Chuck versus the Positively Medieval

by Steampunk . Chuckster

Summary: In the provincial town of Pinedeep, everyone knows: The only way to secure the hand of the heiress of the Walker fortune is to catch her black cat and take the key that hangs from its collar back to the heiress Walker's home where it will unlock the door and unlock her fortune. When enigmatic siblings from afar settle in Pinedeep, will the shifting winds they bring prove fateful? Medieval AU.

A/N: Thank you for the reviews! Hope you enjoy chapter 4!

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or Medieval Times-though if I did own Medieval Times, I'd make the chairs in that place a little more comfortable and there would be better options for my vegetarian sisters and brothers to eat while enjoying the show.

She stood on one side, with her handyman on the other, and they pushed together.

Her moving target moved with even more ease than it had before the busted wheel.

She let out an excited, breathy laugh as they easily pushed it back to its home, her savior doing the honor of wedging the wood under the front wheels to hold it in place.

"There," he said, brushing off his hands and straightening to stand beside her again. "How's it move?"

"Even better than it did before it broke. How didst thou do it?"

"I strengthened the bearings on all four wheels, as well as fixing the piece here on the one that was broken. The ball joint is what snapped, so I merely replaced it with an extra I carry in my toolbox at all times."

"Do…wheel joints break often?"

"Ah, wheels. By their very nature, there are so many parts, and they carry so much weight, I am often called upon for wheel troubles."

Sarah took a long look at him and tilted her head. "Thou art very good at what ye do."

He blushed and she bit down on her cheek to keep her amusement from showing, lest he find offense in it. "And thou art very good at what ye do, my lady." He poked his finger in the deep cavern her arrows had dug into the bullseye of her hand-painted target.

No one had ever seen her shoot, and certainly she'd never let anyone get any sort of a look at what she'd used to train all these years. So of course no one had ever commented on her skill the way the handyman just had. She fought off a shy look and instead nodded. "Years of practice. I wonder, sir, dost thou shoot?"

"W-with bow and arrow?" he practically squeaked. She smirked and nodded, arching her brows. "Oh. No. No, I cannot say I have. Shooting and-and other weapons are not… Erm, my tools are my weapons." He made a face as if knowing what had just come from his mouth was lame. "I'm a…peaceable sort of man. Ahem."

"I see. Thou hast no need for things such as these," she said, crossing her arms and turning to inspect her target. "Thou hast thy trade. And thou art not seen by everyone from every province in every kingdom as a prize waiting to be snatched up—a woman, unmarried, without patronage, with too much land and too much money, who needs someone to take the burden from her, to take control…" She realized how much she was saying and she shook herself. "I-I am grateful to thee, sir. Coming out all this way to help me."

"T'was nothing," he said easily.

He was giving her a look, though, one that made her feel as though he was seeing right into the deepest depths of her being. It made her very uncomfortable. And she had warmth in her midsection, as well.

"Come with me inside and I'll get thee what I owe."

"'Tisn't much, Miss W—Sarah," he corrected when she gave him a look over her shoulder. "Please, Sarah. 'Tis just my job. I do't every day for many of Pinedeep's denizens."

She smiled to herself. "Be that as it may, thou art also keeping my secret. And that earns thee more coin than thou mayest ask for."

As they pushed into her home, she went into her drawers, counting out the coin, shifting it into a coin purse, and handing the purse to him. "That is much, much more than I may ask for," he said, not moving to take the payment.

"And so."

He blinked. "Sarah. Please, I cannot accept this much."

"That extra coin means I am relying on thee to take my pleas seriously. I cannot have the townspeople knowing the unwedded and very rich Sarah Walker spends her free time rolling about in the grass with swords, knives a-and shooting her bow and arrows."

His cheeks went pink. "Swords and knives as well, is it?"

"Yea, sir."

"Ah. I, ahem, I see." And then he looked at the coin purse and finally shook his head, still not reaching for it. "Thou needest not pay me to keep thy secret, my lady. I shall keep it for nothing at all."

She reached over to grab his hand, her heart thudding away in her chest at the genuine kindness, the sincerity in his face, but especially in his eyes that she deemed almost golden out in the sunlight especially. She slapped the coins into his palm, forcing him to close his large hand around it. "There. Please. I insist."

Chuck relented finally. "So. I will take it. Only because ye insist. And I do not want ye to worry I may break thy faith ye have placed in me. I shan't."

