🌹Short Stories 📖 (ᴀɴᴛʜᴏʟᴏɢʏ)

Home is Where the Heart Is

Rhys rode down the dusty trail at a walk. Both he and his horse were tired, but they were nearly to their destination. It was strange coming back here. The smoke of the village of Darrow shone just beyond the ridge, but he wasn't going there—at least not at first.

He had been born in that village. His mother was Beatrice, the admittedly lovely daughter of a merchant who was the mistress of Mearl, the Baronet of Darrow. Year after year his father's wife failed to deliver a healthy child, much less an heir. When Rhys was five, his father decided that his bastard was the only son he would have. So he was taken from his mother to live in the big house.

From the very first Rhys was taught to manage the baronetcy. He learned to read from the steward's reports and to do math from the accounts. The Baronet was not at all affectionate, but he was meticulous in his business and Rhys learned swiftly and well, making his father proud—but that was not why he did it. Rhys loved the land and the people. There was little more fascinating to him than ordering things in such a fashion as to make the demesne prosper.

When Rhys was thirteen Mearl's wife died. A year later the baronet remarried. Just before Rhys turned fifteen the new wife gave birth to a healthy son. Within a month Rhys was disinherited and back with his mother, stripped of all his rights and duties. It had hurt, not so much because of his attachment to his father, or the title, but because of his attachment to the land.

Rhys was sixteen when a mercenary troupe led by the Bear—Jarael Fitzpabian—came through Darrow. Kura, the second, thought Rhys could be a good fighter, but that was not what made the lad join up. It was listening to Captain Jarael talk of the home that they would win for themselves—lands of their own.

Rhys had grown a bit taller and more muscular as a mercenary, but all in all he was an unassuming man of average height with curly brown hair, soft brown eyes and a neatly trimmed goatee. Fighting had made his torso more muscular, his arms bigger, but he was stocky rather than slim. He would never have the trim waist of his captain. His looks and demeanor were pleasant, but not what was generally considered handsome.

For five years he had fought with the Bear, pursuing their shared dream and building up a tidy nest egg of gold. Then that dream had come true in a way no one, including the Captain, would have expected. After rescuing the keep of the Marquisate of Farlathi from attack, Jarael had ended up wed to the Lady of the keep—and next in line to be the Marquis. All of the troop was welcomed with open arms. Rhys had hoped for a tenant farm.

It had been a surprise when Kura told him that the Lady's father, the present Marquis, wanted to see him. It had left him speechless to discover that Jarael had suggested him to be invested with a recently vacant baronetcy name Fychleigh. It needed work, but Rhys wasn't afraid of work. He couldn't say yes fast enough. The legacy he had been raised with had been taken from him, but he had received another—and to his mind Fychleigh was a far better holding, being situated in a rich valley and peopled with hardworking folk, many of whom came from the main keep. Furthermore, it was HIS—entirely his—and nothing could take it from him but his own lack of ability—and that was NOT going to happen.

Now, here he was, going back to the place of his birth. His lands were already ordered and improving. There were but two things he still needed for his contentment. The first thing was to buy fine draft horses for his stables, which he could easily obtain from the man whose house he was approaching. Burke of Verdant Farm bred the best work horses in Enniskillen.