Hunter's Woman by Kaitlyn O'Connor Read Free Book Online Page B

herself once more.  She’d all but forgotten how nerve wracking it could be to be surrounded by ‘normal’ folk, knowing that she must always mind what she said and how she behaved, knowing the danger inherent in allowing herself to let down her guard. 
    Add to that the pitfall of being a young, unattached female amidst randy soldiers and it was small wonder her nerves were frayed to tatters. 
    Dismissing her anxieties, she looked around, her hands on her hips.  Finally, she returned to the bedding she’d left on the floor and dragged it outside.  Gershin had had a line to hang her wash, but the rope had long since rotted.  Aslyn tossed the bedding over the T that had held one end, beat it thoroughly to remove as much dust and insects as possible, and left it to air while she cleaned the cottage. 
    Uneasiness filled her as she made her way back inside, however.  She had not been far off the mark when she’d imagined the king’s men camped on her door step.  They had set up tents no more than a quarter of a mile from the outskirts of town—from her cottage, at the edge of the forest.
    Chapter Five
    The object she’d tripped over when she’d been removing the bedding, Aslyn discovered, was old Gershin’s cook pot.  From the look of it, Gershin, like most people, had not been prepared when death took her.  She’d left the remains of whatever last meal she’d cooked in the pot to slowly decay.  It had long since dried and blackened to an indistinguishable crust.  Taking it outside, Aslyn found a stick and scraped the inside of the pot until she’d cleaned it the best she could. 
    She’d seen a community well as they made their way through town.  She had not seen one in the tiny yard that surrounded Gershin’s cottage.  Sighing, she headed for the well.  When she’d washed the pot, she filled it and headed back to the cottage.  Thankfully, it was not a very large pot, for her shoulder felt as if it was slipping from the socket only with the weight of the water she was carrying.
    There was a stack of wood by her door when she returned.  She stared at it for several moments and finally dismissed it, struggled inside with the pot, set it on the hook and swung it over the fire.  A brush broom, covered in cobwebs, stood in the corner near the door.  Much of the rush had rotted and crumbled, but Aslyn took it and used it to rake down cobwebs around the tiny cottage, brush the dust from the bed frame, the table and chair, and the mantel piece over the hearth.  When she was done, she raked the debris littering the dirt floor outside.  Examining the broom when she’d finished, she saw it had reached the end of its usefulness, broke the handle over her knee, and tossed the pieces into the fire. 
    The water had begun to boil.  Taking her knife from her pack, she selected two potatoes and two carrots and headed back toward the well.  When she returned, she discovered that the door was shut.  She stared at it uneasily for several moments, and finally moved toward it.  Grasping the handle, she put her shoulder against it and shoved.
    The door swung open without resistance and Aslyn staggered inside, almost dropping the vegetables she’d just spent the past twenty minutes peeling and cleaning.  Irritated, she left the door open, glanced around the cottage to make certain no one waited in the shadows, and moved to the cook pot. 
    Her heart skipped a beat when she saw there was something floating in the boiling water.  She stared at it, fighting a wave of nausea, and finally speared it with her knife.  It was a tribit, cleaned and neatly quartered. 
    Feeling more than a little disconcerted that she’d imagined it might be something unpleasant, she dropped the meat back in the pot and turned to look at the door.  Finally, she moved to the table, placed the vegetables there and returned to examine the door.  The hinges, she saw, had been repaired.
    Uneasiness swept through her as she closed the