A/N Good grief, it's been too long, I know! And you guys have been so amazing, and I had so many reviews to the last chapter it was unbelievable, so I very much apologise for my absence, but at the same time totally throwing my 4 year old under the bus for being a germy little creature and bringing those germs home. Yeah, she knows what she did :D
So I hope this makes up for it, at least a little, and I will endeavour to be a little quicker in updating next time, barring a further germ-pocalypse. If anyone is ever wondering where I've gone, feel free to PM me and I can tell you what I'm blaming my kids for that week – I had a couple of (very nice) queries about whether I'd given up, but they were anonymous, and I felt a little bad for not being able to offer any reassurance that I hadn't packed it in :D
Disclaimer: None of the recognisable characters belong to me.
It was the last thing he'd expected to see walking into the yard, Mrs Swan rising out of an impromptu bath like some kind of siren sent to tempt him with her pale skin, long legs and trailing strands of wet hair.
He wondered if this was a test, but he wasn't entirely sure of what. Or perhaps it was meant as an apology for her earlier harshness in the hut; her naked state a sign that she's more than willing to strip herself bare for him, if he asks her to.
He didn't ask because fear kept him silent, and rooted to the spot. It felt as though she might disappear if he acknowledged her presence.
But he would take the brief moment of pleasure he gained from the sight of her, and he would be grateful for it because it was far more than he ever expected he would have.
She had seemed in no great hurry to remove herself from his gaze, slowly covering her body and then turning around to meet his eyes in a direct challenge.
And she was so very tempting, especially as she drew him closer and he found himself all but persuaded to bathe as well. But, even when she was right in front of him, his mind wandered into dangerous territory. Killian didn't know if other men felt this way, wanted their wives this much. His mind was full of lewd images, lurid scenes of him simply taking her. Bent over the tub, or up against the side of the barn or, perhaps, he could carry her into his hut where he could imagine what it would be like as she rose and fell above him, her hair down her back and his hands on her buttocks, her hips, her breasts…
But the fantasy in his mind was nothing like the reality of his life. For one thing she was hardly offering herself to him, for another he was missing a hand, a fact his mind seemed to forget during his fevered imaginings of their couplings.
The evidence of the missing hand is clear, however. Or, rather, it is exceedingly difficult not to notice that he has a hook in its place. And the damage that it does to Mrs Swan.
She told him that it was 'just blood', but it never is. And the sight of it made him retreat from her in case he causes her further pain.
He can't be trusted to keep her safe. He can't keep anyone safe. And when he was alone in the hut it was these thoughts that flooded his brain, pushing away the far more pleasing images of an unclothed Mrs Swan.
He remembered his mother and the blood and pain that came with each and every baby who didn't live, until, finally, she was taken as well. For her it was probably a blessing. For Killian, and for Liam no doubt, it was the start of an ever darker period of their childhood.
And then the worst memories of all. He cannot help but linger on the images of Milah as she lay dying in front of him, her blood staining the dry earth darker and her eyes staring blankly ahead. The pain in his heart had been worse than the pain in his hand, mangled and useless and rather swiftly dispatched by Dr Whale as Liam held him down.
It was never just blood. It was pain and death and a reminder that nothing good ever stays that way. Whatever the test Mrs Swan had set him was meant to accomplish, it's clear that he's failed it. Miserably.
Killian remained inside the hut for as long as he dared and when he emerged there were no further tantalising glimpses of Mrs Swan, just a tub of water standing in the yard and the laundry she'd hung flapping limply in the small breeze.
He found something to busy his hands in the barn, but his mind continued to lurch from the pleasing memory of Mrs Swan's form to the far more painful memories he wanted nothing more than to block out. Mostly he thought of the drink and he was close to admitting defeat and going in search of his bottle when he heard Henry's voice and was alerted to the fact that they had returned to the farm.
He was ashamed of the fact he had fled from Mrs Swan earlier, and he was not particularly anxious to discover if his actions had caused her to retreat once again. But he was curious about the commotion in the yard and his curiosity got the better of him.
When he exited the barn it was soon apparent that the source of Henry's distress was, in fact, the still full tub of water. Or, to be more exact, it was the fact his mother was trying to persuade him into it that he was objecting to so vigorously.
"I don't really think it's necessary, Mama," Henry complained, not making eye contact with Mrs Swan.
