Chapter 9: 09 : A Favor

Crickets had begun their dusk-song by the time Will crested the last low rise. Beyond, wheat stubble danced in small gusts and fences marked boundaries of the Polock spread. The red-roofed barn squatted like a waiting animal, sun flashing on its window-glass fragments. Farther off, smoke curled from the farmhouse chimney—supper fires. Homey smells—cured straw, cow-heat, the tail end of supper—drifted up the hill and curled around him like memories that weren’t his.

He crouched in the chest-high grass and let himself breathe yet he stewed instead.

A mystic elder deer that shouldn’t exist.

A haunting cave of bones recurring in his dream.

Garret’s cold body under shoveled leaves.

The impossible kiss at the pond.

A whisper —Fight

None of it fit together, yet all of it clung like burrs in wool. Will pressed a palm to his healed shoulder; skin smooth, pain gone. Proof or madness—he couldn’t decide but feared the answer.

Focus, he told himself.

A late chore-lamp bobbed inside the Polock barn. That meant Ricket—always eager to pamper goats after supper. Harbin would be in the kitchen; Brinna and Efram bickering at the wash-basin. The layout played like a map in Will’s mind. He needed the barn empty, but if anyone would forgive a trespass, it was Ricket. If the boy could keep quiet.

Will rose into a crouched walk, feet ghosting through the thatch. Each step he counted—one, two, hold—matching breaths so grass whispered but never hissed. When he reached the fence he dropped flat and slid beneath the lowest rail, dirt damp against his shirtfront. A cow in the side paddock flicked an ear but did not low.

Ten paces to the barn wall. Up close the lamplight glowed through knotholes—warm, pulsing. Will edged along the planks until he reached the smaller side door that opened near the feed bins. He listened.

Inside, Ricket chatted with himself and the livestock in equal measure.

“Easy now, Thistle—eat yer chaff first.”

Bucket clank, goat bleat.

“Efram, you stop hiding or I’ll tell Pa you skipped the pen muck.”

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Perfect confusion.

Will’s hand found the latch. He eased it—slower than slow—swung the door wide enough for his slim frame, and slipped through.

Dust motes drifted like slow sparks in the lamplight. Pens lined both sides of the center aisle; chickens rustled on a high roost, feathers whispering. Ricket stood by the grain barrel, back turned, scooping oats.

Will stepped once, twice, and the bay gelding—Harbin’s pride—snorted at the unfamiliar scent. That snort cost him stealth.

Ricket whipped around, pitchfork half-raised. “Efram, I told you—”

Will pressed a finger to his own lips. “Shh.”

Recognition blossomed across the freckled face. Excitement chased fear clean away. “Will!” he blurted at full volume, grinning ear to ear.

Will’s stomach dipped. He darted forward, caught the boy’s shoulders, and lowered his whisper to a sharp hiss. “Quiet, Ricket. Please—quiet.”

“Quiet,” the boy mouthed—still too loud—eyes dancing. “What’re you doing here? Thought you were huntin’ with Gar—”

“Later.” Will glanced at the main doors; the iron bar sat across but one shout could bring the whole family. “Can you keep a secret?”

Ricket’s chest puffed. “I can!”

“Softly.” Will guided him deeper between stalls, away from the doors. Goats craned long necks, sensing tension. He knelt to find Ricket’s eye-level. “You’re my friend. Will you help?”

The boy nodded so hard straw quivered in his hair.

Relief loosened Will’s shoulders a fraction. Still crouched, he began checking each stall—habit more than need, confirming no second audience. When he straightened, Ricket stared at him with new curiosity. Candlelight revealed more grime and dried blood on Will’s sleeves than he’d noticed in daylight; the walk from pond to farm had not been kind.

“What happened to you?” Ricket whispered (slightly lower now, a minor miracle).

“Long story.” Will searched for words that wouldn’t break apart. “Got… I’m better now.”

“Looks sore,” Ricket said, pointing at the crusted shirtfront. Then his gaze slid down—caught on the sword that hung at Will’s hip. Confusion turned quickly to awe. “Hey—you’re lucky! Isn’t that your father’s sword? Did he give it to you?”

Will shifted instinctively, hip angling away to hide the blade’s blood-dark stains. His pulse kicked. Of all questions, that one jabbed deepest.

Ricket bounced a little, waiting for the tale. “Well? Did he?”

Will’s throat worked, no answer ready—truth too heavy, lies too fragile. Behind them a horse stamped, and goats rustled straw, filling the hush.

He opened his mouth—“I need a favor, a quiet one.”

Ricket’s expression fascinated between fear and excitement, but before either could win, hooves thudded outside—multiple, fast. Voices followed: low, tense, adult. Will froze.

Through a crack he spotted two silhouettes dismounting at the farmhouse door: one tall, paunchy; one lean as a spear.

Will’s gut turned to ice.