Brave. Or at least, something adjacent to brave.
I waited until after the morning stable work was done. Sawyer and I had fallen into a routine—mucking stalls together before dawn, working in comfortable silence, parting ways with nothing more than a nod. It was good. Easy. The kind of companionship that didn't demand anything I wasn't ready to give.
After he left, I checked on Bella and Hope one more time, then headed to Hank's office to ask about getting into town.
"Take the old Ford." Hank barely looked up from his paperwork as he spoke, his iron-gray hair catching the light from his desk lamp. He jerked his thumb toward the window, where a beat-up pickup truck sat in the yard, its faded blue paint spotted with rust. His voice was gruff but not unkind, the words coming out clipped and efficient, his pen never stopping its scratch across the page. "Keys are in the ignition. Gas is full. Don't wreck it."
"I won't." My voice came out steadier than I expected, and I found myself almost smiling at his no-nonsense attitude. My hands were clasped in front of me, my posture still too stiff, but something in my chest felt lighter than it had in days. "Thanks, Hank."
"Mm." He grunted, the sound low and dismissive, already turning back to his papers. His weathered face was creased with concentration, his sharp blue eyes scanning the numbers in front of him, his broad shoulders hunched over the desk. "Be back before dark."
The drive into Thornwood took about twenty minutes. The truck was old but solid, rumbling along the dirt road with a reliability that reminded me of Hank himself. I kept the windows down, let the wind tangle my hair, tried to convince myself that my racing heart was just excitement.
It wasn't. But pretending helped.
Thornwood was bigger than I'd expected—not a city by any stretch, but a proper town with a main street, a handful of shops, a diner that looked like it had been there since the 1950s. The buildings were weathered but well-maintained, the kind of place that had seen better days but wasn't ready to give up just yet.
I parked the truck on a side street and sat there for a moment, my hands tight on the steering wheel, my breath coming too fast. I could do this. I could walk into those shops, buy what I needed, and leave. Simple. Easy. Nothing to be afraid of.
I got out of the truck before I could talk myself out of it.
The general store was first. I kept my head down, grabbed what I needed, paid in cash without making eye contact with the Beta woman behind the counter. She was middle-aged, round-faced, with the kind of tired eyes that said she'd seen too much to be surprised by anything. She took my money without comment, bagged my purchases, and let me go without a single question.
So far, so good.
I was heading back to the truck when I caught on something—a loose nail sticking out from a wooden fence post, sharp and rusted. I heard the fabric tear before I felt it, a long rip down the side of my shirt that exposed a strip of pale skin underneath.
I froze, looking down at the damage. It was one of my only shirts—worn thin from years of washing, patched in three places already, but still wearable. Had been wearable. The tear was too big to ignore, too jagged to fix with the basic stitching I knew how to do.
I stood there on the sidewalk, staring at the ruined fabric, and felt the familiar burn of frustrated tears behind my eyes. It was just a shirt. Just a stupid shirt. But it felt like more than that. It felt like proof that I couldn't have anything, couldn't keep anything, couldn't hold onto even the smallest piece of stability without something going wrong.
"You planning to stand there all day, or are you coming in?" The voice came from behind me—sharp, female, with an edge of impatience that cut through my spiraling thoughts like a blade. I spun around, my heart hammering against my ribs, my hands coming up instinctively to protect myself.
A woman stood in the doorway of a shop I hadn't noticed, her arms crossed over her chest, one eyebrow raised in an expression that managed to be both challenging and amused. She was maybe fifty, with steel-gray hair cut short and practical, sharp brown eyes that seemed to catalog everything they saw, and a face that looked like it had never suffered fools gladly. She wore a simple dress covered by a work apron, pins stuck in the fabric at her shoulder like tiny silver soldiers, a measuring tape draped around her neck like a necklace.
The sign above the door read "Marley's Alterations & Tailoring."
"I—" My voice came out rough, startled, catching in my throat like it had forgotten how to work. I had to clear my throat before trying again, my hand moving instinctively to cover the tear in my shirt, even though it was too late for that. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. "I wasn't—I didn't mean to?—"
"That shirt's seen better days." The woman—Marley, presumably—cut me off with a dismissive wave of her hand, her sharp brown eyes dropping to the tear and then traveling up to my face with an assessing look that made me feel like I was being measured for more than just clothing. Her voice was blunt, matter-of-fact, carrying no judgment but also no patience for excuses. Her fingers tapped against her crossed arms, impatient. "You want it fixed or not?"
I hesitated, caught off guard by her directness. Most people softened their words, wrapped them in politeness and social niceties. This woman clearly didn't see the point.
"I don't have much money." The words came out before I could stop them, defensive and too honest, my voice rough and uncertain. My shoulders hunched slightly, my body curling in on itself, bracing for the rejection I was sure was coming. My fingers twisted in the hem of my ruined shirt.
Marley snorted—a sharp, dismissive sound that somehow managed to convey amusement and exasperation at the same time. She uncrossed her arms and stepped back from the doorway, jerking her head toward the interior of the shop with a quick, impatient motion.
"Did I ask about your money?" Her voice was dry as dust, her eyebrow arched so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline, her sharp brown eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that made it hard to look away. One hand planted on her hip, the other gesturing impatiently toward the shop's interior. "Get in here before you let all the cold air out. I'm not cooling the whole damn street."
I didn't know what to do. Every instinct I had was screaming at me to run—this woman was a stranger, this place was unknown, I didn't know the rules here or what she might want from me. But something about her bluntness was... refreshing. Honest in a way that felt safe, even if it wasn't comfortable.
I went inside.
The shop was small but cool, filled with bolts of fabric in every color imaginable. The walls were lined with shelves holding thread, buttons, ribbons, lace. A large cutting table dominated the center of the room, and a sewing machine hummed quietly in the corner. The air smelled like fabric sizing and something floral—lavender, maybe, or rose.
It was the kind of place I would have dreamed about as a child, back when I still let myself dream. Marley closed the door behind me with a firm click and crossed to the cutting table, hersteps quick and purposeful. She gestured impatiently for me to follow, her movements efficient, wasting no time or motion.
"Let me see it." She held out her hand, her sharp brown eyes fixed on the tear in my shirt, her fingers wiggling with undisguised impatience. Her voice was clipped, businesslike, but not unkind—the tone of someone who had better things to do than waste time on pleasantries. "Come on, I haven't got all day."
