“Hey, Wells! There’s still plenty of achehoney to spare,” she calls, holding up a jar wrapped in twine. “This is a full-moon batch from last season. You look like you need it.”
“Very much so.”
She gives me a sympathetic once-over. “You limping again?”
“Only slightly.”
“You need to soak your wrist, too.”
“Already on the list.”
“Good,” she says, and then the screen door bangs behind her as a small voice calls, “Mama!”
A blur of curls and fleece pajamas barrels onto the porch. Winnie scoops her up with practiced ease.
“Morning, Goldie,” I say. Marigold Marlowe. Three years old and already the sunniest thing on this side of the ridge.
She hides her face against her mom’s shoulder, peeking out with one wary eye.
“Shy today,” Winnie murmurs, smoothing Goldie’s hair.
I smile and shift my weight against the gate. Funny how fast it all changed for her. One summer, Winnie was just the girl who knew bees better than anyone, running the flower stand with her parents. Then came the out-of-towner—a whirlwind few months that left her with a baby and a lot of unanswered questions.
He didn’t stick, but she did. Continued to build on Honeywild with her own hands. Raised Goldie with the same grit she’s always had. No one in town blames her. If anything, they circle tighter around her and the little one, like hives around their queen.
She nudges the jar into my hands. “Heard Elspeth’s granddaughter’s back. How’s that going?”
“Word’s spread already?”
Winnie’s grin is quick, amused. “This is Blue Willow, Wells. Bees travel faster than cell towers.”
Back home—real home, the one I left behind in Boston—neighbors kept to themselves unless they needed something. People didn’t ask questions, and they sure as hell didn’t offer help unless there was something in it for them.
Here, everyone knows everything. They’ll leave a casserole on your porch if they think you’re hungry and show up with a wrench if your pipes make a strange noise. It’s comforting, most of the time.
It also means nothing stays quiet for long. Not grief. Not pain. Not even a girl returning to a house in the dead of winter, when the sun had already gone down and the rest of the town seemed to lean in, listening.
“It’s going how it’s going,” I say, tucking the jar under my arm. “Thanks for the honey. I’ll be seein’ ya, Winnie.” I nod toGoldie, still curled against her mom’s shoulder. “You behave for your mama, sunshine.”
Goldie blinks at me solemnly, then pops her lips to make a strange sound. Winnie laughs under her breath.
“Let me know if you need help with anything sticky,” she says. “We both know how tough a Hart can be.”
I half-ass a two-finger salute and start back down the path, the ache in my shoulder pulsing with every step. By the time I reach the inn, the sun’s cresting pale and low over Wick’s Ridge. Midmorning now.
I wonder if Elsie made it back to the house to change or if she’s still stomping through town trying to strong-arm a miracle out of Bobby, coffee stain and all.
Once I’m back inside the kitchen, snow boots scraped outside the door, I finally unscrew the jar of achehoney and take a long, slow spoonful. Let it coat my throat, settle beneath my ribs.
“Is that from Honeywild?”
I jolt, wince a little at the sound of Elsie’s voice. “Obviously.”
She peers over. “Can I try some?”
“Why?”
“Haven’t tasted it in years. Grandma always used to give me some when I got banged up. Swore it could perform miracles.”
