Chapter Three

Wynter

As soon as my stepsisters and their mother, all of whom had returned to their beds for breakfast, were served, I fled outdoors to the barn and chicken coop to care for the animals. Back when Daddy was still with us, it had been a family chore, well, family meaning he and I. Stepmama and her daughters had various reasons for not helping. Allergies to dust, fur, feathers, hair, straw… Headaches, backaches, and it’s not ladylike .

But I didn’t mind. It was so much better, just the two of us doing the milking in the warm barn on a cold morning, the cow’s breath steaming in the air. Brushing the horses he loved that we no longer had because they were too expensive to feed and had been sold away to someone else in the pack. I hoped every day they were taking care of them.

I cleaned Bossie’s stall and forked in some fresh straw bedding, fed and watered her, and gave her a good scratching around the ears and a kiss on the nose. “Thanks for the milk. You are my best friend.”

The chickens were such good layers and really didn’t take much work. I made sure to fix their coop when necessary and let them out to bustle around in the yard and take dust baths while hunting for insect snacks on nice days. Like this one.

“Might be warm enough in a while, girls, if you’re up for playing?”

Clucking and fluffing of wings ensued, which I translated to mean, “Why are we waiting? We want to play now!”

“In a bit.” I checked all the nesting boxes and found a dozen or so eggs. Not as many as usual, and I would have to try to convince my stepmama, as I did every year, that it was because of the weather and time of year and not because the chickens were lazy or past their prime and needed to be eaten. “Just have your breakfast.” I filled their trough with grain and some fruit and vegetable trimmings and rinsed out their bowl before pouring in clean, fresh water. “I’ll be back later.”

I didn’t really think the animals answered me. Not in words, but I knew they appreciated my efforts. They weren’t shifters, just ordinary beasts, but they reacted honestly to my behavior and my words. They didn’t seek out ways to be cruel to me, to make me feel like less than a human or a wolf shifter.

Returning to the barn to make sure I’d closed the cow’s stall properly, I caught my reflection in the water barrel. A smile lifted my lips, just a bit, but it fell as an unladylike shriek from the house told me my presence was needed to do something any of the three of them could do for herself. One of a variety of tasks not nearly as pleasant as caring for our animals. But this afternoon, I’d slip out again. I was preparing the garden beds for their long sleep and to be ready for planting in the spring. We didn’t grow anything to sell, just enough for our needs, or many of them. The stepsisters had exotic tastes and demanded many things out of season that had to be bought at great cost. Daddy had left enough to keep us comfortable, or so I believed, but if they continued to gobble imported chocolates and rare coffee that had been through some animal’s digestive tract and lots of things in small jars that cost more than the finest steak, it would not last forever.

Trudging back to the house, I swung by my shed and tucked an egg behind my bed. I didn’t have a way to cook it, but it was a good source of protein, even raw.

***

The shriek coming from inside the house was, to my relief, a squeal of happiness instead of something they deemed horrifying like a mouse or a cobweb in a corner somewhere.

As I gathered the plates from breakfast, haphazardly discarded outside their respective bedrooms, as though this were a hotel instead of a home, I listened to them talk about what was scream-worthy. Not that I’d ever been to a hotel, but I had read about them in Calla and Violet’s discarded paperbacks.

They were excited about the upcoming event at another pack, one we had never visited before, at least that I knew of. It had been a while since I’d been anywhere really.

And they had heard some out-of-town alphas would be in attendance.

My stepsisters were already tossing clothing, hanger by hanger, piece by piece, from their closets and making another mess for me to clean up.

While I washed dishes, I gathered their uneaten food to give it to the pig, Goliath. I’d named him myself. It was a mistake, of course, to name him that. If I had known my stepmama intended to have him roasted whole for Christmas, I would’ve named him Lovey or something similar, a name that would make one stop to think if they really wanted to slaughter an innocent creature for their own gluttony. He was gray and white, and I’d convinced myself that he smiled when he saw me coming near. He would have French toast this morning since most of the breakfast had been refused after the invitation came in the mail. I was not allowed to eat their breakfast leftovers, since my stepmama said I got too fat if I ate more than once a day. Not that I wanted their messes anyway.

I heard Violet say her pants were too tight.

Maybe the extra butter and syrup weren’t such a good idea after all.

After the breakfast mess was cleaned up, I sighed. This was only the beginning of my day. I threw in a load of washing and took the rest out of the dryer. Each member of the family had a different way they wanted things folded. I had made myself a guide in case I forgot. My stepmama had to have everything hung, even her satin panties and bras. Calla wanted all her clothes ironed, including underthings and sheets. Violet was somewhat easy but would throw a fit if her socks were rolled instead of folded in half.

They were quite particular for people who did nothing but lie around all day.

“Wynter, get up here!” At the ear-piercing scream, I ran up the stairs as fast as I could. They were gathered together, all trying on clothes and complaining about muffin tops and shrinking fabric. The only thing shrinking around here was my will to live.

“Did you wash all of our clothes in hot water? We told you to hang these shirts to dry!” Violet growled.

I took a breath to correct my tone. Tone was everything to them. “I did as you asked,” I replied.

Calla couldn’t even get her newest pair of jeans zipped at the top. She had boasted to me that they cost more than my entire shed, and here she was trying to fit too much sausage into too little casing.

Violet lay on the bed, trying to zip her own pants and then giving up. “Read it again, Mama. I want to hear it again.” Her gaze darted to me. She didn’t want to have it read to her again; she wanted me to hear it.

“The Iron Prowlers invite you to a ball with run to follow. All are invited regardless of age or status, but particularly single females.”

I was not sure who the Iron Prowlers were, and it was the most pragmatic of invitations on the face of the earth and yet, my stepsisters shrieked again and kicked their legs as Stepmama read it.

A boldness bubbled inside me. The invitation said any age or status. That meant all shifters in the area.

“Can I go?” I knew my mistake as soon as the last word kissed my lips as it exited my mouth.

Silence filled the air.

Calla and Violet burst into laughter and changed their focus from their clothes to me.

“Oh, Wynter, of course you can,” Stepmama said.

My heart nearly pushed through my chest and flopped onto the floor.

“When Goliath flies.” Her mouth pulled up on one side in a snide smile. “Did you really think they meant you? Look at yourself in the mirror, Wynter. If you showed up, they would think you were one of the cleaning staff. Besides, you know better. You are forbidden to shift.”