And she found she believed him as she nodded, walking him back out to his wagon. He turned, looking back towards where they had been hidden amongst the trees in her trainings grounds. He gave it a long look.

He smiled a smile she couldn't figure out, then turned an even wider smile on her, before he tipped his cap to her and flicked the reins to take off, walking the wagon in a circle before leading the horse back out again. She followed him to the road in front of her home, lifting a hand to wave as he turned to look at her over his shoulder, a smile on his face, crooked and disarmingly sweet.

She bit her lip and finally turned to head back inside.

}o{

Chuck stepped out of the smithy, a box full of bolts, screws, and other necessities tucked under his arm, as one of Sarah Walker's attempted suitors stormed past him. He had to even step back out of the way to keep from being run over.

"This is humiliating!" he snapped at his attendant who scrambled after him, holding his things. "'Tis degrading! I should not have to lower myself like this to win this fair lady's hand!"

Shaw, wasn't it? It had been over a week since that night at the tavern when he met him. He thought it was Shaw. Frankly, he'd pushed the man out of his thoughts since then, and instead, it seemed all he could think about was Sarah Walker.

"She is humiliating us purposely! Thou marketh my words! I will have that fucking cat! I shall slow-cook it on a spit!"

"S-Sir, please…slow down. It-It will not—"

"Shut up, Tremaine!" Shaw bellowed.

Errod Wharton stepped out of the smithy next to Chuck, wiping his grimy hands on the cloth he held. He let out a soft snort as the two tradesmen watched the alleged nobleman and his attendant fly off to nurse his wounded pride.

"What happened there?" Chuck asked.

"Word is he tried to approach the cat that belongs to that Walker woman and it scratched him. Just a small scratch, nothin' that'll kill the wee man," the blacksmith explained.

Chuck couldn't help the soft snicker that escaped.

"Mind ye, show not that humor where he can see thee. I hear tale he's killed men for less, that one." The older man nudged him with his elbow.

"Who is he, anyway? He carries himself as if he were noble, a prince or a duke…"

"Oh, he is neither. His father is a mighty powerful lawmaker, right hand to our king. A little bird in His Majesty's ear. The Shaws go back centuries."

"Does the air of privilege go back centuries as well?" Chuck asked quietly.

"Indeed, young scamp. Indeed." Wharton chuckled and clapped his hand onto Chuck's shoulder. "What ye need all these nuts 'n bolts ye ordered for anyway?" he asked then, nudging the box Chuck had just paid him for.

"I'm a handyman. Sometimes the nuts and bolts are the problem when I'm called to fix things for my customers. I would rather use these, which have been produced by a skilled blacksmith. Higher quality than what I brought along in my journeys." He smiled at the pride and slight blush on the blacksmith's cheeks. "Thank ye, Mister Wharton. Ye take care of that foot just the way my sister said to."

"I will at that," he said, lifting the bandaged foot. He'd dropped one of his sizzling hot tools right on top of his foot and it had burned through the boot he'd been wearing. He was bruised and burned when he arrived at her physician's chancery writhing in pain in the seat of his wagon, his panicking apprentice driving it.

Chuck walked for a few minutes, rolling over the idea he'd had in his head for days now. He would lie in bed, awake in the middle of the night, thinking about it, whether it was an imposition, or if he was pushing himself into a place where he was unwelcome. Would she take it the wrong way? And then when he woke up in the morning, he fretted over it some more. Immediately, the moment his brain lost the haze of sleep.

Chuck had thought about asking his sister how she would take the gesture if it were done for her, and then he decided he wanted to do it regardless, and he did not want her negative feelings about it to throw him off and make him act like an idiot when he attempted to make the offer.

He was flummoxed.

And yet clear-eyed.

The handyman had traveled far and wide, in this province and in others. In fact, he and his sister had been forced to flee many towns, escape an entire kingdom and find safety in another. Never had he seen a more beautiful woman than Sarah Walker. He'd seen princesses, fair maidens attending them, parading down the road in front of her people. He'd seen noblewomen. Diamond in the rough barmaids. He knew beauty.

And still, no one had ever come close to Sarah Walker.

She was fascinating, and his respect for her knew no end, especially after discovering her secret: the way she spent her free time, training with bow and arrow, knives, the sword even.