"Henry, you need a bath. Just get in the bath, please." The exasperation in her voice was plain, as was the degree to which Henry was desperate to avoid the outcome his mother wished for. And Killian was almost tempted to side with him, to agree that a bath was unnecessary when he'd been sitting inside a classroom all day and, perhaps, to suggest some task that Henry could assist with which would remove him from his mother's clutches.
But, before Killian could voice any of these thoughts, Mrs Swan's eyes flicked to his and there was something different in there now. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He wouldn't have termed it pity, although he expected that his earlier display of cowardice and shame would certainly prompt that emotion quite readily.
This was different however, a rare moment of vulnerability that shone through and suggested that Mrs Swan was as lost as Killian. Perhaps in stripping off her garments earlier she'd stripped away a layer of herself that she couldn't as readily replace as she could a dress or boots. Or maybe she didn't even want to.
And then he couldn't help but frame a new thought, even though he was grasping at straws and he knew it; maybe he had actually passed the test she'd set him earlier in the afternoon.
Killian felt a brief moment of elation at that idea.
It caused a small shift in his loyalties and, as tempted as he'd been just moments before to assist Henry in avoiding bath-time, the words he uttered when Henry caught his eye were "I think you should listen to your mother, lad."
The glowering look that Henry gave him made it plain that he felt Killian's betrayal deeply, but it was more than made up for by the way Mrs Swan's eyes met his, and the small nod and faint smile that were sent his way when she did so.
"Come on," Mrs Swan said, turning back to Henry. "You might as well get it over with."
Henry still did not seem all that convinced of the necessity of bathing and he looked around the yard and at both Killian and Mrs Swan, as though he was gauging the possibility of simply making a run for it, when Killian added "And then, perhaps, if your mother agrees I could show you how to use the gun?"
The change in Henry's expression was instantaneous, but Killian was more interested in the effect his words would have on Mrs Swan's countenance. He could see the flutter of worry pass across her face, but it was quickly replaced by something far more satisfied when Henry seemed to accept his fate and had begun removing his boots. "Can I, Mama?" he asked.
"I think that will be acceptable, Mr Jones," she said, not taking her eyes off of Henry, which, Killian had to admit, was probably wise given his earlier skittishness. But when she had judged her son to be compliant enough she lifted her eyes to Killian again and there was a gleam in there that he hadn't seen before.
Mrs Swan was pleased. With him or with Henry or, perhaps, both of them. Killian wasn't completely certain, but it felt good all the same. He left her to finish wrangling Henry into the tub feeling lighter in his heart than he had for a while.
When a freshly-bathed Henry searched him out for the promised lesson, he wasn't alone. Mrs Swan, looking far less enthusiastic about the enterprise than her son, had accompanied him. "Mama said I have to listen to you, Mr Jones," Henry informed him.
"Aye, well…" Killian risked a glance over at Mrs Swan who looked at him expectantly. "You definitely do. It would be a crying shame if you shot yourself and your gravestone read My mother told me to be more careful."
He watched as Henry tried to figure out if Killian was being serious, and then glanced at Mrs Swan who definitely seemed amused by his comments. He risked a smile in her direction, hoping it would be reciprocated, and he was, indeed, rewarded in kind.
"Now you just remember that you need to be careful, Henry," Mrs Swan reminded him, and then, with a small nod in Killian's direction, she swept back through the yard in the direction of the cabin.
The next hour or so was a long one as Henry's attempts to shoot straight frustrated both Killian and Henry himself. "I thought it would be easier," he muttered, as yet another bullet had failed to find its target.
"Aye, well. It's like anything. It takes practice."
"How much practice have you had?"
"Enough." Killian hoped there wouldn't be follow-up questions to that statement. "And one day you will have had, too."
Henry sighed, loudly. "I just want to be big enough that Mama can't make me have a bath anymore," he grumbled. "Honestly, I wasn't that dirty."
"You know, no matter how good a shot you are, it's very hard to hit anything if it can smell you coming."
Henry's half-smile suggested that he wasn't entirely convinced by Killian's explanation but was too polite to disagree. It was alarmingly similar to the expression his mother sometimes wore, the one she'd had when he'd mentioned the proposed epitaph for the gravestone.
Killian wasn't certain whether he would be greeted by smiles or frowns from Mrs Swan when he entered the cabin for supper, but she seemed amenable to his presence. He would admit, though, that her ongoing feud with the stove and concern about Henry's appetite seemed foremost in her mind and he wondered, perhaps, if her reaction to him was more indifference than any kind of enjoyment of his company.
