The next ten minutes were an echo of thunder and headlights cutting through rain. Then he was there, sliding down the embankment, mud streaking his jacket. He didn’t ask what I was doing or why. He just waded in, water soaking his jeans, and freed my leg from the branch with careful hands.
“You’re freezing,” he said, voice rough but steady.
“I’m fine,” I lied. My teeth were chattering so hard the words barely made it out.
He scooped me up like I weighed nothing and carried me to his truck. The heater blasted warm air, fogging the windows. My foot throbbed, my ankle swollen and red. He drove me to his house because it was closer than mine, and well, no one really liked to come close to our property for fear of getting shot. He carried me inside, I remember the smell of him, fresh body wash, cedar and vanilla, like the whole world had turned gentle for a minute.
He ran the bath himself, checked the temperature with his wrist, then helped me lower in. The water stung at first, then settled into heat. He turned his head politely, giving me space but staying close enough that I didn’t feel alone. When I finished, he handed me one of his shirts and wrapped a towel around my shoulders.
“Your dad’s going to be furious,” he said quietly.
“He won’t notice I’m gone,” I told him. “He never does.”
He crouched in front of me, towel still in his hands, eyes searching mine. “Then I’ll notice.”
No one had ever said something like that to me and meant it. He made me tea that night too, the way he still likes it strong, with honey instead of sugar. We sat on his couch, thunder fading in the distance. He wrapped my ankle, careful and slow.When his fingers brushed my skin, something inside me broke open. I don’t know who leaned in first. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was both of us. But the kiss was soft, hesitant, the kind that steals air before it deepens. When he carried me to his bed, the rain outside became a rhythm we moved to without words. It wasn’t wild or rushed; it was the kind of closeness that felt like safety, like being seen for the first time.
That night, I learned what it meant to be cared for, not used. Loved, not owned.
Years later, standing at my window whispering his name into the dark, I could still feel the ghost of that night. The warmth of his hands, the steady heartbeat against my back, the promise in the way he said,“You’re safe now.”
And maybe that’s why I still called himhero,not because he pulled me out of a storm, but because he was the first person who ever made me believe I could survive one.
CHAPTER 9
Eric
Sleep didn’t stand a chance. The storm had stopped hours ago, but the sound of it still lived in the rafters, dripping from the eaves little by little. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Harmony, her reflection in the window, the soft tremor in her voice when she whispered,Goodnight, hero.
It wasn’t the first time she’d said it, but it landed heavier now. Maybe because I could still feel the weight of her hand against mine. Maybe because no one else ever said it like they meant it.
By dawn, I gave up on rest. The orchard waited. It always did. Mist hovered over the rows of trees, soft and white against the dark soil. The cabins along the tree line were still quiet, smoke curling from their chimneys. The workers lived in those cabins, men and women who worked in the brewery and the orchard. The air smelled like wet bark as I passed by. Storms might knock things down, but the orchard always found a way to stand again. To rebuild, despite the havoc the weather could bring. I thought if a tree was that resilient then so was I. I walked through the rows of trees, checking for damage, clearing fallen limbs andbruised apples. I said hello to the early-morning crew, the ones who never let us down.
“Morning, Jasper,”I called as I passed. Evan and Perry were next. Out here, work had rhythm, answers, control. No ghosts. Just labor and reward. It made life feel simple for a moment, even when it was laced with too many hurdles. That’s why I had taken it upon myself to run the orchard. It felt like a solid way to wake up every morning. The problem was, things spiraled when Phoenix thought it would be a great idea to open the bakery on the property. Then the reviews had been so good, the town convinced me we needed a location on Main Street. From a monetary perspective it made sense, but it wasn’t fuel for my soul. Not like the way baking was for Harmony. Crazy how my thoughts always circled back to her.
By seven, I loaded a bin of fallen fruit into the truck and headed toward town. The road curved past the river, brown and swollen, then climbed toward the bridge that marked the edge of Val-Du-Lys. Becket’s cruiser sat there, hazard lights flashing soft amber in the fog. He was leaning against the hood, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, jaw tight enough to crack.
I stopped the truck. “You’re out early,” I said, climbing down.
He didn’t look up. “Didn’t sleep.”
“Still listening to those podcasts?” I asked with a half-smile.
Becket wasn’t satisfied with the way Mom took off. He never believed a woman just upped and left her five kids without looking back. Since I could remember, he’d listened to missing-persons podcasts about strangers, trying to find clues or patterns to explain the whereabouts of missing people.
He gave a small, humorless snort. “Yeah. Old habits die hard.”
I’d heard them too, those late-night true-crime shows with their glossy sympathy and half-truths.
“Turn them off,” I said, because that kind of thing wasn’t healthy. My brothers and I had a hard time letting go. But maybe that was because we never got closure.
He ignored me. “You remember the night she left?”
I did. I was fifteen. He was thirteen. Maggie Chabot’s car had gone off the road that week, a twisted wreck by the river, Kyle Jansen dead beside her. The town said it was rain, slick asphalt, bad luck. Dad said the same. He needed it to be an accident. Needed Val-Du-Lys to stay clean while he climbed toward his badge and his title.
After the funeral, Mom fell apart. Maggie had been her childhood friend. They had been placed in an orphanage together in Toronto. Neither of them had anyone in the world, and then they met and promised to follow each other to the ends of the earth. Mom kept her promise when Maggie moved to Val-Du-Lys to marry Charles Chabot. That was why we grew up next to the Chabot kids and did everything together. Then one morning, after the funeral, Mom was gone too. No note. No calls. Nothing.
“She didn’t even take her coat,” Becket said quietly, eyes still on the water. “I checked the closet that night. I kept thinking she’d come back for it.”
