The storm stripped half the leaves off the vines and left everything else gleaming. I should be focused on cleanup, but all I can think about is the man wearing the hockey mask. The silence. The way the air shifted before he moved.
I tell myself again it was a prank, maybe a farmhand from down in the valley, bored out of his mind—but the thought doesn’t sit right.
I’m double-checking the cellar door when I hear tires crunching over the gravel drive.
My stomach tightens.
For a split second, I see him again in my mind—broad shoulders, black fabric, hockey mask—and my fingers tighten around the handle of the rake I’ve been using to clear debris.
Then a sleek black truck comes into view, too polished to belong to anyone from town.
A man climbs out—tall, lean, hair the color of whiskey left too long in the sun. He wears jeans, a white T-shirt, and the kind of grin that’s both apology and invitation.
He lifts a hand. “Morning. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t,” I lie, lowering the rake just enough that it doesn’t look like a weapon. “Can I help you?”
He glances around, taking in the view of the estate like he’s been here before. “Heard you might be looking for some help cleaning up after the storm.”
“I’m not.”
“Shame.” He nods toward the fallen branch half blocking the drive. “Because that oak’s not going to move itself.”
I study him, trying to place the face. There’s something about him—sharp around the edges, but warm. Easy. The opposite of the man from last night.
He offers his hand. “Cal.”
I hesitate before shaking it. His grip is strong, confident.
“Raine Voss.”
“I know.” His smile widens. “Shadow Falls is small. Word travels fast.”
“Does it also tell you to show up uninvited?”
He laughs. “Depends on who’s asking. Sometimes it tells me to bring a saw and do a good deed.”
“And other times?”
“Other times, it tells me the new neighbor’s ruffling feathers and might need a friend.”
Something flickers behind his easy tone—curiosity, maybe warning. “Let me guess,” I say. “You work for the Blackwells.”
That grin doesn’t falter, but it sharpens. “You say that like it’s a crime.”
“Depends which one. I’m not exactly popular with the eldest brother.”
He laughs, a low, genuine sound that makes the tension in my shoulders loosen a little. “Fair enough. I run some of the operations down at the distillery. Logistics, mostly. My brother’s the one who worries about permits and politics.”
My shoulders tense. “So you’re the charming one.”
“Always have been.” He glances toward the vines. “You’re reopening, right? Weddings, tastings, all that?”
“That’s the plan.”
“Good. About time someone brought this place back to life.”
The compliment catches me off guard. “You don’t sound like a Blackwell.”
