When you’re a barmaid, marriage proposals are a natural part of the job. A drunkard can find salvation in the bottom of a pint glass as easily as he can find love gazing across a bar. Luckily for me, I’m very good at saying no.

“Still no, Shep,” I say firmly. “Don’t you remember I turned you down yesterday?”

I set another tankard of ale on the bar and blink at the glassy-eyed farmer who just asked me to marry him for the tenth time this month. Will this jackass ever learn?

“Come on now. I’m serious, Aren,” he slurs. His black, beady eyes are unfocused and glassy. “What’re you gonna do with your life? Clean mugs all day? You’d be a good wife. You’re always a’workin’. It’s time you settled down.”

This man exhausts me. Or is it all of the men in this town? In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more tired. I’m tired all the way to my bones.

And I’m only twenty-five.

My shoulders sag as I sigh, long and deep. There’s no point in letting Shephard Belmis get to me. He’s a mouse to be toyed with, and I’m the cat.

His drinking buddy, another ruddy-faced farmer, slaps him hard on the side of his head. “Leave ’er alone, arsehole. You’re wasted. Lady’s already told you no several times.”

“This is your last chance! Marry me, Aren. Ye’d make a good wife and ma. With that sturdy—hic—back of yers. Sturdiest back in all of Evandale, and that’s saying something!”

The nerve of this bastard. Where’s the nearest cliff so I can promptly hurl myself off of it? I would rather die than marry a man who only sees me as a hardworking mule.

Without looking at the geezer, I fold my rag and set it neatly on the bar and prepare to bat around dear ol’ Shep. I lean my forearms on the sticky counter, prop my chin on my hands, and flutter my eyelashes.

“A sturdy back! Such a compliment! Please, tell me more!”

“Well, since the wife passed, my kids ain’t got no one to look after them,” he whines.

“No one? Aren’t you sitting right here? Unless you’re a...” I pause and then gasp for effect. “...a ghost!”