Chapter 1
The chilly end-of-winter air carried the scents of woodsmoke and fermented grain, familiar perfumes that usually meant home and comfort to Freya Stirling. Tonight, it just smelled like obligation.
She pressed herself deeper into the shadow between two massive hay bales, clutching a stoneware bottle against her chest. From here, she could see the festival torches painting the square in warm, flickering gold, could hear the fiddles starting up for another set. Could see The Hariss Mother prowling the edges of the crowd with her youngest son in tow like a hunting dog.
“Freya? Freya Stirling, where has that girl gotten to?”
Freya held her breath. Madam Harriss' voice carried like a crow’s caw over the music.
Three days. It had been three days since Mother had sat her down in the brewery office and laid out her future like ingredients for a recipe. The abandoned Stirling homestead, ten miles north of town. Good soil. God water. Perfect for barley and corn. They’d set her up with everything she needed: tools, seed stock, a pair of horses, a clutch of chickens, three milk goats, and lumber enough for repairs and fences.Feya would grow ad develop grain socks for the Stirling Family's distilling ad bewing operations.
All she needed were husbands.
“It’s time, love,” Mother had said, not unkindly. “You’re of age to start your own household. You’ve learned the trade. You’ve got a good head for cultivation. The family needs to expand our holdings, and we need more barley in the ground. Time for you to build something of your own.”
Your own. As if a holding ten miles into zombie country with a handful of men she barely knew would ever feel like her own.
The word had spread through town faster than Zombie Fever. Freya Stirling was to take husbands. Decent had a respectable family, decent looks, and decent teeth. She could shoot straight, knew her way around a still, and according to the gossips, was about the most marriable woman in town. Freya tried not to think about who was doing the evaluating. Every mother with unmarried sons had suddenly discovered urgent business with the Stirling household.
Hence: hiding behind hay bales at the Breaking Winter’s Back festival while the Harriss-Mother hunted her like a particularly matrimonial bloodhound.
“Looking for someone?”
Freya nearly dropped her bottle. Daniel Goss materialized from the darkness on the other side of the bales, moving with the easy quiet of someone used to patrol work. He grinned at her startlement, then peered around the hay toward the festival lights.
“Harriss,” Freya muttered. “With reinforcements.”
“Ah.” Daniel’s grin widened. He was flushed, she noticed, warm-cheeked in a way that suggested he’d been drinking. His shirt was half-unbuttoned despite the early spring chill, collar loose around his throat. “The great husband hunt. I’ve heard about that. My condolences.”
They knew each other, of course. Everyone in Carbon knew everyone. Daniel and his brothers Mattias and Edwin were fixtures at the garrison, and the Goss family had a sad history. Both fathers killed in the outbreak of ’71, leaving their mother to stretch just two pensions across seven children. The three older brothers had already married into the Marsh family in a group arrangement, but Daniel and his brothers...Well. They weren’t exactly prime prospects. Little wealth, no fathers, and worst of all, no sister of age to trade. On the frontier, brothers married together or not at all. Everyone knew that
Which made Daniel Goss perfectly safe company for a woman trying to avoid matrimonial entanglements.
“What are you doing back here?” Freya asked, scooting over to make room as Daniel folded himself down beside her.
“Avoiding my mother, actually.” He produced a bottle from inside his jacket, cheap whiskey from the Bitter Creek distillery up river. Competition. “She’s got opinions about how I spend my pay.”
“Does she know you were at the brothel?”
Daniel’s flush deepened. “How did you—”
“I can guess. You were thinking about the brothel, decided you couldn’t afford it, and bought rotgut whiskey instead to feel like you’d spent your money on something.”
He laughed, surprised and genuine. “Shit. You’re observant.”
“I’m a Stirling. I’ve been working a still since I was this high.” She waved an arm vaguely. “I know what men do with their pay.” Freya held up her own bottle. “Trade you. This is the good stuff.”
Daniel’s eyes lit up with genuine appreciation as he recognized the Stirling family label. “Now that’s what I call a fair exchange.”
They traded bottles. Freya took a pull of the Bitter Creek whiskey and grimaced. “God, that’s rough.”
“That’s why I was angling for an upgrade.” Daniel sipped the Stirling spirits and sighed with pleasure. “Now that’s civilized. Your mother’s work?”
“Mine, actually. New recipe. Smoked barley.”
“You made this?” Daniel looked at the bottle with new respect. “Damn, Freya. This is really good.”
