Chapter 7
Faith
Dinnerisquietinthe best way, comfortable silences punctuated by easy conversation, the kind that doesn't need to fill every gap. The venison chili is rich and hearty, seasoned with herbs I can't quite identify but that taste like the forest smells.
"This is incredible," I say around a mouthful. "Seriously, you could open a restaurant."
He snorts. "Right. 'Grumpy Mountain Man's Eatery.' I'm sure that'd go over well."
"I'd eat there every day."
His eyes meet mine across the small table, something warm flickering there. "You say that now. Wait till you see my limited menu."
"Quality over quantity." I gesture with my spoon. "This is proof."
After dinner, I insist on doing dishes while he adds more wood to the fire. We move around each other with surprising ease, like we've done this dance a hundred times before.
When the kitchen is clean, I find him at his workbench, running his hand over an unfinished toy—a carousel horse, delicate and beautiful, frozen mid-gallop.
"That one's special," I observe, moving to stand beside him.
"It was going to be for..." He pauses, jaw working. "My dad and I started it together. Right before he got sick. Never finished it."
My heart squeezes. "May I?"
He nods, and I reach out to trace the carved mane, the powerful arch of the neck. Even unfinished, it's breathtaking. You can see two different hands in the work—one more practiced, one learning.
"Why didn't you finish it?"
"Couldn't." His voice is rough. "Every time I tried, I'd just... freeze up. See his hands instead of mine. Hear his voice telling me to watch the grain."
I turn to face him fully. "What would he want you to do with it?"
Beau is quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the carousel horse. "He'd want me to finish it."
"Then maybe it's time."
He looks at me, something vulnerable in his eyes. "I don't know if I remember how he wanted it done."
"So do it your way." I pick up a piece of sandpaper from the bench, hold it out to him. "Finish what he started, but make it yours too. That's not betraying his memory—it's honoring it."
His hand closes over the sandpaper, his fingers brushing mine. "Will you help me?"
"I don't know anything about woodworking."
"I'll teach you." His lips quirk up slightly. "Fair warning, I'm not very patient."
"Liar. I've watched you work. You're incredibly patient."
"With wood, maybe. People are different."
"Lucky for you, I'm very patient with grumpy mountain men." I hip-check him gently. "So, what do I do first?"
What follows is an hour of the most intimatenon-intimateactivity I've ever experienced. Beau stands behind me, his chest against my back, his arms bracketing mine as he guides my hands over the wood. His breath is warm against my ear as he explains grain direction, pressure, the feel of wood getting smoother under your touch.
"Like this," he murmurs, his hand covering mine, moving in long, even strokes. "You have to feel it. The wood tells you when it's ready."
My pulse is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with woodworking. "How do you know?"