He would be lying to himself if he attempted to deny he was drawn to her the way a moth was drawn to a flame. It took him some time to learn to breathe again every time he saw her. Granted, he'd only seen her three times now. Once at Missus Naughton's stall, the other when he fixed her moving target in her training field, and again the other day, when they met eyes across the marketplace. He'd been repairing a cart that broke, wheel popping off, one corner of the cart tilting down so that the melons inside had rolled out and all through the market, sending Mr. Forrest and his offspring scrambling comically about trying to catch them and gather them up again. Chuck was accepting his pay for fixing the cart when he felt the sensation of…being watched almost. He turned and there she was, across the road, having paused at the beekeeper's stall, turning to stare at him over her shoulder. She'd given him a small smile, barely there, and he'd smiled back, his heart racing, only for her to turn back to the beekeeper to buy her honey.

And like a fool, he'd dwelled on it since then.

The thing was, he was drawn to her, and he wouldn't deny it, but he wasn't so foolish or absorbed in his own self to want anything from her in return. He would not seek any part of her, certainly not her hand. And he wasn't seeking that cat out either, especially if it had a propensity for scratching.

All he wanted was to be helpful, to foster her hobby. He felt a strange sensation, almost pleasure, at knowing he was the only person who was aware of the fact that she was training with weaponry. And he wondered if calling it a hobby was downplaying the importance to her.

As he strolled through the market, finally turning to make his way down another row of houses, away from where townfolk sold their wares from wooden stalls, he thought about how clear it was she didn't want to marry. The whole ruse with the cat to keep men from bothering her and trying to win her hand…

What would the man she married think of her training?

He thought of Shaw catching that cat, perhaps even killing it with how furious he was about it scratching him. He thought of Shaw kicking in her door, making demands, lording his win over her. How would she react to his telling her she could no longer practice with her bow and arrow?

It left him bereft.

Mrreeooww

Chuck stopped in his tracks, the nuts and bolts clattering in the box he held. He glanced to his left, looking for it. And then to his right.

There it was, all black save for the yellowish-green eyes. Its sleek body was stretched over the top of a stone wall, one paw hanging down, its chin propped on the other as it silently watched him.

"Oh." He was careful to keep his distance, reaching up to doff his cap to it. "It's you, again." And then he thought of the fumes the lawmaker's son was emitting as he stomped past the smithy. He chuckled, grinning at the nonchalant little creature, so dainty, so innocent looking. "I heard what ye did to that Shaw fellow." He turned to look around, making sure no one would hear what he had to say next. "Good for ye," he said, lowering his voice just slightly. "He thinks he's smarter than thou. Know what I think? I've never seen a bigger buffoon. Man is a court jester only without the talent. 'Tis too bad his papa cannot come with him and clap your little paws in irons for refusing to comply with his infant son's orders, hm?"

He just laughed to himself as the cat swung its tail back and forth, watching him walk away.

But he left the main town behind, traversing the path he'd taken by wagon last week. And the closer he got to his destination, the more he was plagued with doubts, which sent his nerves aflame.

Chuck slowed as the property came into view, stopping short and just staring at it.

He understood, in the deepest depths of his soul, he absolutely understood why men traveled from places he hadn't even heard of, for thousands of miles, to try to win Sarah Walker's hand.

Her beauty was likely much more potent in person than even word of mouth could convey, and she was young, healthy, strong of body and mind, spirited, educated. She owned more land than most could claim, even most of noble blood, born in castles and manors made of stone and ivory. Because she had land and money, not just a title which won neither of those things in the grand scheme of things. You could measure what Sarah Walker owned. It wasn't just in her blood; it was tangible, something you could hold in your hands. Nothing was more valuable than what she owned.

The land that belonged to her family was sprawling, covered in trees and fields, fertile ground for planting. But there were also precious resources on the land which was what made up much of the Walker wealth. There was plenty of profit that could be exploited from the Walker property, and Chuck Bartowski understood why Sarah Walker was so sought after. She was coveted.

And then there was the fact that her home was beautiful, in and of itself. The stone structure was stunning, multiple levels, sloped pinkish red shingled roof with two wide turrets on either end of the L-shape the house formed. Vines crawled up the sides of the stone and coiled around the lattice windows. And a creek ran behind it, close to the house itself. She'd mentioned there was a freshwater well by the house when she'd gotten him refreshment that day he'd helped her fix the wheel on the cart she used for her moving target practice.

Anyone wouldn't mind living in a home like the Walker home, having access to the lands surrounding the home, owning those same lands…

But the way everyone seemed to ignore the fact that the owner of the home, of the lands surrounding it wanted to be left to run it on her own. They ignored that she didn't want a husband to take control of it all, lord over it when it was her family's. It all made something inside of Chuck squirm in the worst way.