The compliment warmed her more than even the whiskey had. Freya took another drink, this one going down easier. They sat in companionable silence for a moment, listening to the festival sounds wash over them like a tide.
“You know,” Daniel said eventually, voice gone soft and slightly slurred, “you could put your head here. If you wanted.” He rolled his shoulder in invitation, opening the space beside him. It was casual, friendly, the kind of offer you’d make to a comrade on a long night’s watch.
Freya hesitated only a moment before leaning into his warmth. He was solid, reassuring, and he smelled like whiskey and leather and gun oil.
“Are you nervous about it?” he asked quietly.
“Taking on a homestead? Marrying? Being away from family, town and garrison? Terrified,” Freya admitted. The word came out easier than she expected. “The old Stirling place is ten miles out. That’s not deep zombie territory, but it’s still a half-day out of town. And I’m supposed to just... move out there with however many men Mother selects for me and start growing and producing for the stills like it’s nothing? Absolutely fucking terrified.” She took another swig on the bottle.
“That’s rough.”
“And… marriage. I have to get married. Sure, I’ll finally get to have have husbands. But.” She sighed. “Dammit. I don’t know HOW. And suddenly I’ll be married to multiple someones. Men I’ll barely even know. Men who’ll expect...” She made vague motions, not quite able to articulate the tangle of expectations and obligations and physical intimacies that marriage implied.
“Hey.” Daniel’s voice had gone gentle. “For what it’s worth? Any man who gets you is lucky. You’re smart, you’re skilled, you’re—” He paused, seemed to reconsider his words. “You’re a catch, Freya. Really. A set of brothers would be really lucky to be chosen.”
She turned to look up at him. His face was very close, warm brown eyes slightly unfocused from the drink. On impulse, she reached up and touched his cheek. His skin was warm, slightly rough with evening stubble.
She signed. “Well, I certainly don’t feel brave or clever. Part of me wishes I could just stay at home with my family and…not.”
“S’ok, Freya. You’ll do fine. You know you will” slurred Daniel.
She laid her head back on his shoulder and they sat like that for a while, passing the bottle back and forth. The fiddles wound through another tune, then another. The festival noise seemed to fade, leaving just the two of them in their small pocket of darkness.
Minutes passed, maybe longer. The whiskey warmed her from the inside out, loosening the knot of anxiety that had been living in her chest for days. Daniel’s presence was comfortable and uncomplicated.
You know,” she said, echoing his earlier tone, “you could put your hand here. If you wanted.”
She guided his hand to her waist, just above her hip. This wasn’t harmless. She knew that. Did it anyway. Felt his fingers flex, uncertain, then settle with gentle pressure.
They sat like that, his hand warm on her waist, her head still against his shoulder. She could feel his heartbeat where her cheek rested against his chest. Steady, then faster. His thumb moved against her hip, a small circle she wasn’t sure he knew he was making. Heat bloomed between them like whiskey in the belly. Slow, spreading, undeniable.
“Freya,” Daniel said, and his voice was soft. “You’re drunk.”
“So are you.”
“I’m serious. You don’t want—”
She turned her face up and and kissed him. Cut off his protests with her mouth on his, tasting smoke and whiskey and surprise. For a heartbeat he was frozen, then he was kissing her back, one hand coming up to cup the back of her head while the other tightened on her waist.
It was nothing like Freya had imagined kissing would be. It was messy, urgent, with too much tongue and not enough air. She didn’t care.
She pulled back, breathless, hardly believing she’s been so daring. They stared at each other in the dim light.
“Christ,” he whispered. “We shouldn’t—”
She kissed him again, deeper this time, more certain. His hand tightened in her hair and she made a small sound of approval. Her own hands found his shoulders, gripping for balance as the world tilted slightly. When they broke apart again, his chest was rising and falling rapidly.
“Freya, if anyone sees, if this goes wrong,” he said quietly, “it doesn’t just go wrong for me.”
She shifted her weight, one knee coming up and over his lap. It was awkward at first, her head spinning and her balance off, his hands catching her hips to steady her. Then she was settled astride him, facing him fully, close enough to see the faint stubble on his jaw.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “Freya, we— Christ, we really can’t—” His hands were shaking where they gripped her hips. “We should stop.”
“Do you want to stop?” she asked.
His hands tightened on her hips. “No!” Then his eyes squeezed shut. “Yes. Shit. I don’t know. You’re not some brothel worker in a stuffed dress.” He opened his eyes again. “If anyone catches us, I’m dead, you know that, right?”
