We try to return to work on the Mustang, but the easy camaraderie of the morning is gone, replaced by a strained silence punctuated by mechanical sounds and abbreviatedinstructions. By late afternoon, it's clear neither of us is focused enough to continue.
"Maybe we should call it a day," I suggest, setting down a wrench I've been holding for five minutes without using. "Pick this up tomorrow when we're both in a better headspace."
Diesel nods, looking relieved at the suggestion. "Let me drive you back to the lodge."
"I can walk," I say, not to be difficult but because I genuinely need some air, some space to think.
"It's starting to snow," he points out. "And it's getting dark early these days."
He's right, of course. Through the garage windows, I can see thick flakes beginning to fall, the sky already darkening though it's barely four o'clock.
"Fine," I concede. "But you don't have to babysit me all evening before your meeting. I'm a big girl. I can entertain myself for a few hours."
The ride to The Mountain Lodge is quiet, each of us lost in our thoughts. When he pulls up outside, he turns to me, expression serious.
"Sandra, whatever happens tonight... I need you to know that the past week has been the best of my life." He takes my hand, squeezing gently. "What I feel for you—it's real. Don't let Vanessa make you doubt that."
The intensity in his eyes steals my breath. "I believe you," I say, and I do, despite the unease still churning in my stomach. "Just... be careful tonight, okay? And come find me after, no matter how late."
He nods, pulling me in for a kiss that feels too much like goodbye for comfort. "I will."
I watch his truck disappear down the snowy street, a sense of foreboding settling over me. Whatever Vanessa wants, whateversecrets lurk in Diesel's past, I have a feeling our perfect bubble is about to burst in a spectacular way.
Inside my room, I pace, too restless to settle. I consider calling Sage for company but decide against it. This isn't something I can easily explain to someone else when I barely understand it myself.
Instead, I bundle up again and head out, letting my feet carry me toward Grandpa Joe's cabin. I haven't been there since Diesel and I visited, but suddenly I need the connection to my past, to family, to something solid and unchanging.
The snow is falling harder now, coating the world in white. The walk is longer than I remembered, especially in these conditions, but the physical exertion helps clear my head.
By the time I reach the cabin, twilight has fully given way to darkness, the woods around the property silent except for the soft shushing of snow among the pines. I find the hidden key, relieved when it turns easily in the lock despite the cold.
Inside, the cabin is chilly but not freezing, the faint smell of dust and memories greeting me as I flip on the lights. I start a fire in the woodstove, grateful for the wood Diesel and I stacked on our last visit. As warmth gradually fills the space, I wander from room to room, touching furniture, opening drawers, getting to know the place that could become my home.
In Grandpa's study, I find a photo album I missed on our first exploration. Opening it, I'm greeted by images of a younger Grandpa Joe, his arm around a woman who must be my grandmother, who died before I was born. Further in, there are photos of my father as a boy, then as a young man, then holding me as a baby.
The last section contains more recent photos—Grandpa with various people from Crimson Hollow, at community events, in front of his cabin. I'm struck by how happy he looks, how at peace. He found his place here, his community.
Could I do the same? The question has been lurking in the back of my mind since I arrived, growing more insistent with each passing day. Especially since Diesel entered my life.
A particular photo catches my eye—Grandpa Joe standing proudly beside a young man next to a motorcycle. I peer closer, recognition dawning. It's Diesel, looking younger, less guarded, but unmistakably him. They're both smiling, tools in hand, clearly having just completed some project together.
My heart squeezes. Here's tangible proof of the connection between two important men in my life, a connection neither of them has gotten to tell me about directly. Grandpa knew Diesel, worked with him, maybe even cared about him.
I carefully remove the photo from the album, turning it over. In Grandpa's spidery handwriting: "Me and D. Torres with the rebuilt Indian, summer 2020. Good kid with a rough past. Finding his way."
A rough past. Even Grandpa knew there was something in Diesel's history worth noting. But he also called him a "good kid." Grandpa Joe was an excellent judge of character, rarely wrong about people. If he saw good in Diesel despite whatever came before, that means something.
I pocket the photo, suddenly more determined than ever to hear Diesel's full story, to understand the man behind the gruff exterior who captured my heart in record time. Whatever Vanessa represents from his past, it's not the whole of who he is. I won't let it be.
The sudden ringing of my phone startles me. Unknown number. My heart jumps—maybe Diesel calling from someone else's phone?
"Hello?" I answer, hope coloring my voice.
"Is this Sandra Hemmings?" A woman's voice, unfamiliar.
"Yes, who's this?"
"My name's Ellie, from Crimson Valley Hospital. I'm calling about Diesel Torres. He doesn’t have an emergency contact but, but he asked us to call you.”
