Forging Forever Read online

  F O R G I N G F O R E V E R

  _____________________

  By

  Dani Wyatt

  Copyright © 2017

  by Dani Wyatt

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the products

  of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  www.daniwyatt.com

  Cover Credit PopKitty

  Editing Nicci Haydon, Lisa Hollett

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Forging Forever

  C H A P T E R O N E

  C H A P T E R T W O

  C H A P T E R T H R E E

  C H A P T E R F O U R

  C H A P T E R F I V E

  C H A P T E R S I X

  C H A P T E R S E V E N

  C H A P T E R E I G H T

  C H A P T E R N I N E

  C H A P T E R T E N

  E P I L O G U E O N E

  E P I L O G U E T W O

  Reining Her In

  ANGEL

  Other Titles by Dani Wyatt

  FOLLOW ME

  Thank You.

  A NOTE TO MY READERS:

  I appreciate every one of you.

  Dedicated to L.

  Proof that insta-love is real.

  Xoxo

  “I think we were born to shine.” ~ Grace Vanderwaal

  Me too Grace. Me too.

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  P R O L O G U E

  LELA

  “I’ll come back around in about five minutes.” My father’s deep, booming voice is little more than an overlay to the sounds of merriment coming from every direction under the July sun. “Five, Lela.” He holds up his open hand, splaying five fingers high over the surrounding fairgoers. “I want to see the parade start, have a drink with the regulars and we don’t have much time. The rig is waiting, and time is money. I’ll grab you when I come back around.”

  My gruff, roughneck father turns into a fifty-six-year-old kid in front of my eyes at every Renaissance festival we attend. And in all our years on the road together, there have been more than I can count in more states than I remember. He’s at his best here, the happiest I ever see him, completely carefree. Here is where it’s not only acceptable but encouraged for grown adults to act as though they are on a day pass from some medieval mental hospital.

  Dad and I have an affinity with these nomadic people, and these fairs have been one of the few constants in my gypsy life. One of the few traditions we’ve managed to adopt, however unorthodox it may be.

  “Sounds good,” I shout back, pointing in the direction I want to go, but Dad is already striding off into the crowd. “I’m going to see the knife guy.” He’s already too far away to hear me, so I lower my voice, leaving the last words to mumble to myself. “He’s new this year,” I finish, shaking my head and looking over at the crowd that’s forming around a pillar of smoke rising from the metal forge that sits centered on the wet grass behind a makeshift rope fence.

  I take one more glance backward at the fairgoers, jester’s hats swirling around and away, as my hardworking, rugged father does a little sway and skip. He’s so light here it makes me smile, his balding head burning under the summer sun as it pokes in and out of the drifting clouds.

  Like rock stars on tour, some days I forget what state we’re in. I take a deep breath and ponder that for a moment then remember the state line sign I saw from the passenger seat of Dad’s latest Ford F-250.

  Ohio.

  We are in Ohio.

  It’s cool here for the time of year, though, cooler than the last Renaissance fair we attended. My thin T-shirt and khaki shorts aren’t quite enough to take the edge off, and I shiver and hunch a little in the breeze. Squinting one eye, I step forward and look around at the maple and oak trees swaying in the wind.

  This will be our last road adventure for a while. I’m checking out of our Airstream lifestyle to see what it’s like to live among more average humans. Ones who actually put down roots.

  Above the crowd noise from behind the rope barrier, a loud clanking echoes toward the sky. I note the crowd that’s gathered there. I watch as people are starting to rubberneck—straining to see something near the plume of smoke, alternating up and down on their tiptoes. For a moment, I join in, pushing upward and clenching my calf muscles to steady myself. But even the two or so inches of height I achieve does nothing to improve my view.

  Giving up on the tiptoes, I go flat-footed again and step between people dressed in corsets and codpieces in the direction of the noise and smoke. I look over to the edge of the crowd and see the sign that reads, “Medieval Sword Forging Demonstration—Noon, 2:00, 4:00.” The arrow points toward the clanking sound, and even more than a moment ago, I want a better view of the action.

  Muttering a few “excuse me’s” and shouldering my way forward, I breathe in. The air is a blend of incense, smoked turkey, and warm beer, and it’s at once fondly familiar and simultaneously causes a bit of a knot in my gut.

  A minute later I’m off to the very edge of the crowd, wiggling through the last few bodies on my trek to stake a claim on a small patch of soggy grass, eager to get my first glimpse of the forging action.

  And what action it is.

  The goosebumps on my arms nose dive downward until they erupt on the backs of my legs. Tingling erupts in my body’s most tender places, and my eyes are instantly riveted.

  In all my years of Ren fairs, this sight before me is by far the greatest of wonders I’ve seen on the road. And I’ve seen plenty. In fact, there aren’t many wonders in this country I’ve missed. Dad and I have crisscrossed from one end to the other, up and down and side to side.