But his hands stayed on her hips, tightened even.
She kissed him again. He groaned into her mouth, the sound desperate, and kissed her back like a drowning man.
She rolled her hips experimentally, just a small movement.
“Freya,” he gasped. “Freya, we really shouldn’t—”
But his hands were already moving, settling on her hips, fingers flexing like he couldn’t quite help himself.
“That’s... you can’t...” His words dissolved into incoherence as she did it again, rolling her hips in a slow, deliberate circle. He was hard now beneath her, the evidence of that wanting unmistakable even though their clothes.
His hands moved up from her hips, sliding under the hem of her shirt to find warm skin. His fingers traced her ribs, her sides, mapped the curve of her waist with something like wonder.The touch was gentle and tentative, like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed.
She ground down again and he groaned, his hips bucking up involuntarily. The ridge of him pressed up against her sex and the sensation made her gasp.
“Freya, please,” he gasped against her mouth. “If someone sees—”
She kissed him again, swallowing his protests. His hands found her breasts, cupping through the fabric of her chemise, and Freya heard herself make a sound she’d never made before, something between a gasp and a moan.
This. This was what all the fuss was about. This heat, this pressure, this desperate need for more, more, more...
Daniel’s hips bucked up again, harder this time. His hands were inside her shirt now against bare skin. She fumbled with the remaining buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his chest, his heartbeat. When her palms found warm skin and the solid muscle beneath, Daniel groaned.
“You feel so good,” she whispered against his mouth. “I want—”
She wasn’t even sure what she wanted, just that she needed more of him. Needed to touch him, feel him, understand what all this heat and want meant. Her hand moved down between them, found the front of his trousers. She could feel him straining against the fabric, hard and hot.
“Freya, don’t,” he gasped. “I can’t— if you touch me I’m going to—”
But his hips pushed up into her touch, betraying his words.
Curiosity consumed her, curiosity and want and the whiskey-warm courage to act on both. She undid enough buttons at his fly to slip her hand inside, fumbling through the layers until she found bare skin.
The heat shocked her first. Then the silky-soft texture over rigid hardness, the contradictory blend of silk and steel. She wrapped her fingers around him experimentally, fascinated by the heft, the way he pulsed against her palm.
Daniel’s whole body went rigid beneath her. When she stroked upward, he made a broken sound and his hands clenched on her waist.
“Oh god, Freya, I’m going to—”
A hand like iron clamped around Freya’s upper arm and hauled her backward.
She had one disorienting moment of Daniel’s shocked face, his hands reaching for her, then she was airborne. She hit the ground hard enough to knock the wind from her lungs, hay dust exploding around her.
Goss-Mother Clara stood over her, chest heaving, face twisted with something between fury and horror. The older woman was broad-shouldered from years of military work, and she’d just thrown Freya like a sack of grain.
“What in the holy hell do you think you’re doing?” The Goss-Mother’s voice could have stripped paint. “Get your hands off my son!”
Daniel scrambled upright, fumbling with his fly, trying to make himself decent with fingers that didn’t seem to be working. “Ma, I can explain—”
“Explain?” Goss-Mother Clara rounded on him. “What’s to explain? I can see what happened perfectly clear!”
Freya tried to sit up, to say something, but her mother’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip-crack.
“Clara. Step away from my daughter.”
Freya’s mother emerged from the darkness between the hay bales like an avenging angel. Behind her, festival-goers were materializing from the shadows, drawn by the commotion.
“Your daughter just had her hands on my boy’s cock!” The Goss-Mother’s voice shook. “Don’t you dare tell me to step away when she’s the one who—”
“I don’t care if she was riding him bare-assed in the town square,” the Stirling-Mother said, voice like ice. “He put hands on a Stirling daughter. You will step back. Now.”
For a moment, the two women faced each other like wolves disputing territory. Then the Goss-Mother’s shoulders sagged slightly. She stepped back, though her eyes never left Daniel.
Stirling-Mother Alexia moved to Freya, helped her to her feet with surprising gentleness. Then her expression hardened again.
“Sheriff!” she called, voice carrying across the festival square. “Sheriff Brennan, I need you here!”
“Ma’am, that’s not necessary—” Daniel started.
“You don’t get to speak,” the Stirling-Mother said flatly. “You had your chance to show sense and restraint, and you failed. Sheriff!”