But after they had eaten the meal she'd prepared Mrs Swan seemed in no great hurry for him to leave and she offered him coffee. "I think this batch is better," she asserted.
"And I'm to have the first taste?"
"Yes…although I can assure you, once again, I have no nefarious purpose. If I poison you, it will be completely by accident." She pushed the cup across the table towards him.
"Well, that's a good story Mrs Swan. Just make sure you remember to tell it to the sheriff." Killian took a sip, while Mrs Swan watched him carefully. "It's certainly very, uh…palatable."
She nodded a couple of times. "That's what I thought. I mean, it's still not what I expected at all when I ordered coffee, but it is something I could get used to." She took a sip of from her own cup and put it down, her eyes remaining on the table as she brushed at some imaginary dirt.
"You know," she said. "I wanted to say thank you. For earlier."
"Earlier?" Killian asked, warily. He didn't really want to re-visit the debacle with the bath.
"When I was trying to get Henry to take a bath."
"Ah. Well, he should listen to you. But I wasn't sure how you'd feel about me letting him loose with a gun."
Mrs Swan gave a small shrug. "It could have been a lot worse, I suppose. At least he did not get us to agree to anything that we hadn't already agreed to."
"Aye. That's a good point. You might even say we make quite a good team." Killian took another sip of his coffee and waited to see what Mrs Swan's reaction would be, watching her as carefully as he dared.
She smiled, briefly. "You might. Well, I had better make sure Henry is actually washing the dishes I sent him outside to clean." With a final, brief, nod at Killian she stood up and left the table, and when he took his now empty cup outside to where Henry was bent over a tub of soapy water, she was nowhere to be seen.
"I don't see why I had to have a bath earlier, because look!" Henry looked at Killian for confirmation and, indeed, the front of his shirt was soaked.
"I'm not sure you're supposed to immerse yourself along with the dishes, Henry."
"Well, anyway. I can't help it. And it was just wasting water having a bath first." He nodded to himself looking like he was pleased with the argument he'd made.
"Ah, but your mother had already drawn the water for the bath, and it would have been a waste if you hadn't used it as well."
That statement earned Killian a frown from Henry, who wiped at his face with a wet arm sending drops of water running down his nose and cheeks. It all but ruined the effect of his rather stern face and made it difficult for Killian not to laugh outright.
In the end, perhaps sensing a dignified retreat was his best course of action, Henry gave up on glaring at Killian and went back to scrubbing dishes. "Of course you see it Mama's way," he grumbled. "You want things from her."
"I…do?" Henry had given some details of his first day at school during dinner, but Killian doubted that he'd returned to the farm informed about the kinds of things that Killian did want from Mrs Swan, especially now that he had the image of her rising from the bath burned in his brain.
Even so, Henry's comments cut a little close to the bone and made him uncomfortably aware of his sudden desire to flee the scene. He settled for scuffing his boots a little, hoping that Henry was sufficiently occupied with trying not to drown while washing the dishes to really notice.
"Well, yes. I mean, you have to…" Henry stopped talking for a moment and scrunched up one side of his face. "Because you want to be her friend. You want that, so you have to share and, um…well just generally be nice."
When Killian didn't say anything, unsure of what to say, really, Henry continued on. "Miss Blanchard told me that if I wanted to have friends then I had to act like a friend, but I think she just wanted me to share my school book with Grace. She doesn't have one. And we came here, and Mama has to share things and now you have to be her friend, and so…it's easier if you agree with her. Not for me." Henry sighed heavily. "But probably for you."
"Aye. Friends, yes. Goodnight, Henry." Killian beat a hasty retreat to the barn to check on the animals for the night. He wasn't sure if Henry's words were true; sure, he had told himself that he wanted her companionship and he was still certain that was true. But he had other desires as well and things were undeniably complicated between them.
He stepped out into the yard and listened to the sound of Mrs Swan's voice carrying through the gaps in the walls of the cabin, she was chiding Henry to get into bed. The idea of such a domestic scene jarred with the image of the woman in the bath and left Killian confused about what it was he wanted most from Mrs Swan.
He returned to the solitude of his own hut feeling unsettled. Killian might have difficulty understanding the full extent of his desire for Mrs Swan, but he was at least certain he wanted her. He could not be so certain of what she wanted from him, or what had prompted her to be slightly more receptive towards him.
