I’d said yes the other night and meant it. I’d said yes because I wanted to and because I trusted the hand that steadied me when I lost a step. That was still true. But I’d built a life that ran smoothly because I didn’t let feelings steer. I had a job that kept people safe because I didn’t gamble on exceptions. I knew what it cost to patch broken rules. Some costs never cleared.
My phone buzzed. Dane again.
Dane: Just checking in. I want to see you before Thursday, but I’ll take what you can give.
My chest ached. I set the phone facedown like that would mute the hope in his words.
I closed the laptop, emptied my mug and put it in the dishwasher. I even picked up the cardigan and hung it in the closet instead of leaving it where I would see it.
Then I wrote him back.
Me: Busy week. Thursday works.
He replied after a minute.
Dane: Understood. I’m not going anywhere.
I wanted to believe him, but my instincts screamed not to.
Outside, the streetlights blinked on in a chain that always soothed me. It was predictable and sequential. Order eased my anxiety. It made sense and could be counted on. Not like emotions. Not like promises that could be broken on a whim.
I set my alarm. I lined up my pens. I slid the Woodshed packet into the agenda folder and told myself order wasn’t a punishment. It was a kindness I knew how to offer, even to myself.
CHAPTER 9
DANE
Thursday’s meeting came and went. Rowan hadn’t looked at me once the entire time. She’d sat three rows down at the council table while I presented the packet she’d shepherded into shape. She’d asked questions, listened without expression, and recommended approval with conditions. Her voice was steady, but her eyes never met mine.
The resolution passed. I shook hands. I walked out of the meeting with a stamped packet and an ache under my ribs that no piece of paper could soothe.
It had been over a week since I’d seen her. I’d tried to do everything right, but still managed to fuck it up. The only reason I wasn’t wallowing in the bottom of a bucket of beer was because Founders’ Festival required all hands on deck, and I refused to let the town down.
From sunrise on Saturday, the festival swallowed Hard Timber whole. By eight, Main Street was barricaded, and the town looked like it had been dipped in flannel and cinnamon. Booths went up in neat rows. The lumberjack crew unloaded saw horses and crosscut saws at the park, the buzz of a small generator mixing with the clack of folding tables and the sound of multiple bands warming up their instruments.
I’d been up since before dawn. Trace and I hauled hay bales to ring the dance square. Harlan muscled a stack of pop-up tents into place like they didn’t weigh eighty pounds apiece. I wrangled extension cords for the band shell and argued with a delivery driver who decided the center of the street was the best spot to park his truck for thirty minutes.
“Five minutes,” he said, one leg already up on the bumper.
“Two,” I said. “And if you block Sabrina’s milk delivery, she’ll turn you into compost.”
By ten, the parade floats had lined up. There were fire trucks, a 4-H float with a collection of kids and nervous farm animals, the elementary school band in shirts two sizes too big, and the Timber Mill Inn’s wagon with a vintage trunk stacked high in the back.
When the parade finally started, I jogged next to a pickup piled with pumpkins and a banner that read FOUNDERS’ FALL FESTIVAL. For all the prep work, the whole thing only lasted about a half hour. When the last float cleared the square, I helped Thatcher move sawhorses to open the street and checked the cable run to the stage one more time.
He handed me a spare zip tie without looking. “You good?”
“Fine.” I cinched the tie and leaned back on my heels. “Have you seen Holt?”
“He’s talking to Calla near the kids’ games. Ridge is somewhere around.”
Sabrina walked up with a tray balanced on one hand and a permanent grin. “Festival fuel, gentlemen. Don’t pretend you don’t need it.”
I took two to-go cups, handed one to Thatcher, and tipped the lid off mine. The smell wrapped around me like a warm hug full of coffee, maple, and a hint of spice. “Thanks. Can you put it on my tab?”
“It’s on the house,” she said before turning away to offer her special festival fuel to some other volunteers.
By noon, the booths were four people deep and a huge knot had settled between my shoulder blades. I kept moving. If I moved, I didn’t think about how Rowan had iced me out with polite, perfect texts.
