Always Emily by Michaela MacColl Page B

the odd scene with Branwell had never taken place. “As I was saying before we were interrupted, please respect my wishes and don’tmeddle with my sister’s well-being.” Without waiting for her answer, he left.
    Charlotte stood in the doorway, watching his figure go up the path toward the moors and Ponden Hall. She bit her thumbnail and said to his retreating back, “In my own home, no one tells me what to do.”

“A rough fellow, rather. . . . 
Is not that his character?”
“Rough as a saw-edge, and hard as whinstone!
The less you meddle with
him the better.”
“He must have had some ups and downs in life
to make him such a churl.
Do you know anything of his history?”

    E mily’s whole world shrank to the round opening of the pistol pointing at her heart. Her entire body clenched against the anticipated impact of a bullet. The mastiff, Keeper, pressed his body against her leg and growled at the man.
    â€œWho are you?” the man holding the gun repeated angrily. He peered into the dim light under the canvas, trying to see her clearly. “And what have you done to my dog?”
    â€œI won’t say anything with a gun pointed at me,” Emily said, with a composure she did not feel.
    Once he heard her voice, the gun wavered in his hand. “You’re not a Gypsy,” he said. “You sound like a lady.”
    â€œBut you, sir, cannot claim to be a gentleman until you put that gun away.”
    The stranger slowly lowered his arm. “I beg your pardon,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
    Exulting that even though she was clearly in the wrong, the stranger was apologizing to her, Emily studied him more closely. He was tall, with dark wavy hair and blue eyes that reminded her of cornflowers. To her surprise, he was not much older than she; perhaps he was nineteen or twenty. His features were roughened by wind and sun, but his lips were finely shaped, even when pursed in confusion. He seemed oddly familiar. But how? She rarely met young men.
    â€œYou’ve had a good look at me,” he said finally. “Now, tell me who you are and why you’re pawing through my things.”
    â€œI’m not sure I want to talk with a man who abuses animals and terrorizes young women.”
    He frowned. “I’ve never abused an animal in my life.”
    Emily couldn’t help but nod her approval of his priorities. She, too, would put a dog’s welfare ahead of a girl’s. “He had no food or water. I’d call that abuse, wouldn’t you?”
    The man ducked under the canvas door and strode over to the rocks by the campfire. Emily followed, grateful to escape theconfined space. The man held up a bowl, slick with moisture, that had been turned over. “I left him water, but he’s excitable and knocks it over often as not.”
    â€œOh.” Her hand dropped to Keeper’s head and massaged the knobs on his skull. “But why was he tied up?”
    â€œI’ve had an intruder,” he said, not noticing Emily’s instinctive flinch. “But as you can see, he’s a terrible watchdog.”
    â€œHis collar was too small,” Emily accused.
    â€œBecause he’s growing so fast. I ordered a new one last week.” A genial smile appeared on his face; Emily liked the way it made his eyes crinkle. “Is the inquisition over?”
    â€œFor now,” Emily said begrudgingly. The bite wound on her arm ached as though to punish her for misjudging the man. “Will you put away that gun?”
    â€œIn return, you must tell me why you are searching my things.” He put the pistol in his pocket. “Why don’t you sit down? I suspect it may be a long story.” He indicated a rock.
    â€œThank you,” Emily said, perching on the rock and tucking her skirt behind her knees. Keeper settled down next to her feet. “You’ve not told me