She went back in to retrieve her rain poncho from where she had draped it by the fire. “Lexie, I’ll bring your things back in the morning,” she called.
“No problem,” Lexie said, coming in after her. She gave Arden a smile; was it only Arden’s imagination that it no longer seemed as friendly? “Keep them as long as you need. I’ve got plenty of things to wear.”
Arden and Baz went outside. It was a pleasant night now that the rain had stopped, sharply cool but not cold. Arden could hear the rushing of the creek very loudly, but water was no longerflowing down Main Street, and Fern had said that the flood wasn’t the Bad Thing, so she decided not to worry about it.
“What were you guys talking about?” she asked as they walked up the street, keeping to the boardwalk to try to avoid getting too wet and muddy again. The night was dark as pitch, and Baz used a small flashlight to light their way. With his other hand, he took hers, and Arden folded her fingers firmly through his.
“Nothing to do with you,” Baz said. “We were trying to figure out what to do about the wild shifter clans.”
Arden looked up at him. In the dimly reflected light from the flashlight, she couldn’t quite make out his expression, but she found that she believed him. She didn’t think he’d lie to her. But that meant— “Itismy problem, though,” she said. “At least partly, if they don’t want me here.”
“That’s something we’ll work out,” Baz said. “You don’t need to worry about it.”
But she did worry about it. After he had left, with lingering touches in the dark (but no kiss this time), she stirred up the coals in her stove to reheat the stone-cold water for cocoa, and while waiting, she huddled in her sleeping bag thinking about it. Fern and the Bad Thing, the wild shifter clans, the animosity from Declan that she still didn’t understand—and the shadow of her not-so-ex-husband Grant Hamilton hanging over it all.
She hated the idea of leaving the first place she had wanted to stay for a long time. Let alone leaving Baz, which already felt like having her heart ripped out. But she might not have a choice, if leaving was the only way to protect everyone.
BAZ
Restless dreams,mostly of Arden, kept Baz up half the night. His sleeping bag felt cold. The empty grocery store he’d been sleeping inwascold. Arden’s cozy cabin would have been much nicer. Lexie would probably have kicked him halfway down Main Street if he had mentioned it to her, and then she’d have asked him why he wasn’t there now.
Because I know she’ll run if I push too hard.
She had clearly already done it once. He still didn’t know what she was running from, and he hoped to coax her into opening up about it.
It was like handling a skittish calf back on his uncle’s ranch—easy to push too hard and chase it away. If he chased Arden away, he could all too easily picture himself spending the next ten years searching the world for her. This was worth taking the time to do it right.
But he still wished he’d asked to come in last night.
When he finally gave up on sleep and got up, he found that the storm had blown itself out in the night, leaving behind a gorgeous, freshly washed world. The sky was robin’s-egg blue, with thin wisps of mare’s tails streaming across it. The trees and grass were a brighter and more vivid green than before, even ifthe wildflowers had their heads knocked down by the storm, and the street was nothing but side-to-side mud.
Munching on a granola bar for breakfast, he made his way along the boardwalk to Lexie’s place to check on Fern. Lexie was up in spite of the early hour, sitting in pajamas by the stove and poking sticks into it to try to heat water for coffee. She looked up to acknowledge him when he knocked softly and then tiptoed inside.
“You could just use the camp stove,” he whispered to her. They had brought a couple of small camping stoves that used cans of solid fuel.
“More fun this way,” Lexie whispered back. “Also, have youtriedto get water to boil on those things? I think we need a gas hookup in this town.”
“Or a propane stove, at least.”
Fern was asleep in her nest of sleeping bags, bright hair spilling out. Her color looked good, and she was breathing deeply and evenly.
“I woke up a couple of times in the night to check on her,” Lexie whispered. “She was sleeping fine. I’m just going to let her sleep for now. You want coffee?”
“Sure. Actually, I could take a cup to Arden.”
“I’m sure that’s your only reason for wanting to see Arden,” Lexie said with a smirk. But she gave him two of the chipped, mismatched mugs that they were all using now, one with pink and yellow flowers on the side, and the other a heavy stoneware cup with a blue band around the rim. Both were filled with steaming coffee. He pocketed a couple of cream and sugar packets and went to see how Arden had weathered the last of the storm.
Arden’s side street was even muddier than the main street, and he gave up on keeping his feet dry—he’d just dried his boots out, too; at this rate he really should’ve brought rain boots—andslogged muddily to her door. His heart lurched to see that it was slightly open. He knocked and, getting no answer, peeked inside with a soft “Hello?”
Arden was nowhere in sight. Her sleeping bag was neatly fixed, and there were fresh flowers in one of the cups on the windowsill. She was around, he reassured himself. Not kidnapped, not gone. Planning on coming back soon. But where was she?
After what happened to Fern, he didn’t like the idea of anyone wandering around by themselves, least of all Arden. He also guessed she wouldn’t appreciate being told not to.
Carrying the cups of coffee, sipping on his own, he walked over to see how the stream had come through the flood. It was still louder than usual, but not the deep roar of yesterday. The water had receded back into its usual course, leaving behind a wide swath of muddy, flattened meadow on both sides.
Baz had a sudden premonition of where Arden might be.
Wading through grass and brush still wet from the rain, his dry jeans were soon as wet as his boots. But he was right. He glimpsed her through the trees, a small bright figure in her flowered rain poncho. She was at the wishing well, bent down to do something at its base.
