“These smell wonderful,” she says. “What’s this one called? I can’t quite read the tag without my glasses.”
“Oh.” I brighten, reaching for the small label tied around the wick with twine. “That one’s Hearthlight. It’s a blend of honey, vanilla, and a little hint of cedar. I thought it smelled of… coming home after being out in the cold.”
Her expression softens. “That’s exactly what it smells like.”
Warmth creeps in where the Jesse-induced flutters had been. This part I understand, too.
“And these?” another voice asks, and suddenly there are three people in front of my stall, fingers reaching for jars, candles, soaps.
Questions come faster than my nerves can keep up with, but I slip into the familiar rhythm of market days.
I talk about my bees, how they travel miles across wildflower fields, bringing back tiny fragments of the valley to tuck into their honeycombs. I chat about the difference between spring honey and late summer honey.
I explain how I pour each candle myself, how the soaps are made with leftover beeswax and honey and coconut oil, how nothing goes to waste. My hands move by habit, bagging jars, making change, looping twine around handles.
By the time the rush slows, my throat is dry, and my cheeks are flushed, a mix of warmth and embarrassment, and the lingering memory of Jesse’s fingers brushing my palm. I finally have a chance to take a sip of water and tilt my face to the sky.
The sun sits high and hot above the pine peaks, the kind of heat that’s sitting on the valley instead of just passing through. The air tastes a little too dry for my liking, even with the breeze.
I file that away in a quiet corner of my mind, the beekeeper part of me already making notes.
“Afternoon, Abilene!”
I look up to see Maeve Dunmoore, the market manager, striding past with her clipboard, her sharp gaze sweeping over my display.
“Booth looks beautiful,” she declares. “Smells even better. You’re going to sell out before the end of the day at this rate.”
I duck my head. “I wouldn’t mind that.”
She winks. “Neither would I. Happy vendors, happy market. Keep it up, sweetheart.”
As she moves on to the next stall, I glance down the aisle again, watching the swell and shift of the crowd, the way people move around each other as a slow tide.
My pulse finally starts to settle, the roar of earlier nerves fading into a gentle hum that matches the soft buzz in my chest.
I smooth my hands over the front of my apron, adjust one last jar so its label faces perfectly forward, and lift my chin.
“Good morning,” I say to the next person who steps up, my voice still even if my heart still remembers strong hands catching glass and a grin that promises trouble. “Welcome to Sweet Haven Honey. How can I sweeten your day?”
CHAPTER TWO
Marshall
Friday
I’m back on the trail.
Thattrail.
Help me, I’m back there again.
The sun is low, just enough gold spilling through the pines to turn everything beautiful, which is wrong, because nothing about that day was beautiful. The air smells of dust and cedar.
My horse shifts beneath me, anxious, but Luke…
Luke’s laughing.
That laugh… easy, bright, too big for his twenty-year-old body. He glances over his shoulder at me, teeth flashing white, hair whipping in the breeze.
