Crimson Born - Amy Patrick Page 0,3

now, and I had nothing better to do. I picked up the horseshoes and stepped back about fifteen paces before pitching one in the direction of the stake.

Instead of the metallic clank I was hoping for, I heard a strange thud, and then a voice came out of the darkness.

“Ow. What the hell was that?”

“Oh no, I’m so sorry.” I rushed toward the owner of the voice, stopping short as a small light blinked on and broke the darkness with its soft glow.

There was a man there holding his phone, shining its built-in flashlight onto the ground around him. Bending, he lifted the horseshoe, studied it with a puzzled gaze, then turned the light on me.

“Well this is a first.” He chuckled. “I mean, I’ve had girls throw things at me, but never a horseshoe.”

I stepped closer, more cautious now that I’d gotten a look at him.

He was young. His size and deep voice had made me think he was older. And he was huge, at least six-foot-four, with wide shoulders and the kind of strong, masculine face Josiah probably wouldn’t develop until he reached his thirties.

“I’m so sorry,” I repeated, awash in embarrassment. “I’m really bad at throwing horseshoes. Are you hurt?”

He rubbed his jaw with one hand and spoke in an amused tone. “Well, I may have to reschedule that magazine cover shoot, but I guess I’ll live.”

This, followed by a smile so dazzling, I literally felt my breath rush out in a whoosh.

A breathtaking grin. Huh, so it was a real thing and not just a figure of speech.

I was pretty sure he was joking about the magazine cover thing, but he had the kind of looks that belonged on one. Thick, black hair contrasted with eyes so light blue they’d have looked right at home in my predominately Dutch and German community.

“What are you doing out here in the dark all alone?”

The guy sauntered forward and offered me the horseshoe. “I mean, besides assaulting innocent bystanders with steel projectiles?”

“Oh... I uh... I’m just... waiting on my friends. That I came with. My friends I came with. They’re... busy, and I was just coming to look at the lake.”

My garbled explanation died right there. I had never been nervous talking to a boy before, but then I’d never met a boy like this one.

“Boy” didn’t even seem to be the right word for him. He was something more than that—not quite old enough to call a man—or at least not like the men in my village, who seemed ancient to me with their beards and bellies.

He didn’t seem to notice my fumbling speech, just turned and admired the moonlit waterfront scene.

“It’s pretty, huh? I was coming down here myself to look at it. Well, really to look at the moon more than the lake. I’ve always thought there was something special about a blood moon.”

He swept a hand across the sky over his head. “Every time I see one, I think... I wonder who else is staring up at this same moon at the same moment? Like, on the other side of the world, there could be somebody looking up at the same time and thinking...”

He stopped talking and gave an embarrassed laugh, peeking back at me from under his lowered eyebrows.

“Listen to me. Hell, I’m no poet.” He blew out a breath and changed the subject. “So... you been to one of the Miller’s bonfires before? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here.”

Shock prevented me from answering right away. I wasn’t sure what had just happened, but when he was talking about the moon, it was like he’d ripped the pages out of the little journal I kept in my bedside table drawer and was reciting from them.

“No,” I whispered. “This is my first party.”

Ugh. And why had I told him that? I seriously considered turning and running away.

Of course that would only make me seem even more like the immature twelve-year-old he probably thought I was.

The dazzling grin returned. “Really? Your first party? And you’re spending the night all alone out here. I hate that you’re not having more fun at your first party. We’re going to have to do something about that.”

He bent and gathered the other horseshoes from the ground. “Starting with a throwing lesson. Now I don’t like to brag, but I happen to be the three-time amateur horseshoes champion of Pennsylvania.”

“You are?”

He laughed. “No, not really. There isn’t such a thing—at least as far as I know. But I do