“More every day.”
She paid for milk and matches, then stepped back into the evening. Somewhere in the trees, a barred owl called. The creek shouldered past the rocks, insistent and bright.
She was halfway to the Bambi when she saw him—a man in a flannel shirt standing by the bathhouse, shoulders broad, head tilted as if listening.
Her steps stuttered. Even in the porch light, that stance—the same as the man in Stacks.
He turned slightly, and the light caught the edge of a beard.
She didn’t wait for more.Inside. Lock. Shades down. Doorstop in place.She stood with her back to the door, counting seconds until calm returned.
Nothing but the creek and the night.
She set the milk in the tiny fridge, lit a match, and let the candle burn low.
Tomorrow,she told herself.
Tomorrow waterfalls and trees and the sound of something that isn’t fear.
Saturday
The ground sloped gently upward as they walked, each step carrying them deeper into the hush of green. A sliver of sunlight danced along the ridge ahead, and small stones shifted quietly beneath their shoes. Somewhere above, a woodpecker tapped atits work; Darcy let the quiet fill her, the warmth of the woods edging out the last of her restless thoughts.
The trail eased her into believing again. Pine needles softened the path. The air smelled of moss and water. Burke set the pace a shade slower than her comfort zone and a shade faster than her worry zone.
“Almost there,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.
“I’ll take your word for it.”
The falls revealed themselves in layers—first the hush, then the spray, then the sudden white rush spilling into a pool rimmed with rocks the color of thunderclouds.
They sat on a flat slab just far enough from the spray to stay dry. Burke handed her water and a Granny Smith from his pack.
“Locals come early,” he said. “By now we usually get it to ourselves.”
She studied his profile—sun flickering across his thoughtful eyes, the sweep of his nose and brow, a quiet intensity as he watched the water.
“You grew up here,” she said.
“Pretty much.” He traced a nick on the apple. “Some places don’t let go of you, even when you think you want them to.”
He told her about Jackson Valley University, about pulling his dad’s badge from a drawer the day he decided to take the exam, about the first time Main Street felt different because he was the man people waved to for help. Then his voice thinned, and he told her about Anna—nursing school, a car crossing the line, a funeral that left him hollow.
Darcy kept her hands around the bottle, condensation slick and cold. “Burke,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded once. “You learn to live with ghosts,” he said. “Some weigh more than others.”
She didn’t think; she reached. Her fingers found his, and he didn’t pull away. They sat like that a long time, the falls talking for them.
On the way down, her shoe slipped on a damp stone, and he caught her elbow without thinking. Neither moved for a moment. Then he smiled, let go, and they kept walking—hands brushing, then not, then brushing again until finally he just took hers and didn’t let go.
By the time they reached the lot, the light had turned golden, trees throwing long shadows across the gravel. He opened her door and waited until she was settled.
“Thanks for today,” she said.
“Anytime,” he replied—and somehow it sounded like a promise.
As he pulled out behind her Jeep, thunder rolled across the ridges. By the time Darcy made it back to the Bambi, the sky had darkened, wind pressing hard through the trees. Rain broke fast and heavy, drumming on the roof like a warning. She lit a candle and listened to the storm. Outside, the rain ran wild down the mountain, whispering over the creek like it knew her secret.
