Page 4

The first fat drops of rain hit the windshield as we wind up into the mountains. The road gets rougher, the trees thicker, pressing in on both sides like sentinels.

This is my territory—wild and untamed, far from the manicured lawns and perfect chapels below in the Valley.

My truck handles the familiar curves with ease, but I notice her white-knuckled grip on the door handle.

"I'm Sadie," she says suddenly, her voice soft but steady. Like she's found some kind of resolve in the last few minutes of silence.

"Vincent."

She nods, then falls silent again.

Good. I don't need her life story. Don't need to know why she's running or who she's running from. The less I know, the easier it'll be to send her on her way tomorrow. Back to whatever life she's trying to escape, or maybe toward something new.

Not my business either way.

But as the rain picks up and the darkness settles in, I find myself watching her out of the corner of my eye.

The way she holds herself, like she's trying to take up as little space as possible despite her curves. The elegant line of her neck as she stares out the window. The soft sigh she lets out when we pass the town limits of Rosewood Valley, like she's finally letting go of something heavy.

Her dress catches the glow from the dashboard lights, the beading throwing off tiny sparkles. It probably cost more than my truck. Definitely more than the flannel shirt and worn jeans I'm wearing.

We're from different worlds, me and this runaway bride. Which is exactly why I need to keep my distance.

"My cabin's about twenty minutes up," I tell her, not sure why I'm offering the information. Maybe because the storm's getting worse, or maybe because something about her lost expression makes me want to offer shelter. "You can stay the night if you need to. Figure things out."

She turns to look at me then, really look at me, and something electric passes between us. Something I definitely don't want to examine too closely.

Her eyes trace over my beard, my too-long hair, probably taking in every rough edge and imperfection. I resist the urge to run a hand through my hair or adjust my flannel shirt.

"Thank you," she whispers, and there's a weight to those two words that makes my hands tighten on the steering wheel. Like she's thanking me for more than just a ride and a place to stay.

The rain is coming down in sheets by the time we reach my place. Lightning flashes across the sky, illuminating the cabin in brief, bright bursts.

It sits dark and solid against the mountainside, built by my grandfather's hands and maintained by mine. Two stories of rough-hewn logs and fieldstone, with a wraparound porch and windows that face the valley.

It's not much—two bedrooms, a living room, kitchen, the basics—but it's home. My sanctuary from the world below.

I park under the carport and kill the engine. The silence is immediate and thick, broken only by the drumming of rain on the metal roof and the occasional rumble of thunder.

In the darkness, I'm acutely aware of her presence beside me—the soft sound of her breathing, the rustle of her dress, the lingering scent of her perfume mixing with the leather of my jacket.

"Come on," I say, grabbing my bag from the backseat. My voice sounds rougher than usual in the confined space. "Let's get you inside before this storm really hits."

She follows me up the porch steps, her dress making a soft swishing sound against the wooden boards.

When I unlock the door and flip on the lights, I hear her small intake of breath.

The cabin isn't fancy, but it's clean and warm. Stone fireplace dominating one wall, worn leather couch, rough-hewn wooden furniture I made myself.

Bookshelves filled with well-worn paperbacks, a few family photos on the mantel. It smells like wood smoke and coffee and the pine forest that surrounds us. My boots by the door and jacket on the hook are the only signs of life—I don't exactly entertain much.

"Bathroom's down the hall if you want to clean up," I tell her, moving to start a fire. The temperature's dropped with the storm, and she's still shivering despite my jacket. "Spare bedroom's the door on the right."

She stands in the middle of the room, looking lost in all that white lace and tulle. My jacket still around her shoulders, too big but somehow right.

"Vincent?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.

I straighten, meeting her eyes. The firelight catches the gold in her hair, the vulnerability in her expression. "Yeah?"