice that could have frozen water in midsummer, "that those brushes belong to my little sister."
The boys looked at him, sizing him up. The tallest was a head shorter than Luke.
"Who cares what you believe, brat?" he snapped. "She's a girl. Girls can't paint."
"Girls can't do anything," another one said smugly. His voice was whiny and high-pitched and made Luke want to separate his head from his shoulders right then and there.
It would do the world a favor, too.
The tallest boy still had the paintbrushes. He raised them up in both hands, making as if to break them. Jane reached up, trying to grab for them, but the third boy shoved her away to land in the dirt.
Luke's temper snapped.