Upon entering Killian noticed that at some point Mrs Swan must have visited while he was otherwise occupied; the bedding, now freshly washed, had been replaced. He sat on the bed and was struck, suddenly, with the realisation of what Mrs Swan's test had actually proven, as least as far as she was concerned.
He'd run from her and now she no doubt thought him impotent, neutered, incapable of carrying through with any desire for her he might have. And, worse than that, she felt safe now. Her much softer demeanour since then attested to that fact. Gone was the cornered animal he'd found in the hut earlier in the afternoon, affronted when she imagined that he had accused her of immorality. In her place was the woman who appreciated his help with Henry, who wanted his company and didn't watch him cautiously out of the corner of her eye.
He wanted that woman. He wanted to spend time with her, to watch her smile when he spoke to her and to have her reciprocate his jesting remarks in kind, rather than worrying about what she should say to please him.
He wanted her badly. And she wanted to be safe. So that's what he would give her, because, God knows, there was very little else he had to offer.
Killian lay back on the bed and tried to push away the desire to drink, but all it did was allow his desire for Mrs Swan to overwhelm him. He could recall every detail of the way she'd appeared in the bath; her slender back with the tendrils of wet hair dripping down onto the swell of her buttocks, the curve of a breast as she'd turned towards him.
Breathing heavily at the memory he managed to fight the urge to drink long enough to bring himself to a quick release with his good hand and then, after a few deep swallows of the burning liquid, he undressed quickly and fell asleep with his face pressed into a blanket that now smelled of sunshine and reminded him of golden hair.
The next morning Killian was finishing with the milking when Mrs Swan again appeared, all purposeful stride and swinging skirts, the basket she used to collect the eggs in her hand.
"Something took one of the chickens," she said, without preamble and with a certain amount of indignation.
"Aye. Well, it happens. Foxes and the like take them." He gave the white cow a push on her rump to send her out of the barn.
"It broke in. You can see where it's pulled away at a corner of the chicken coop."
"They can be quite the bloody nuisance."
"I think that's an understatement. It'll have to be fixed."
"Aye."
Mrs Swan didn't seem as appeased as he would have expected, given that he'd done nothing but agree with her so far. She pursed her lips and frowned before stating, "So…after breakfast I'll take Henry to school and then I'll help you with that."
With that she turned on her heel and started walking towards the cabin. Killian watched her progress until she stopped, suddenly, as though she'd forgotten something.
"It's breakfast time," Mrs Swan called out, turning around. "You'd better come in."
When he entered the cabin the main topic of conversation was still the stolen chicken. "What do you think took it?" Henry asked Killian, as he joined him at the table.
"Fox?" he ventured. "I don't suppose it really matters."
There was a distinct tutting sound from Mrs Swan which prompted Henry to give him a look that was no doubt meant to convey he'd said the wrong thing.
Having come this far and, more to the point, decided that he would take whatever friendship Mrs Swan was willing to grant him, Killian did not want to jeopardise it now by making the wrong kind of comment about a bloody chicken. Instead he busied himself with eating the bread that had been placed on the table.
It would probably not be a good idea, he decided, to ask if there were any eggs for breakfast.
It turned out that there were, but they were accompanied by a sigh from Mrs Swan and the comment that they were to be enjoyed before all the chickens were carried away in the night.
"If you have to fix the chicken coop again today then maybe I should stay back and help? I'm pretty good with the hammer." Henry smiled confidently, no doubt hoping that his new-found carpentry abilities would sway his mother.
"I don't think so, Henry," she told him.
Henry looked at Killian, some of the hope fading from his face. "Uh, your mother's right. And besides, how will your new friend learn anything if you're not there to share your schoolbook with her?"
"What new friend?" Mrs Swan asked, with far more interest than Henry evidently wanted.
"No one. Just…uh. Grace. She's not really a friend. She just doesn't have a book." He scowled down at the egg on his plate.
"The girl with the flowers?" Mrs Swan asked, which evidently meant something to Henry, because he sighed noisily before nodding in confirmation.
"Well, it's nice to have a friend," she added, airily, standing up from the table and moving towards the stove. "I'm glad you found someone that you like Henry."