  When I turned eight, my mom decided homemaking wasn’t her thing. Being the kind of woman who didn’t care much for gender stereotypes, she went out for a pack of cigarettes and a pint of vodka, and I haven’t seen her since. Dad took over without missing a beat, and that next week we hit the road and never looked back.

  But nothing, not Mount Rushmore, not the Grand Canyon, not even the graveyard for departed Ben & Jerry’s flavors has ever inspired me like the view in front of me right now.

  The scent of burning hardwood and a hint of sweat hit me like a freight train, knocking the breath from my lungs. My jaw drops, and there is this invisible cord that begins to wrap around me, starting at my ankles before tightening my knees together. It spins around my hips and continues up over the tightness in my chest until it’s got me around the throat.

  Clank-clank.

  Clank-clank.

  Clank-clank. The raising and lowering of the hammer make repetitive sounds as it strikes the glowing orange steel as the forger turns it over and back methodically on the anvil.

  Anvil.

  I have to say this is the first time I’ve really taken note of an anvil in real life. I’m sure I’ve seen one before, but as far as I was concerned, before now, they were just something for the Road Runner to drop on Wile E. Coyote’s head.

  Right now, I’m stunned at just how f
ucking sexy an anvil can be.

  As a matter of fact, an anvil is the sexiest inanimate object I’ve ever seen. And it’s being pounded upon by the sexiest man I know I’ve ever seen.

  I’m frozen in mid-gawk when his hammer slams down with such force it sends a shiver racing from the base of my neck down to my heels. The onlookers surround me stand frozen in suspense waiting for the rhythmic bounce of the mallet. Anticipation tightens inside me, urging the forger to draw the hammer high and take the next thwack at the heated metal.

  Instead, his hand lifts the hammer off the anvil slowly. Unlike the powerful motion he used a moment before, he lowers the hammer to his side. Hanging it down next to the soot-stained suede chaps that cover his dark canvas trousers, he straightens his back, and I hear a collective sigh from the unsteady crowd.

  The suede apron, darkened to a gray swirling soot pattern just the same as the chaps, only partially covers a torso that sings the praises of what must be millions of whacks of that mallet onto molten metal.

  The glory of his arms shows the indent and bulge of muscles I don’t remember from my homeschool human anatomy class. It’s as though God created new musculature to be bestowed upon him as a symbol of masculine perfection.

  Oh my God. He twists his head then shrugs his shoulders as though he needs me to rub his neck. A task for which I would gladly raise my three fingers and volunteer as tribute.

  As he shifts and stretches, there are ripples of tendons and layers of hardness I see that defy all logic and reason. And all of it covered in this shiny, slightly gritty, warm-tan skin that is crying out for my lips.

  My fingers grip the shoulder straps of my ever-present backpack as I try to find my breath, try to gulp back the dryness in my throat.

  I’m not a purse sort of girl. Backpacks are more practical. My mind wanders to what sort of girl this metal-pounding god desires? Because right now I wish to be her in such a way it’s making my head and my heart ache.

  I bet she’s leggy, right?

  And pouty.

  Stacked up top and pinned in nicely at the waist.

  Which is fine. I think we all are who we are. Honestly, I’m comfortable with my body in all its glorious perfect imperfection. I don’t fat shame or skinny shame or shame at all. I just imagine him having a strong preference for someone not as average as me.

  I’m just saying.

  I think he has a type.

  And possibly a new one every night, judging from the gawking crowd of women practically flashing him their goods in order to draw his attention. I’m sure they don’t give a hoot about sword forging.

  I dip my chin and look down at myself.

  I’m leggy, I tell myself. I have two of them, this I know. And any more than that would be greedy, wouldn’t it? So I’m leggy because I have legs. Plural.

  Although, my thighs are a little thick. My hips round and flared out more than most. And I have a backside that would surely meet the criteria for ample.

  On the other hand, I’m stacked up top. But my boobs do descend a fair amount as soon as I release them from the medieval torture device that is my bra.

  The crowd begins to shift and mumble as the iron Adonis stands there, looking down at his creation, hammer hanging by his side as his chest rises and falls with grateful breaths of fresh air. Sunlight shines off the sweat that coats his body, glowing bright, drops of it falling from his protruding brow and sizzling as they hit the sword lying on the anvil.

  His eyes raise as he lifts and positions the cooling metal into the arched opening of the forge for a minute, then those dark eyes set below the serious brow scan the crowd. I instinctively shrink back as his gaze heads in my direction.

  His tongue comes out to lick this perfect spot on his bottom lip. He withdraws the sword again, placing it precisely on the solid metal of the anvil.

  He raises the hammer back in the air, only to cross it over his body to wipe his forearm across his eyes and then hang it back down at his side. It’s as though he’s completely alone. In a bubble of silence without any awareness of the tense, frothing crowd around him.

  I observe him assess and dismiss each member of the crowd in turn, watching each muscle flex and tighten. But when his dark eyes focus on me, they stall. I twist my head to the side. Pulling a shoulder to my ear, trying to hide, but his gaze fixes solidly upon me.