He understood coveting all of this, and he understood coveting Sarah Walker herself.

And yet, he had no intention of harassing her cat.

As he approached the door to Sarah Walker's house, he tugged slightly on the front of his tunic and stood up straighter. He didn't want to capture her cat and thus win her hand—he wouldn't even try—but he also wanted to look somewhat presentable.

Chuck knocked and waited. He heard the sound of feet shuffling, and then the door opened. Her jaw-droppingly beautiful features slowly peeked around the edge of the door, she saw that it was him, and she opened the door further, standing there in front of him with her hair half-braided and damp. Had she just bathed?

Spirits. Oh spirits help him.

Any amount of calm he'd had before ambling up to her door was gone now.

"Chuck…"

She had every right to look dubious, the way she finished tying her braid and immediately tugged at her grey-brown linen robe to make sure it hung against her tall, lithe form straight. He was entranced by the way the sleeves drooped wide and low from her wrists, swaying as her hands moved.

"Sarah." He bowed his head respectfully. "I apologize for the intrusion," he said immediately. And he knew how it must look. How many suitors, how many men, had shown up like this in an attempt to get around her cat with that key attached to its collar? Thinking her rules didn't matter, that they could merely step around them and charm her into accepting their suit?

"This is no intrusion; be at peace, sir. But what…art thou here for? If I may ask?" She narrowed her eyes.

How did he persuade her this had nothing to do with her cat, or what that cat was protecting?

And Chuck decided the best path forward was just to be as truthful as possible.

He sighed, hoisting the box he had under his arm, lifting his actual toolbox in the other hand. "Wouldst thou indulge me perhaps….doing some extra work on thy property?" She looked absolutely confused. He turned to look around behind him, seeing that they were completely alone, and he looked at her again. "Specifically that spot where ye train, where ye took me last week to help thee repair the wheel."

"Extra work? Art thou not getting any business?" Her brow furrowed further.

"No. N-No, 'tis not that. I'm doing well enough, though with much, erm, room for improvement. To be fully honest with ye." He winced, sending her a self-deprecating look that made the corner of her lips tilt up just so. "'Tis that moving target. I have an idea that might make the process easier for ye. Less…throwing a rock from far out and hoping to hit the right part of it at just the right angle and at just the right time too. More shooting a moving target seamlessly and efficiently."

Sarah narrowed her eyes. "Art thou saying my method is not efficient?" she challenged.

Chuck stood up straighter, his eyes exploding wide, eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. "No. Spirits no. My lady, I apologize if it sounded as—Thy method is ingenious, truly. 'Tis only that I could build a track for it. 'Twould minimize the chance of it running into uneven ground or an unseen stone and thou having a repeat of what happened last week, a piece attaching the wheel breaking, or even the wheel itself."

She frowned, still dubious. "And so. Why does a handyman with plenty of work make the trek all the way here for something such as this, what thou art offering I mean?"

Here went the truth…

"To help thee."

"Why?"

"Thou hast been kind to me. Which, for me, is reason enough." She lifted her chin but the dubious look was starting to fade from her features at the same time. "But…" He smiled just slightly, adjusting his grip on what he carried. "I made a promise to myself to tell thee the truth, and so I shall. I wanted to see where ye do thy weapons training again. Thou must know, I admire ye for the undertaking. I could scarcely believe thou hast a whole area on thy property for weapons training. It took some doing for me to stop thinking about it this last week since… In truth, I have not stopped thinking about it."

He could tell he'd surprised her. Her arm dropped from where it still held the door, falling to her side, the sleeves draping elegantly down either side of her long legs. She finally seemed to almost shake herself, waking from a stupor, and she shifted her long blond braid behind her back again, out of her way. "Thou art…quite candid… Art thou not?"

"'Tis my curse, my lady," he said, bowing his head again. "Tell me to go and I will."

"The tools," she said, ignoring his last remark, he noticed. "What dost thou mean to do with those?"

"What thou hast built is fascinating. The mechanism is good, though rudimentary." She seemed almost offended, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I'm a handyman, a builder. I-I can make it run smoother for thee. I can make it so that ye can do so much more. I want to help improve thine experience. I know 'tis presumptuous to assume I'd have a better way—"

"Thou art a handyman and a builder. I saw that…cat toy ye built for those children in town."

