“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Rose and I were thick as thieves all through school. We used to dream under those big oaks before she moved away. Her leaving—well, it was hard on both of us.”
The woman brightened, lifting the basket again. “Come now, let’s not stand in the sun. If you’ll join me on the porch, I’ll pour us some lemonade, and you can tell me all about yourself. I swear, you look just like her.”
Darcy hesitated, unease flickering as she realized what she’d revealed—not her real name, but her grandmother’s. Even so, the warmth in the woman’s invitation eased her.
After spending most of the afternoon with Emma Thompson—sharing stories, laughter, and gentle memories of her grandmother—Darcy felt changed in a way she hadn’t expected. Sitting on Emma’s porch, she felt a quiet hum beneath her skin, as if the house itself remembered her grandmother. For the first time in years, she could almost sense Rose nearby—soft laughter, the faint scent of lilacs and flour dust, the warmth that used to fill her dreams.
Those dreams had stopped after Jason hit her. For months, even sleep had belonged to fear. But here, surrounded by echoes of her grandmother’s world, something in her loosened. She could feel Rose again—not as a ghost, but as a steadying hand, reminding her she wasn’t truly alone.
Jason might hold her past, but not her future. That belonged to her now.
As she left the country road behind, Sylva welcomed her in golden-hour light. Laughter spilled from families strollingbetween shops, neighbors lingered in easy conversation, and the air glowed with the rhythm of small-town life.
Darcy wandered the streets, letting the sights and sounds wrap around her. She lingered in boutiques and art galleries, let her hand glide over handcrafted pottery and dog-eared books—grounding herself in this place, letting its textures and everyday life stitch her heart back together, thread by small, comforting thread.
Drawn eventually to Blue Ridge Brew, she lost herself in the shop’s warmth—the whoosh of espresso, the low murmur of conversation, the soft creak of old wooden floors. With a latte in hand and a cookie on her plate, Darcy sank into a battered armchair, half absorbed in a paperback, half savoring the gentle anonymity of being a stranger in a new town.
It wasn’t just peace she found there—it was the faint outline of belonging, fragile but alive.
By the time evening brushed the sky with watercolor pinks and blues, she wound her way home to Moonshine RV Park. The hum of her camper and the simple rhythm of making dinner soothed her.
Outside, the trees whispered in the dusk. Inside, the quiet wrapped her close. For the first time in a long while, Darcy let herself believe her grandmother’s love might have followed her here—waiting to help her find her way home again.
Starting over didn’t have to mean starting alone.
Chapter 12
Crossroads
Sheriff Burke Scott
The new day broke clear and bright over Sylva. Sheriff Burke Scott was already on patrol, sunlight flashing across his windshield as he rolled down Main Street. His thoughts weren’t really on stop signs and storefronts. Part of him was working the usual beats, but another part was scanning, hoping for that blue Jeep.
He kept seeing her in his mind: the girl on the porch with Ned, glancing around like she expected someone to step out of the shadows. That kind of unease didn’t come from nowhere, and it raised his hackles. He couldn’t shake the feeling something was off—there was a story there, and it wasn’t a simple one.
Something in her eyes didn’t match her words. He’d learned to pay attention when that happened. He caught his reflection in the rearview and gave a short, humorless snort.Careful, Scott. You’re starting to sound like one of those nosy old ladies down at the beauty shop.
When he finally spotted the Jeep, curiosity got the better of him. He ran the plates. The answer—registered to FranciscoRossi, out in Colorado—only piqued his interest further. Why would her Jeep be registered to somebody else?
Burke leaned back, frowning at the screen. Francisco Rossi. The name didn’t ring any bells. He knew most families in the county, and none of them were Rossi. Whoever the guy was, he trusted her enough to put his vehicle in her hands. Husband? Boyfriend? A horn blared on Main Street, snapping the thread.
He rubbed a thumb along his chin, thinking it through. Colorado’s a long way to come for a fresh start. Too far. Too deliberate. People didn’t drift to Sylva from that far west without a reason.
He knew running plates without cause wasn’t exactly by the book. But he also knew he’d sleep better for doing it.
The more he thought about her, the more he couldn’t shake the sense that trouble had followed her here.
A kid on a bike waved as he passed the hardware store. Burke lifted a hand without thinking. The rhythm of the town never changed—coffee brewing at Lucy’s, old men arguing over feed prices, a dog barking from the courthouse steps. Maybe that was why her unease had gotten under his skin; it didn’t fit here.
He noticed Scout’s truck parked outside City Limits Café and figured it was time for lunch. Inside, Scout sat at the counter, working through a plate of fries, as Willow called out, “Howdy, Sheriff! What’ll it be?”
“I’ll take the special and a Diet Coke.”
Willow slid his drink down the counter and vanished into the kitchen. Burke claimed the seat beside Scout.
“What’s up?” Scout asked, mouth half full.
“Not much. You?”