  The intensity in his eyes lightens. His eyebrows loosen, and he cocks his head slightly to the left as his eyes trace up and down, such a quick movement most people would have missed it. I notice it more as a feeling than anything tangible, as every inch of my body tightens as it falls under his line of sight.

  Just when my heart feels ready to seize, he drops his eyes from me and turns to the silent, fair-haired man standing behind him, raising his chin in a jerking motion. The man steps forward and takes the hammer and the half-forged sword from the hands of the eye candy, then shifts sideways and back before raising the hammer in the air, silencing the murmur moving through the crowd. “Just a minute. We just need a minute.”

  To my horror and delight, the forger steps forward, and his eyes once again fix on me, like a predator on its prey. I turn my head to glance over one shoulder then the other, convinced I must be letting my imagination get the better of me again.

  Surely there must be a tall, beer wench with breast flesh spilling out of her corset behind me, right?

  When he steps from behind the ropes, the crowd parts like Moses is holding his staff above the Red Sea. Half of them are hawk-watching, eager, as the sweat-covered forger strides around the edge of the crowd. But his eyes are pinned on me, even as I try to shrink back and find myself entangled in the round belly of a bearded fairgoer with crumbs in his facial hair and a glazed look in his eye.

  “I’m sorry,” I mutter, turning one way then the other, looking for a means of escape, but my boots are frozen to the soggy grass.

  “That’s okay, little lady.” Dirty beard grins and bobs his eyebrows, and my first instinct is to look down.

  What is going on today?

  I’m caught between the advancing forger and this beard man with lust in his eyes. I don’t understand what is happening. I’m not the kind of girl men usually notice. I’m the kind of girl who wears the same pair of Timberlands until the leather starts to crack. Normal girls have closets full of high heels and flats and shoes for every purpose, but one pair of hiking boots is it for me. Life in an Airstream teaches you to live simply.

  But right now, I’d do anything to have just one decent pseudo feminine outfit put aside. Because he is here. I say a silent prayer, staring down at my worn boots as the growing dark wetness covers the toe from the mushy footing.

  I feel him near me before I hear him. I notice the way the beer-belly man is pushed back by some unseen force, notice the prickling over the left side of my body, like a low current has been spread over the skin. Then, as much as I can’t believe it, he lights up the rest of my senses—the sound of his breathing. The mix of smoky, salty and sweaty, somehow more of an aphrodisiac than I could imagine.

  I’ve been around sweaty men before, obviously. Trust me, living on the rig sites with my dad, those men out in the middle of nowhere with no women around do not cotton to hygiene.

  But this is different. The forger has a scent. Not a smell and it’s got my mouth watering and ears ringing.

  If someone’s scent can make your ears ring, you know you are in deep guano.

  “Name.” His single word hits me like blunt force trauma to the head, knocking me senseless and rendering me unable to respond.

  Instead, my eyes stick toward the ground, fixed on his black boots, my hands digging down into the front pockets of my shorts, fingering the dog-eared letter from Dan Sullivan. The letter that spells the end of my nomad life. The ringing in my ears turns to an eerie, low hum. The same sound you hear when you hold a huge conch shell to your ear.

  The next thing I know, my senses are all focused on a single point of contact, as a rough fin
gertip applies pressure beneath my chin. An unsteady chirp escapes my throat.

  Gentle yet firm motion shifts my gaze from the black boots. Moving my eyes upward, taking in every inch of the view as they go. I focus on the dark chest hair that peeks out from the top of the soot covered suede apron.

  The pressure from his single finger turns to a pinch of two as he adds his thumb to the front of my chin, lifting, raising my gaze further. Any other stranger, at any other time, touching me like this would be on the receiving end of an uppercut or a knee to the groin. Valuable lessons I learned from the many pseudo fathers and brothers I’ve had over the years.

  “Name.” That word again, and just as it hits my ears, my eyes take the leap and look into his face.

  A tremor starts at the crown of my head, slamming down my body until my knees threaten to buckle.

  His eyes are near black. I’ve seen brown eyes, even very dark brown eyes, the kind that look like midnight on a dirt track, but his are the color of Guinness. They have a hint of golden flecks around the edge of his iris, drawing me in. I’ve never seen or dreamed of eyes like that, but on him, there could be no other. They are perfect.

  He is perfect.

  And I am barely touching the ground.

  Name, dummy. He asked for your name. An admonishing voice in my head breaks the trance.

  Okay, so what is it?

  “My name?” My half-wit reply turns my cheeks fifty shades of embarrassed.

  He doesn’t show any amusement at my clearly addled brain. He simply regards my words and my face with such a calm intensity that any rational thoughts I had left fall out of my ears.

  “Yes. I’m hoping you will tell me what it is,” he says. His words rumble out from between full lips that I imagine kissing their way down my body. Enjoying every inch on the journey where they end planted smack between my legs.

  That thought alone has my heart skipping beats. I’ve never thought anything like that before. And I’ve certainly never done that before. I’m shocked at my own crudeness, my own base sexual craving.

  He drops his fingers from my chin.