She put a hand on her hip, giving him a slow head-shake. It was as if she couldn't believe he was here without some ulterior motive. But he'd given her his motive. He wanted to fiddle with the methods she used for training; he wanted to play. But he wanted to reassure her anyway.

"I have no designs, Sarah Walker. Not on thou. Not on thy cat, either. I'm allergic to cats, anyway. Their dander doesn't agree with my nose. Or my eyes, they water something fierce when cats come near me." He pretended to sneeze and he heard her let out a quiet giggle, her blue eyes sparkling as she peered out at him.

"Wait here," she demanded after a long beat, and she left the door hanging open, wandering out of sight for a moment. When she came back into view around the corner, she was stepping into laceless leather boots with her stocking'd feet even as she approached, stomping a bit to get her feet all the way inside in a way that made her look almost like a little girl. Her braid dangling down, swinging to and fro.

Then she stepped outside with him. "I will not pretend I'm not intrigued. How, exactly, dost thou mean to make it smoother?"

"Like I said, if we put the target onto a track, it minimizes the contact thy wheels make with uneven ground, rocks and pebbles, rogue roots."

He followed her, keeping shoulder to shoulder even as her pace was fast and determined, her fists pumping at her sides as she moved. He loved the determination, the confidence. He loved that she knew what she wanted and devised ways to get it. He loved that she wasn't resigned to society's whims for her life, her future. And he loved that she'd secretly built herself an oasis to work on her mind's sharpness, her reflexes, the strength of her body. True, the last part made him feel weak in the knees, but he was only human. And that was a truth he wouldn't be letting her hear.

He didn't want her to assume he coveted her the way Shaw, Cole, Bryce, and the other attempted suitors coveted her. Though he did covet her and he could at least admit it to himself.

If only to himself.

"A track, ye say?"

"Mmm. Yea, 'tis the same as my wagon. Those days ago when we sat in my wagon and drove it through this path to get to thy training grounds, it bumped us to and fro. It had just rained the night before so the ground was uneven." He pointed down to the path at their feet. "See, the rivulets of water created small valleys, cracks in the dirt." He stooped to pick up a rock the size of a coin and tossed it in the air, catching it again. "Any regular ol' wheel could hit this and go off-kilter. But if my wagon had been on sturdy tracks, there'd be no rocks, no valleys or cracks in the ground, no strange bumps or uneven bits of path. It keeps thy wheels safe. Thou wilt not have ball joints snapping in half from the wheel hitting something terrible on the ground."

The heiress nodded finally. "I see thy meaning. What wilt thou need for this track? And how much wouldst thou like me to pay thee to build it?" She shrugged. "Not that coin is any object. I will pay what thou asketh."

"I do not want a thing." She stopped walking, almost stumbling to a stop slightly, and she looked at him as though he was a ghost haunting her lands. "Truly, I do not."

"Thou wanteth to build my target a track, improve on my mechanisms to make my training run more smoothly, for no coin at all? Now I am very dubious. There must be a catch…"

"There is no catch," he insisted immediately, closing the distance between them. He reached out to put a reassuring hand on her arm but stopped short, pulling his hand back again and slapping it back on the box of screws and nuts and bolts that was wedged under his arm, his own toolbox handle clenched in the very same hand. He cleared his throat. "I have never seen training grounds like these before, my lady. I'm telling thee the truth; I consider it a privilege to see it once, let alone to be allowed to see it more than once. And I can think of no greater diversion outside of the toiling away I do at the most…run-of-the-mill, completely unchallenging jobs I do on the daily for the townspeople. Fixing locks on coin chests, replacing springs, realigning doors, repairing roof tiles…" He rolled his eyes. "That is my job. This? Well, this is…challenging. Dare I say, 'tis…fun, is it not?"

Sarah raised her eyebrows. "Thou art strange. Has anyone ever told ye how strange thou art?" He blushed, shuffling his feet, not sure how to respond to that. "I do not think I mean it in a bad way…" He peeked through his eyelashes at her, watching the way her face settled into a look of surprise. As though she didn't quite get it herself.

"Please?" he asked quietly. "May I play on thy weapons training grounds?" The toothy grin he shot her made her laugh then, and it was such a lovely sound, melodic and twinkling, something from both her nose and the back of her throat.

"How do I say no to a request such as this?" she mumbled, shaking her head. "Oh, fine. I would like to see how this track of yours works."