"That's what Miss Blanchard said," Henry grumbled. "But I'm almost certain it's only because I have the book. I mean…I don't want anything from her…so…" He looked up and Killian could almost see the moment the previous night's conversation popped back into Henry's mind. "Like Mr Jones…"
Killian really didn't think Henry's ideas of his friendship with Mrs Swan needed to be discussed in front of her. The only option he could see, short of stamping on the boy's foot in order to shut him up, a manoeuvre he did not think would go down well, was to simply start speaking over Henry's words. "You know, Henry, perhaps it's not your skills with a hammer we need, but your skills with the shotgun."
"You do?" Henry's face brightened considerably.
"Aye. You can stand guard all night for your mother. Shoot anything that looks like it's after one of the chickens."
"I can?" Henry's expression was hopeful and Killian thought it almost a shame that he was leading him down the garden path.
After a quick glance in Mrs Swan's direction, to make sure she wasn't unduly concerned with the conversation taking place, he answered. "Aye. You'll be fine, won't you lad? Out there, in the dark. Staying awake so you can keep watch."
"Awake all night?" Henry sounded far less hopeful now.
"Well, you'd have to be. Right through until milking time. And you'd be up nice and early to get a start on that." Killian worked hard at keeping his expression as neutral as possible.
"I don't think that would work out," Henry grumbled. "I mean…I have school, so…I'd have to have to some sleep."
"That's a fair point. Well, never mind. You should concentrate on school. Shame to let stolen chickens get in the way of it." Killian ate the last bite of his egg while Henry considered his words.
"You're…that's teasing. I don't think that's nice. Miss Blanchard wouldn't think it was."
Killian shrugged. "It's just what happens in fa…" He stopped short, not quite ready to mention family to Henry and downright afraid to say it in front of Mrs Swan in case he spooked her. But if either of them caught on to what he was going to say they didn't react; Henry was too busy grumbling about the fact that Killian was flouting all of Miss Blanchard's rules and Mrs Swan, he supposed, was still stuck on the fact a chicken had gone missing.
It was still obviously on her mind when she returned from taking Henry to school and sought him out, the bustle of her skirts and the way she strode across the yard telling him all about her mood before she even opened her mouth. "I just don't understand," she began. "Why the fox…or whatever it is, would bother breaking in to a chicken coop. Surely there are easier things to catch?"
"Not things that are quite so handily all bundled together." Killian began scooping up nails with his hand.
"I suppose," Mrs Swan replied, grudgingly, holding out her own hand to take the nails from him.
"You seem awfully, uh, concerned for the chickens," Killian ventured, unsure if he was treading on dangerous ground.
"I just…" Mrs Swan's mouth clamped shut. "I don't like having things taken from me." She turned and looked towards the chicken coop. "And I feel like I was supposed to do a better job of looking after them."
Mrs Swan looked troubled and Killian could no longer definitively say whether it was only the chickens that were on her mind. Certainly as she held the nail for him as he placed a new board over the one which had been pulled from a corner of the coop she was no longer lamenting the fate of the chicken, but lost in her thoughts.
"There, that should do the trick." Killian pulled, a little, at the replacement board to test it.
"I hope so," Mrs Swan replied, brushing her hands on her apron. "I don't want to have to replace all my chickens."
"They're your chickens now?"
Mrs Swan turned towards him sharply. "Are they not?"
Killian was a little taken aback at the question. "Yes. I suppose they are. Now."
He hoped the answer would please Mrs Swan, but instead she sighed loudly and cast a glance around the yard. "I hadn't really thought much about any of this," she stated, sounding downcast.
"About what, exactly?"
"This. This life…here. I don't really know about chickens…or, or…well the cows are a little terrifying, truth be told. I didn't think, and now I am here, and I don't know how any of this is supposed to work."
It was, quite possibly, the most information about her own feelings that Mrs Swan had ever given him, and Killian was terrified that whatever response he gave her would be inadequate and simply give her more reasons to retreat from him.
"What is it that you wish to know?"
"I want to know…well, everything I suppose. What's in those fields back there?" She pointed off towards the horizon.
"Corn."
"And…eventually there'll be enough to sell?"
"Aye. Well, perhaps. It depends on a lot of things. Droughts, floods, plagues of grasshoppers…"
"Grasshoppers?"
"It happens."
"I see. But…if all those things don't happen, then it should all be fine? There will be something to sell?"
"If you've planted enough."
