Page 21 of The Pumpkin Bride

Even if it was best for her, he hated playing the asshole.

None of this—the separation, the curse, the loneliness—was Marigold’s fault. He’d left Thornwick’s safety. Bess might have suggested it, but he’d acted on it. Then he’d accepted Crispin’s invitation to his privy circle and chose to stay despite repeated dishonorable acts on the prince’s part. Convinced the prince would never turn on him, Sir Bram Duncan overrode his conscience like it was an obstacle on a road.

Most damning, he’d climbed the Lantern Oak, oozing hubris. Only a young fool would believe he could tangle with the autumn sprite and emerge the victor. As a result, he’d abandoned the woman sitting at his table, which set her on the path to her regretful engagement to Crispin.

For all of this and more, he had only himself to blame.

Desperate, he searched the yard for his next chore. Something to fully occupy his body and mind to soothe the itching in his soul. Ah—there. Chopping wood. A low priority on a temperate day like today, but a decent solution.

The round of wood was rough in his hands.

He’d no sooner set it on the chopping block than Marigold’s cat, Fuzzle, jumped onto it. The cat had a habit of stalking him in Thornwick, too. Streams of giggles had poured from Marigold whenever the tabby leapt onto Bram’s shoulder in the castle or on his ass while they were in the hayloft. As a man, he’d been mildly annoyed by the cat’s sudden appearance.

As an orc, the suspicious dread was like he’d eaten a hemlock salad and the shakiness had kicked in. There was much lore about orcs and cats and how they mixed as well as sparks and dry hay. Bram rubbed at the spot where Marigold’s locket once laid above his heart, his normal move to soothe his nerves. Fascinating to feel the distrust in this green skin.

But Bram was not in the mood to be fascinated.

He nudged the cat with his toe. “Are you trying to cash in a life, cat? You can’t have many left at this point. Shoo.”

Fuzzle crouched and locked in on Bram, then meowed.

Bram squatted. “What’s your problem, Fuzz? Don’t you want to be warm tonight? We need wood for the hearth.”

After plopping his orange butt to the block, Fuzzle twisted his head to the side. Bram flinched as the cat gently touched his front paws to Bram’s cheeks, kneaded the flesh like he was making biscuits, then bopped his head against Bram’s chin. The bop was Fuzzle’s preferred way of greeting Bram.

For a moment, the orc froze.

Perhaps cats weren’t so terrible.

He scratched Fuzzle behind the ears. “Do you know me, then?”

With a quick meow, the cat leapt from the chopping block and pranced toward the porch. Bram followed the tabby’s movements. Perhaps he could find the time to fish for the feline. The barnyard animals were off-limits, but Coldpress Lake was stuffed with perch and pike. Bonus—the activity would keep him from the cottage.

As he set up a round to split, he pricked up his ears.

A horse and cart—oh, shite. Alfred. The first week after his transformation, the carter arrived, asking if the new tenant of Grimroot Farms had produce to sell. Alfred wasn’t a farmer himself but owned a reliable horse and cart. With it, he delivered fresh vegetables and fruit to the homesteads pocketed between the hinterlands and Harvest Hollow’s main market. Remainders were often purchased by Brambleton Castle’s cooks, then Alfred circled back with anything Jask had ordered, along with earnings.

Minus Alfred’s cut, of course.

Bram had forgotten about the pumpkin pickup today. Unlike strangers and villains who crossed the boundaries of Grimroot Farm, Alfred came and went with no warning. Once Bram gave him permission to visit, the shivers had stopped. Bram slammed the axe into the stump, then ventured from the side yard to greet his friend. Perhaps “friend” was wishful thinking on his part, he reflected dolefully.

“Ho there, Alfred.” He raised his hand in greeting.

“Jask, my man.” Alfred’s gaze slid to the ruined pumpkins as he handed Bram his weekly delivery of a book, broadsheets, and a sack of flour. “Rough day?”

“I’ve had better.”

Crispin’s voice replayed in his mind—Speak to no one about this, orc. Much as he loathed following the prince’s commands, this one made good sense. Alfred trafficked in Harvest Hollow gossip as much, if not more, than in fresh foods. Unless Bram wanted a repeat visit from the palace guard, it was best to withhold the tale of the missing princess and the vain prince’s search for her.

“Paloma got loose in the night,” he lied. “I haven’t harvested the pumpkins for the market. Sorry about that. Any chance you could come back tomorrow?”

Alfred tipped his straw hat backward, scratched his scalp, then nodded. “Yeah, that’ll work. Hey, when did you get a cat?”

“I . . .” The warm brush of tabby fur against his leather boots stopped him. “He showed up this morning.”

The best lies were cousins to truth.

“Never thought I’d see an orc with a pet cat.” Alfred slapped his knee. “Doesn’t that beat all?”