"Ah! Yea, my lady! I will show thee. Thou hast wood piled? 'Twill need plenty of wood—" He scrambled to the left at the fork in the road, hurrying along.

"That is the wrong way. 'Tis this way," she pointed to the right.

"Oh! Of course! Aye!" He scurried back to her side, then cut to the right instead, sending her an amused look over his shoulder as he went. "I was merely testing thee…"

That made her laugh as she followed him, that determined step of hers having a certain skip to it this time.

}o{

"Ye know, I think 'tis rather madness, doing the same thing over and over and expecting thou wilt eventually get different results," she drawled, watching as he attempted to fit the long, thin piece of wood up against the almost identical one for one side of the track. "'Tis still not even."

He made a quiet grumbling sound, almost a growl. And damn it, she found it cute.

Chuck plopped onto his backside beside the unruly track and threw his hands up, looking very young suddenly, like a little boy. She wanted to ruffle his curls and kiss his cheek and it came upon her suddenly and powerfully, leaving her slightly breathless.

"Sorry to point out what thou canst already see. I must be infuriating standing here watching ye do this for three days straight, not helping, merely pointing out the obvious."

She blushed slightly, picking at the brown skirt she'd donned this morning. She'd gone with a silk, champagne pink blouse this time, and she added rouge to her cheeks that would match the blouse. Just a subtle application, perhaps a light line of coal about her eyes. And she wore her nice boots, not the comfortable ones that looked like they were falling apart. She'd pulled some of her hair back into a braid at the back of her head, and the rest she let fall over her shoulders in blond waves, stopping at her backside.

She hadn't done any of that extra work for any reason. None at all.

It wasn't that Chuck had come again yesterday, after his first day of work the day before, spent a few hours toiling away only to leave for another job he had scheduled, one he'd be paid for, with the promise to come back today on his lips.

No, certainly that wasn't the reason.

Sometimes a girl did things like this for herself.

But then he looked up at her, his gold-brown eyes warm like a tankard of ale and tea after a cold night's stroll. "Infuriating?" he asked softly.

He had a nail poking out from the side of his lips even as he spoke, his hammer in hand.

"Mmm. Why don't I find something to do elsewhere and leave thee to't?" she asked, feeling a strange sensation in her midsection that made her want to be elsewhere suddenly. Away from the probing of his warm eyes.

But he shook his head, taking the nail out of his lips. "No, please. Don't. D-Don't go. Stay. I, uh…like having ye here." There was no denying the blush on his face as he ducked his head to look down at the track he was building for her. "I-I need thine help. I think with two of us, I might work it out. The ground's uneven under this piece. That's it. That's the problem. Yea. If thou puteth the toe of thy pretty boot here and push down, 'twill get it into place and I can nail it in." He cleared his throat.

Sarah felt vulnerable standing there beside him. She swallowed hard, wondering why she felt so exposed, so raw. But she wouldn't be a coward and run away. She was no damn coward.

So she stepped around to his other side. "Where shall I put my…how'd ye put it? Toe of my pretty boot?"

He chuckled and nodded, still not looking at her, she noticed. And he gently laid his finger on the railing. "Just here, if thou would."

She waited for him to move his finger and she stuck her boot there instead.

"Just a bit of pressure…I will tell ye when…" She pushed a bit more…a bit more…and then… "Ah. Just there. Hold it, let me nail this in."

Sarah watched him, noting not for the first time how good he was with his hands. They were so skilled, so graceful but strong. There was confidence in him when he was working on his trade, doing something he knew better than the back of his hand.

And with his usual deftness, he smacked the nail into place with the hammer, a few gentle but adamant knocks onto the head of the nail. "Ha! Perfectly fits!"

The handyman burst up to his full height and beamed down at her, cockily propping the hammer on his shoulder. "See there? There is nothing we cannot accomplish when we do it together."

She peered up at him quietly, their eyes meeting. All she could do was stare for a long moment, until she realized—not only was she staring but he was standing very close, closer than she'd let anyone get since she lost the only family she'd had left.

Sarah swallowed hard, albeit subtly, and even more subtly broke his gaze and shifted away from him to comb her fingers through the pool of metal bits and pieces he'd had with him in this box—which was strange in and of itself, who just walked around with a box full of nails and nuts and bolts? "Maybe," she said quietly.

She heard him clear his throat then and she turned to watch as he plopped down to sit beside his almost finished track that now stretched across her training yard, laying the hammer on the ground next to his hip.