His words did not seem to be easing the worried frown on Mrs Swan's face and, if he was being honest, he couldn't blame her for worrying. Their one visit to the store would have hardly instilled any confidence in her that the farm would provide enough for all of them, not when he had begged for credit from Miss Lucas.
It was not a position he was happy to be in, and he hoped, in time, to change it. At least, he did now.
For a long time, since even before Liam's death, the management of the farm had been secondary in his mind to his own troubles. Now, he was going to have to set his mind more fully to the tasks at hand. That was if he didn't want his reassurances to Mrs Swan to be nothing more than empty words.
"And have you?" Mrs Swan asked. "Planted enough?"
Killian considered that question. It had been the subject of more than one discussion between Liam and himself before his brother's death and he had to admit that, perhaps, he was beginning to side with Liam on the matter. Even if he was more than a little late in doing so. "I think that perhaps we could always plant more."
"Then that's what we'll do," Mrs Swan said, with a nod as though the matter were settled. And then, for the first time that morning, she ventured a smile at Killian. Not a particularly wide one, granted, but he felt it was genuine all the same.
The topic of their conversation had been mundane but he had enjoyed it all the same for the simple opportunity it afforded him to spend time with Mrs Swan and, perhaps, to start to understand her a little better. He realised that if his plan of gaining her friendship and her trust was to work then he needed to be the kind of person she would want as a friend, to be someone she could trust.
And perhaps that was easier said than done, but, for the first time in a long time, Killian was actually willing to try. More than that, he was willing to allow himself to hope that things would change, that something good might happen. That he might actually deserve some happiness.
It was a feeling he'd almost forgotten.
"So?" Mrs Swan asked, looking around. "When do we plant?"
Her words drew Killian away from his musings and back to the present moment. "Well…first we need to actually clear the land. Then plough it. Then we worry about planting."
"Alright. That's the plan, then." She took a deep breath in and appeared to visibly relax as she let it out. "Will you show me, then? The fields and things?"
"I will."
Walking around the closest fields with Mrs Swan was the longest he had spent in her presence alone since she had arrived at the farm and Killian was surprised at how comfortable it felt. Mrs Swan seemed interested in the crops and how the farm worked and listened intently to the answers he gave.
Eventually she ran out of questions and they found themselves walking side by side over a slight ridge near the field he had promised Mrs Swan they would clear. "You know," she said. "It's different out here."
"Different?"
"Well. Yes. I mean, I knew that life would be different. But everything's different. The air…the light…" she stopped and looked off to the horizon.
"It's not quite like home, is it?" Killian ventured.
Mrs Swan shrugged. "I suppose." She sounded less than convinced about that fact. "Well, I should get back and finish up my chores. But tomorrow, we'll start clearing that field, won't we?"
"We will."
Killian watched Mrs Swan walk away, outlined by the sun's rays and definitely not looking back in his direction. It surprised him to realise how much he missed her presence once she was gone from his sight.
Killian Jones had never been one for routines, for living the same day over and over. He'd bucked against it when they'd first moved here, following Liam somewhat blindly without realising the drudgery involved in the grand schemes Liam had talked of somewhat blithely prior to actually purchasing the farm.
Farming was all very well in theory, he supposed, but in practice it was boring and back-breaking.
So he'd looked for excitement elsewhere and it had led him down a road that he was only just now starting to see the end of. And, there, where it finished was the woman with the golden hair.
In the meantime, while he was still on the journey that, he hoped, would enable him to catch up with Emma Swan, he was starting to appreciate the more mundane aspects of life on the farm. There was something comforting about knowing that there would be dinner, and having Henry tell them about his day at school, and the latest epithets on friendship and kindness his teacher had espoused, and his slight disgruntlement at hearing that the chicken coop had not only been repaired in his absence, but that his mother was just as capable of holding a nail in place as he was.
In actual fact Mrs Swan hadn't flinched in quite the same way Henry had, a fact Killian had noted and filed away for future reference.
And though he had held himself back from mention the word family in the presence of Henry and Mrs Swan that morning Killian couldn't help but think, as Mrs Swan remonstrated with Henry for scraping his plate while trying to get the last drops of gravy onto his spoon, that this almost felt like one.
Almost…and that was surely a promising start, was it not?