Sheriff Brennan pushed through the growing crowd, hand on his gun belt. He took in the scene with one sweeping glance: Freya disheveled and hay-dusted, Daniel with his shirt still half-unbuttoned, both mothers standing like combatants, and a ring of witnesses watching avidly.
“What’s the trouble here?”
“This man.” Stirling-Mother Alexia said, voice carrying to ensure the witnesses heard every word, “This animal put his hands on my daughter. Compromised her. At a public festival. With witnesses.”
“She kissed me!” Daniel protested. “I tried to stop her, I told her we shouldn’t—”
“You’re a grown man,” Stirling-Mother said. You know the rules. You should have walked away.”
“Ma’am,” Sheriff Brennan said carefully, “if the girl initiated—”
“Are you suggesting my daughter is a harlot, Sheriff?” Stirling-Mother Alexia’s voice could have frozen fire. “That she goes around accosting men at festivals? Or are you suggesting that a man of the Goss family, raised by military fathers, didn’t have the self-control to refuse a drunk girl’s advances?”
Sheriff Brennan’s jaw tightened. He looked at Daniel, then at the watching crowd, then back at the Stirling-Mother. He already knew how this had to end.
“Daniel Goss,” he said heavily, “I’m placing you under arrest for public indecency and compromising a respectable woman.”
“What?” Daniel’s face went white. “Sheriff, you can’t—”
“I can and I am. Hands behind your back.”
“Clara!” The Goss-Mother’s voice cracked. “You know my boy. You know he wouldn’t—”
“What I know,” the Stirling-Mother said, “is that there are two dozen witnesses who saw your son with his hands on my daughter. What I know is that the law is clear. What I know is that my family’s reputation will not be destroyed because a soldier couldn’t keep his cock in his trousers.”
Sheriff Brennan pulled Daniel’s hands behind his back, securing them with practiced efficiency. Daniel didn’t resist, but his eyes found Freya’s across the space between them.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “Freya, I’m so sorry.”
Then the crowd parted as four men arrived like a stormfront. The Stirling-Fathers. All four of them.
Papa John got there first, hands clenched into fists. Papa Marcus and Papa Will flanked him like basalt. Papa Thomas brought up the rear with a kind of resigned and quiet fury that was somehow more terrifying than shouting.
Freya wanted to protest, wanted to explain that she’d started it, that Daniel had tried to stop her, that this was all wrong. But Papa Thomas’s hand on her shoulder was like a shackle, and her mother’s expression promised consequences if she spoke.
So she stayed silent as the sheriff led Daniel away through the festival crowd. Stayed silent as two men appeared from the shadows, moving to toward their mother and their arrested brother.
Mattias Goss looked like he’d been carved from stone. His face was completely expressionless as he watched his brother being led away in shackles. Edwin Goss looked like he might be sick. Newly back from schooling out East, his boyish face was pale in the torchlight.
Both brothers turned to look at Freya as they passed. Mattias’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes tracked her with the cold assessment of a tactical evaluation. Edwin’s gaze held hers with a kind of hollow recognition, like he’d seen this pattern before and knew exactly how it would end.
Behind them, Goss-Mother Clara stumbled through the crowd. She moved like a woman underwater, slow and unsteady. When she reached the sheriff, her hand went to Daniel’s shoulder—not restraining, just touching, like she needed to confirm he was still in the world.
Her eyes found Freya’s. There was no anger there, just the hollow, empty look of a woman who’d already buried two husbands and was now watching her son be led away to a fate she couldn’t control. A woman who’d survived the outbreak, survived widowhood, survived poverty, and was now facing the destruction of her sons’ futures.
Three men stood silhouetted in the torchlight. Mattias with his stony face and calculating eyes. Edwin with his sick horror and hollow recognition. Daniel with his head down and shoulders hunched, disappearing into the darkness between the sheriff and his brothers.
The Goss-Mother’s hand fell from Daniel’s shoulder.
Freya’s stomach turned to ice.
She understood, in that moment, exactly what she’d done. Not just to Daniel. To all of them.
The crowd murmured and whispered, already constructing the narrative that would follow the Goss brothers for the rest of their lives. Already calculating the social cost of association.
The Goss-Mother’s eyes stayed locked on Freya’s. Not accusing, only bearing witness to the moment her family’s future died.
Papa Thomas’s hand tightened on Freya’s shoulder.
“Home,” he said quietly. “Now.”