"And so, Sarah Walker. I have built most of this track over the past few days, admiring the beauty of this Walker land all the while…" He squinted out at the gaping meadows and the trees, taking it in with a small smile on his admittedly handsome face. So she was human and she could admit the handyman was…rather handsome. It was a handsomeness that had grown on her over the past few days. The long eyelashes and the strong jaw, his broad shoulders and thin waist, long arms, long legs. But nothing struck her quite like the way his hair coiled up from his head, dark brown, thick. It looked silky, soft, like it would feel good between her fingers if she combed them through it.

She would not dare.

And still…she wanted to.

But he was speaking, wasn't he? He'd asked her something. What had he asked her? He was peering up at her expectantly, his knees poking up akimbo as he sat with his palms propped in the grass behind him, leaning back. The sunlight dappled against his face through the leaves of the tall trees that towered over them.

"I am sorry… Did-Didst thou ask me something?" she asked quietly, fighting off a blush.

His smile was kind, and he didn't probe. Only then, he did rather, because he asked, "What is thy story?"

That was what he'd asked? Truly?

She was sure he'd seen her shock in her face, perhaps she'd even slid a mask over it, glancing away. He had clearly seen something show in her face, because he backtracked immediately.

"Apologies. I don't mean to pry. Thou need tell me not of thy story. Only, I wonder sometimes. That's all."

It was such a sweetly innocent thing to say. He wondered sometimes…

Sarah couldn't help imagining him working away at resetting a wheel on someone's fruit cart, his hands stopping their toil for a moment, his eyes clouding over, as he thought of her, Sarah Walker, wondering about her, wondering about her story.

She was flooded with warmth. It was a given—many men thought of her, certainly. Many men wanted her—or really, they wanted her land, her money, the resources on her land, and most likely her body too, she wasn't naive to that either. But she was certain they didn't wonder about her story. They just wanted. They didn't wonder.

"No, I—" She halted for a moment, reaching up to push a few strands that escaped the half-braid from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "I was surprised by the asking, that's all. For my whole life, I suppose everyone's already known my story. Everyone in Pinedeep knows…everything. And that has traveled the map, which is why I'm sought after by every eligible man looking for a young, pretty, rich wife with more land on her hands than she could ever possibly know what to do with all on her own." She scoffed, leaning her hip against a nearby tree.

The handyman frowned thoughtfully, but then his eyes lit up and he turned to look out at the meadow she'd been using for her weapons training. Her very own training grounds. And then he gestured out at it with one long arm, his movements containing a certain flourish, and the grin he sent up at her did something to her stomach.

"Oh, I would wager thou knoweth exactly what to do with all of this land." She raised one eyebrow at him. "So far the fair maiden has managed just fine all on her own." Sarah was made speechless by his words, how effortlessly he said them, sincerely and without guile. He turned back to squint up at her, seeming a little embarrassed as he wiped his hand on the leg of his trousers. "But who am I, really? I am no prince. Nor am I a knight…or for that matter, the son of a lawmaker. I'm a mere handyman."

Sarah knew that someone who spent more time around people, who knew how to properly interact with people outside of fending off suits and attempts to push brothers and sons on her…a person like that might find the right words to beat back the thread of self-deprecating doubt she saw in his face and heard in his voice. But she didn't know what to say.

Sarah Walker had never been good with words.

So instead, she slid down to sit on the roots of the tree she'd been leaning against, folding her legs under her body, fixing her skirts, and sighing. "'Tisn't something I am used to talking about, Chuck. The Walker story, the Sarah Walker story, is known to all who live here."

"I am new here."

She smiled slightly at him. "Yea. That ye are. Most who are new here have only come for me, however."

"I did not. No offense."

The fact that he felt the need to add that at the end made her giggle. "I am offended not. In fact, 'tis a refreshing change."

She swallowed, picking at the puffed sleeve of her blouse.

"This land has belonged to the Walkers as far back as written history. I am the last of the line," she said steadily. "My father's brothers died from an illness that swept through Pinedeep when he was only fifteen. Somehow he survived, but he was the only one out of all of the Walker children. It fell to him to carry on the family legacy, to protect the land, when both of his parents passed. And he did. He married my mother. They had me, only I was a girl. And my birth was very hard on my mother. She was ill on and off, sometimes bed-ridden for days on end, until her death when I was ten, so there was no male heir. And in spite of knowing how imperative it was that I have children and continue the line, my papa knew the name would end, the stronghold Walkers held on these lands would end, with him. Still, I needed to marry, have children. To keep our blood here." She picked a leaf from her skirt, not looking at him. She knew he was listening intently, because of course he was.