Mrs Swan was, undeniably, a little less guarded but he was not so unobservant that he couldn't see that she was also watching him. That every small offering, every plate of food or cup of coffee she pushed his way, every half-smile she gave him when he teased Henry, every time she asked another question about their plans for the next day were all followed by a pause while she measured his reaction to the moment.
They were circling each other, it was true. And he wasn't sure who was going to stop moving first.
The thought of whether he should offer her some token of assurance, some grand gesture to prove his worth to her, kept him lying awake in his bed that night; the desire to drink having been sated by only a few pulls from the bottle as the thoughts swirling in his head proved more potent than the urge to block them out.
It was a very long time since he'd been in that situation.
But sleep did come and it was only the noise in the yard that woke him, abruptly. He had no clear idea of what he'd heard but the overwhelming thought in his mind was of danger, and he scrambled into his shirt and pants before almost throwing himself out the door in his haste to discover the source of the sound.
At first, he couldn't make anything out, the moonlight barely enough to allow him to see a foot or two ahead. And then, somewhere out in that inky blackness, he heard a dull thud combined with a yelp that was more canine than human and that only served to confuse him more thoroughly.
Killian wished that he had thought to locate the shotgun before he came outside and he was torn between going back for it, or pressing on and checking that Henry and Mrs Swan were safe inside the cabin. He cursed his own foolishness; he hadn't thought about the possibility of this happening again and he had left them unprotected, this woman and her child. He'd promised her she'd be safe and no doubt he'd been wrong as he'd been wrong about so many things in his life.
Sometimes, in his blackest moments before he consumed enough alcohol to dull his thoughts and push him into slumber, he felt like he'd never been right about anything.
But then a shape appeared on the edge of the yard and he stopped short, not entirely certain whether it was friend or foe. The shape drew closer eventually revealing itself to be Mrs Swan, with something in her hand. "Mr Jones, is that you?" she asked, and he wondered if he was perhaps intruding rather than rushing to the rescue.
"Yes," he answered, feeling a little embarrassed and quite superfluous. He ran a hand over the sleeve of his left arm and felt the cuff hanging below the stump at his wrist.
"It came back," she continued, as she stopped just in front of him.
"What did?"
"The…whatever it was. The chicken-stealer. I heard it scratching at the boards again, trying to get back in."
"And you chased it off?" The yelp made a little more sense, now. More than the images he'd conjured, anyway, of men bringing dogs and danger and pain onto the property.
"I threw my boot at it."
"You threw your boot?"
"I did." Mrs Swan sounded quite proud of herself. More than that she was smiling, Killian could clearly see the flash of white teeth that accompanied such an expression. "Hopefully it won't be back now, and, more importantly, I got the chicken back. Although I'm afraid it didn't survive the ordeal. Still, at least I can categorically tell you what we will be eating for dinner tomorrow night."
Mrs Swan raised her hand and Killian could just make out the limp form of the dead chicken she was holding.
"And I'm sure the hens will be relieved to know that they have such a valiant protector."
"Phfft. Possibly not if they knew what was about to happen to their sister." Mrs Swan turned the chicken over in her hands. "It's a shame I couldn't save her," she said, sounding a little wistful and less pleased than she had just a moment before. Killian hoped it wasn't a sign that she was about to retreat again, to scurry off inside the cabin because, as odd the situation might be, he was enjoying their odd little conversation in the night. In many ways standing there in the dark discussing the fate of a chicken seemed more intimate than the moment when he'd come upon her in the bath.
Even at the time Killian had realised that was an act Mrs Swan had produced for his benefit, a test to check his resolve. It wasn't the real Mrs Swan. This, the woman pleased with herself for seeing off a predator but a little saddened by not being able to save its target, this woman was stripped of artifice as he had once seen her stripped of her clothing. And he didn't want her to leave him.
"Perhaps. But at least we can give her a good send off," he ventured, gesturing at the chicken with his good hand.
"By eating her?" Mrs Swan sounded dubious.
"It's the honourable way for a chicken to leave this world, I assure you."
"And you'd be willing to make the very great sacrifice, I assume?"
Killian nodded, solemnly. "It would be the proper thing to do."
Mrs Swan took a step closer and he swallowed, trying not to stare too openly. Her nightgown revealed the pale skin of her throat and he was tempted, so very tempted to reach out and run a finger along her collarbone, to see if her skin was as soft as it looked.
But they had been down that road before, and his detour, while not bringing him the pleasures he'd hoped for, had brought him a certain level of trust from Mrs Swan that he wasn't quite ready to give up.
