Dungar studied me for a long moment, and I held my breath waiting for his decision. Finally, he nodded. “Small groups only. Doors locked during classes. And in addition to the new surveillance, one of us will be near at all times.”
“Agreed,” I said. Maybe they’d capture Will soon and then this part of my life could be over. I could look forward to building something new here in Lonesome Creek.
Hail looked like he wanted to argue, but after a moment, he sighed. “Alright. But if anything feels wrong, even slightly, we close and hide im-im-immediately.”
“Deal.”
I could do this. I could help instead of being a burden, could contribute to the pottery business while doing something that might result in Will’s capture. It felt like taking back some small measure of control.
The next two days fell into a rhythm that felt almost normal, if I didn’t think too hard about Tressa’s constant vigilance, the way Hail’s hand never strayed far from his sword, or spying one of his brothers watching the barn from various locations outdoors. We reopened the pottery barn with limited classes, posting new signs that emphasized private, intimate sessions rather than large group demonstrations.
To my surprise, the tourists seemed to prefer the personal attention. Instead of being rushed through techniques in a crowd, they received individualized instruction and plenty of time to work on their pieces. Our bookings actually increased, with people specifically requesting the exclusive pottery experience.
I found myself thriving in the teaching environment in a way that made my heart ache. There was such deep satisfaction in guiding someone through their first successful pot, watching their face light up when the clay responded to their touch. It reminded me of why I’d loved art as a child, for that pure joy of creation.
An elderly couple from Denver spent an entire afternoon with us during our second day back. The husband, Robert, was patient and encouraging as he helped his wife, Margaret, whohad arthritis in her hands. I watched him guide her fingers on the clay, speaking in soft, loving tones that made my heart squeeze.
“I haven’t been able to make anything with my hands in years,” Margaret whispered when she’d finally managed to pull up the walls of a small bowl. Tears streamed down her weathered cheeks as she stared at her creation in wonder.
“It’s beautiful,” I told her. The bowl was crooked and thin in places, but it was hers, made by her own hands despite the pain.
Across the barn, Hail caught my eye, his expression soft with pride. Not just in Margaret’s success, but in me. In how I’d helped make this moment possible. The warmth in his gaze made me feel capable and valued in a way I’d never experienced before.
“You’re a natural teacher,” he said that evening as we cleaned up after the last group of the day. “Better than I-I ever was.”
“I learned from the best.” I bumped his shoulder playfully and smiled at his adorable blush.
Even with the constant undercurrent of danger, these moments felt precious. Like we were building a foundation for a real life together, brick by brick, day by day.
The next day, I decided to attempt the pottery wheel again. My previous tries had been disasters, me creating wobbly messes that collapsed before I could finish them. But watching Hail work with such fluid grace every day inspired me to keep trying.
He set up beside me on his own wheel, working on a large vase while offering gentle guidance. His hands moved in perfect rhythm, pulling up clay walls with the same ease most people used to write their names.
“Remember, the clay responds to confidence,” he said, not looking up from his work. “If you’re…you’re tense, it feels that and fi-fi-fights back.”
Easier said than done. My shoulders were rigid, my breathing shallow. But I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to channel some of Hail’s calm certainty.
The clay felt different this time when I placed my hands on it. More responsive, less alien. I could almost sense what it needed from me. Slowly, carefully, I began to center it on the wheel, then pressed my thumbs down to open it up.
“That’s it,” Hail said softly, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “You’re doing beautifully.”
I opened my eyes to find an actual bowl taking shape beneath my hands. Not perfect. It was slightly lopsided on one side where I’d applied uneven pressure. But it was unmistakably a bowl.Mybowl. Made by my own hands from a lump of shapeless clay.
“Oh my,” I breathed, afraid to move and ruin it.
“Keep going,” Hail said. “Trust yourself.”
The concept felt strange after months of second-guessing every decision, every instinct. But here, with clay spinning beneath my fingers, I did trust myself. For the first time in forever, I felt capable of creating instead of just surviving.
The bowl grew under my fingers, proof that I could build beautiful things even when my life was a mess. Each pull of the walls felt like a small victory, each smooth curve a promise that I had value beyond being someone who needed protection.
When I finally stopped the wheel and sat back to examine my work, tears were streaming down my face.
“Hey,” Hail said, abandoning his own work to kneel beside my stool. His clay-covered hands hovered over me uncertainly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I laughed through my tears, gesturing at my imperfect creation. “I made that. Me. And it’s going to last, isn’t it? Even after all this is over, this bowl will still exist.”
Understanding dawned in his dark eyes, followed by such tenderness it made my breath catch. “You’re building a new life.”
