He backs toward the door, eyes still on me, like leaving is killing him. But he turns and disappears into the hallway. His footsteps echo on the stairs, then the indistinct murmur of voices as he says something to Mae. They sound worried.
I close the door and lean against it, my heart still racing.
I eat a few bites of the sandwich before changing into the pajamas I packed. The sheets smell like lavender and fresh air, and the mattress is comfortable, but sleep feels impossible.
Every time I close my eyes, I see the cottage. The torn roof. The shattered windows. And the worry on Rebecca’s and Remy’s faces.
If the issue is only money, I can help them. But would they accept it? Perceive it as charity? Feel like I’m overstepping?
It would also mean telling Ryder where my money comes from. I’d hoped we could have had that conversation once we were more solid in our relationship.
My heart thumps at an agitated tempo in my chest.
The truth is, I should’ve told him everything the other night when we talked on the dock. But I chickened out. And now I’m scared he’ll mistake my silence for not trusting him, the same way Abigail didn’t. Even if it’s different. My secrets aren’t about us, about our relationship. They won’t affect us. He has to see that.
I pull the blanket higher over my face. Tomorrow. I’ll figure it out tomorrow.
Tonight, I let myself be grateful to be safe, to have shelter, to still taste Ryder’s kiss on my lips, and to have found people who call me family after so long on my own.
27
RYDER
I lean against the paddock, elbows digging into the weathered wood, staring at the land that has belonged to my family since before this town had a name. The late-afternoon heat shimmers over the fields, turning the horizon liquid. Sweat pools at the small of my back. I should be out in the pastures fixing the fence lines that came down in the tornado, or checking on the herd, or tackling any of the thousand things that need doing on a working farm.
Instead, I’m hiding in the shadow of everything I was supposed to protect, frozen with fear.
Because after six generations, I might be the Evans who loses it all.
The irony tastes like rust on my tongue. My father died young, but he never put the farm at risk. My grandparents survived the war—him fighting, her keeping Hollow Creek going on her own. The generation before weathered the Depression without losing an acre. And me? I’m going to lose the lakefront properties because I had to play developer. Had to modernize. Had to keep up with the Rockwoods and claim my piece of the local tourism boom, turning the old cabins into magazine-worthy cottages.
The renovations were my idea. I pushed for them, insisted on top-of-the-line everything. New roofs. New plumbing. New decks. I promised Mom and my siblings they would pay for themselves. That we could charge premium rates. That Blue Crescent Harbor was changing, and we needed to change with it or get left behind.
I told them to trust me.
They did.
And I ruined us.
A hawk circles overhead, riding thermals. I watch it drift, weightless and free, and wonder what it’s like not to carry the weight of generations on your back.
Footsteps rustle in the grass behind me. I turn, half-expecting my mother, and instead catch Faye crossing the field toward me in jeans and a light T-shirt, hair loose around her shoulders. “Your mom said I might find you here.”
She must’ve gotten back from the professional development session she had at the school.
I want to smile, cross the distance between us, and pull her into my arms. Bury my face in her hair and breathe her in until the tightness in my chest eases.
But even she can’t bring me joy today.
Faye stops a few feet away, studying me with those honey-colored eyes that see too damn much. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
She closes the remaining distance and folds herself into me. I let myself lean into her warmth, her steadiness. But I can’t unwind the tension locked into my muscles.
She frowns. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