"And yet, my father resisted the urge to hand me off to the first rich man who came a'calling when I was twelve. Men came for themselves, or they came for their sons. And it continued that way, my father protecting me from it as best he could." She didn't tell Chuck that her father drank. That he drank and drank, and while he was a highly functioning drunk who was kinder rather than meaner when under the influence, his liver finally failed him a mere eight years after he lost his love. "He fell ill when I was seventeen, and I saw the writing on the wall, as hard as I worked to care for him, to keep him from fading. The suitors gave me a month to mourn once he passed, and then they came for me in droves. One after the other."

Sarah knew her eyes dimmed as she looked out at the landscape that was hers by birth and would remain so until she was forced to marry someday. Day by day, inch by inch, it would all cease to be hers. She would merely be a tenant here, bent to the will of her husband and whatever family he brought with him to her property. She knew how things worked.

As she thought of her father, how this was the opposite of what he would have wanted for her, she fought back the single tear that threatened. It had been eight years since his death, and she had made it through so far. She'd feared she might not make it to twenty without a man pushing his way onto her land, into her bed. But she'd held strong. And her ruse with the cat and the key on its collar was thankfully doing the job well enough, even keeping men from appearing on her doorstep.

All save one man.

She actually lifted her gaze to look at him now. He was frowning, his brow furrowed in…it wasn't pity, it wasn't sympathy…it wasn't even empathy. It was compassion and maybe even understanding. She didn't know what to do with that.

"And… thou knoweth about the cat," she said softly.

"That, I do know about. Ye know, I have even seen it. Twice now. He? …She?"

"She," she said, shyly.

"She is beautiful. I've never seen a cat with those markings—that is, no markings at all. Just pitch black. Like looking night right in its face."

"She's proven a worthy companion."

"What made thee think of it? 'Tis…rather ingenious."

Sarah's jaw fell. "Think of…it? Oh. Well, I want not the burden of having to pick a suitor myself. This is a chance for whoever it is I marry to…reveal himself to me."

Knowing cut through his features and he snorted quietly. "How now, ye mean to playact with me, even when 'tis just us two sitting here?"

She squirmed in discomfort. "I know not what ye mean."

Chuck leaned across the track and grinned, amusement in his kind eyes. "I hope thou mindeth not, my sister and I were talking about you, and thy cat." She blinked at that. "Thou hast devised a way to keep those droves ye mentioned from knocking at thy door asking for thy hand. And at the same time, thou hast a partner in that cat who is fast, smart, and…let's call her shy, shall we?"

"Shy?"

"I heard she scratched one of thine attempted-suitors currently staying in Pinedeep. He tried to catch her, I assume."

Sarah gasped. "She did not."

"Oh, she did. He was fuming when he came upon me while I was helping Wharton at the smithy," he said with a laugh that made her chest feel light. "Do not play with me, my lady. That cat is thy fail-safe. She will not let anyone near her and that protects ye from continuing to live thy life the way ye see fit."

So the handyman and his sweet, talented physician sister had discussed her. She was strangely not offended by that, and also curious at the same time. Should she be offended? She wasn't sure.

"Thou thinketh not that 'tis bold, talking to me in that way?" she asked quietly, raising an eyebrow. She did her best not to sound arch. More than anything, she was intrigued. Surely, they weren't the only people who had figured out Sarah Walker's gambit. And it was only a matter of time before the cat slipped and someone stuck the key into that lock, opening the door, stepping inside, and claiming what they believed was theirs.

"'Tis a risk, I know," he said just as quietly. "But I decided honesty was better than tiptoeing around what we both know."

"Thou… meaneth that I do not want to marry?"

"That, yea."

She smirked. "All right, Mister Handyman. So ye know two of my secrets now."

His pleased smile faded and he frowned. "I wish 'twere different for thee."

Sarah stared at him for a long while. "I thank thee for saying that."

With a nod, he crawled back up to his feet, only to kneel again at the track and get back to work. She merely watched him work, in silence, their conversation rushing through her mind, tendrils of it sneaking down and grasping onto her heart as well.

A/N: Smooth, Mister Handyman. Very smooth.

Please review if you're able to. Thank you for reading!

-SC