Unless she offered herself of course. He was only a man, after all.
"Do you always think with your stomach, Mr Jones?" Her voice brought him back to the conversation at hand. Chicken. They were speaking about the chicken he reminded himself.
"No. I don't, Mrs Swan. Although I will admit to allowing my appetites to rule on occasion."
"Mmm." Mrs Swan stepped closer again, or perhaps it was he who closed the gap between them. Killian couldn't exactly be certain any longer. "Of course you're not the one who has to pluck the thing. Perhaps I should set you that task, given that I was the one who procured the chicken and it is not my favourite job."
"Well, I am always happy to be of service, Mrs Swan. You can set me any task you wish."
Mrs Swan didn't immediately reply and they stood there, each watching the other closely. Killian was suddenly acutely aware of his chest rising and falling with each breath and his heart pounding against his ribs. He felt more alive than he had for a long time.
He wanted to kiss her. Emma. He wanted to know what it would feel like to press his mouth to hers. The world narrowed until he could see were Mrs Swan's lips, not all that far from his own. If he just leaned down, just a little, then they would touch and he would have his answer.
Mrs Swan spoke, suddenly. "Teach me then. To use the shotgun."
Killian hesitated, not certain if this was meant as a warning or not. Did she feel the need to protect herself from him? "You want to learn how to shoot?"
"I do. In case it comes back. For another chicken." Mrs Swan tilted her head to one side and shrugged, the fabric of her nightgown loosening at the shoulder and slipping down to reveal more of her collarbone as she did so. "I think that if Henry can be taught to shoot, then so can I."
"Indeed. It is a splendid idea. And all the chickens will rest easy in the night knowing that you are fully armed and ready to protect them."
"Now you are mocking me, Mr Jones." Mrs Swan put one hand on her hip, but smiled all the same. "I should think that you have had enough of teasing Henry."
"That is a little different, Mrs Swan."
"I'm certain it is. Poor Henry spends his days being schooled in good behaviour by Miss Blanchard and then you flout all the rules in front of him. It's quite a lot for him to take in."
"You think I should stop?"
"No." Mrs Swan bit her lip and looked thoughtful. "I think…I think Henry will learn to cope, in time. He's quite adaptable."
"As is his mother. She's resourceful too. I had not seen footwear used as a weapon before tonight."
"Then you have lived a very sheltered life, Mr Jones."
"Perhaps I have. But, perhaps you will be able to expand my horizons now you are here."
"I rather expected that things will be the other way around. As I said this morning, this is a whole new life for me after all."
"Well. It will be a mutual expansion of our horizons then." Killian chuckled, aware that the conversation was verging on becoming nonsensical, but reluctant to be the first to bid goodnight. He may not be able to touch Mrs Swan, or kiss her, or do any of the things that he longed to do, but he would talk with her for as long as she would allow him to do so.
It was like standing in the sun, being near her.
"Mutual then," she agreed. He watched as her head turned towards the cabin and felt the sun was about to set. "I should get back to bed. We do, after all, have a field to begin work on tomorrow."
"Aye. We do." Killian made no move to leave, and Mrs Swan seemed stuck indecisively to the spot, her gaze moving to the cabin and back to him once again.
"I, for one," he added, when it became clear that Mrs Swan was not in a rush to leave. "Will sleep better knowing that you are here looking out for us poor souls."
Mrs Swan's mouth opened slightly, but no words came out and she still did not start to walk away. On impulse Killian took her hand in his and turned it over, before bringing it to his lips and kissing the palm, gently.
"Thank you, Mrs Swan," he said, in a voice that sounded hoarse even to his own ears. "For taking such good care of us."
He studied her face as she stared at him for so long that he stopped worrying about whether she would run from him, and began to worry that perhaps she was still in possession of the boot she'd used on the fox. Still, she did not attempt to remove her hand from his grasp.
"I…yes," she said, in the end. "Thank you. And good night, Mr Jones." She looked pointedly at her hand, still held in his, and, reluctantly, he released it.
"Good night, Mrs Swan."
Killian watched her form, fuzzy in the moonlight, as she beat a hasty retreat in the direction of the cabin, pausing, as she rounded the corner, to steal one last look in his direction. And then he returned to the hut, and to his own bed, lonely still but, perhaps, not completely without hope.
Thanks for reading!
