“I’ll help.” He turned back around and held his arm out to the side like a sheltering wing. Alfie stepped into it, taking the gun in his hands. It did prove unwieldy for him, but Atlas steadied it, adding his own hands to take some of the weight and stood behind her son to help him take aim. After a few more instructions, the ball sped through the air and whistled through the tree limbs, hitting the earth, likely, somewhere beyond. All Clara’s worry for a bit of smoke and sound. She pressed her hand to her hammering heart and steadied her breathing. All well. Everything well.
“My turn,” Atlas said.
“Isn’t there another way to retrieve the mistletoe?” she asked.
“None so fun.” He grinned, reloaded the gun, and without Alfie’s help this time, hit the tree. It shook, and the thin branch holding the plant far above creaked and tilted. Another shot, another hit, and the branch snapped, toppled, got stuck in lower branches.
“Ah, there’s your chance, Alfie.” Atlas clapped the boy on the back. “Go up and retrieve it.”
Alfie swung himself up onto the lowest branch almost before Atlas finished speaking and almost as quickly tugged and pulled himself up to the branch with the mistletoe.
“Got it!” he called out.
“Now come down,” Clara answered.
“Throw the mistletoe down first.” Atlas stood beside her, hands on his hips, gaze following Alfie’s every move.
She elbowed his ribs. “You seem more worried over him now than you were with the rifle.”
“And you are less worried now. Shooting and climbing are two very different activities. I have less experience with the latter.”
“He’s an excellent climber.”
“I know. I still worry. He’ll be an excellent shot one day.”
If he had Atlas to teach him. “I know. I still worry. Not just about Alfie.”
He made an abrupt quarter turn, crossing his arms over his chest, his formerly warm gaze shooting upward to watch Alfie. He’d shut her out.
“Atlas, please?—”
“Bloody hell.” The curse ripped from his teeth, and he lunged for the tree.
Alfie was falling. The mistletoe hit the ground, and the only thing that kept Alfie from doing the same was desperate hands, grasping, wild legs wheeling, arms reaching out, clutching branches, trying to steady and stop.
But they only slowed, and Alfie’s body fell through sky.
The moment seemed to slow as Clara pushed through air thick as molasses to reach her son. He fell for an eternity. He fell for less than a second. He fell forever. And he had already fallen.
And Atlas would never reach him. But then he did, and Alfie had become a tiny lamb, balled and quivering in the large man’s arms. And Atlas’s chest heaved up and down, his arms like steel around her son.
“Alfie, look at me.” Atlas’s deep voice demanded obedience, but Alfie had curled into his chest.
Clara pushed his twig-strewn hair back from his face. “Are you hurt, darling?”
Alfie froze, then turned away from Atlas to peek as Clara, to shake his head.
“Breathe,” Atlas commanded.
And then on a small explosion, Alfie inhaled, exhaled, released all the fear he’d held inside his lungs. “I-I’m not hurt.” Each word small, hesitant.
Holding her son tight, Atlas strode toward the cart.
“No! Wait,” Alfie called back. “We can’t leave!” He wiggled. “The mistletoe. And Aunt Matilda needs greenery to decorate and?—”
“And you just fell from a tree, Alfie.” Clara strode alongside Atlas, hands fisted in her muff to hide their shaking.
“I’m well. Perfectly well.” He wiggled with more vigor. “I’ve fallen before.”
