When Darcy stood to leave, Emma walked her to the door. “You’re stronger than you think, Darcy Nolan—or Caitlin West, whichever name you choose. You keep moving forward. You hear?”
Darcy nodded, words lost behind the knot in her chest.
That night, as she settled into her camper, the silence of the forest surrounded her.
Darcy sat on her bed, knees drawn up, staring out at the moonlit creek.
“Thank you, Grandma,” she whispered into the dark. “For sending me here. For sending me her.”
Somewhere beyond the trees, a dove cooed—a soft, lingering sound that felt almost like an answer.
Chapter 17
Flicker
Sheriff Burke Scott
Burke stopped by the Visitor Center late Friday morning to drop off tourism pamphlets and ended up leaning against the counter while Mary Lou poured him coffee. Lou never missed a chance to chat.
She grinned over her cup. “You’ll get a kick out of this. I stopped up at Moonshine Creek yesterday to see Ned—he was whittling a pine twig, telling fish tales, as usual—and guess who wandered up to the market while I was there? Our new neighbor—Darcy. Sweet girl. We told her she ought to get out more, see a little of Sylva.”
Burke smiled. “Recruiting for the nightlife now, are we?”
Lou leaned in, drumming her fingernails—painted bright pink today—on the counter, eyes bright. “Well,” she whispered, “I told her she just might want to be at Catch My Draft tonight—if you catch my drift.”
She chuckled—a hearty, infectious laugh that filled the whole Visitor Center.
Burke shook his head. “You’re something else, Lou.”
“Just trying to help folks find their footing, hon. Sometimes that starts with a little music and company.”
He nodded back, the corner of his mouth kicking up. “You’ve got a heart the size of this mountain.”
Later That Evening.
When music drifted down Main Street and weekend laughter spilled from open doors, Burke found himself steering his truck toward Catch My Draft—Sylva’s favorite hangout, where half the county gathered on a Friday night.
It was lively inside: old brick walls strung with lights, two stories of chatter and blues-rock. The air was thick with warmth, beer, and the faint sweetness of citrus from the bar. Burke slid onto his usual end seat downstairs, where Mike Stevens was tending bar.
“Sheriff! What can I get ya?” Mike called over the noise.
“Sam Adams.”
Mike popped the cap and slid the bottle across. Burke half-listened to the beat overhead until movement by the door caught his eye.
Darcy—without a glance his way—black slacks, sleeveless top, the low-cut back catching the light—started up the stairs toward the Sky Bar. Two men turned to watch her pass. Burke tamped down the flicker of jealousy, irritated by how quick it came.
He tried not to stare, but the sway of her walk made him forget his beer.
“Sorry, Mike. Got distracted.”
Mike grinned. “Then go get distracted upstairs. Pete and the boys are killin’ it tonight.”
Burke grabbed his beer and climbed. Fairy lights and summer air wrapped the rooftop in a soft glow. Spotting Darcy near the bar, half-hidden behind a taller man, he called:
“Darcy! Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Her head turned, eyes lighting. “Oh—hi, Sheriff!”
