Page 32

"Bev's biased. I bring her cookies."

The last hill crests and the meadow opens up below.

Even after four years, it catches in my throat. The east ridge stretching out, pumpkin field blazing orange against dark timber, mountains stacked in layers of blue and purple and gold behind everything. Anna's fairy lights strung through the fence posts catching sun and throwing tiny diamonds into the grass. My stage frame at the far end, cedar posts and crossbeams waiting for decking, looking like the skeleton of something beautiful.

Selene goes still. Her hand drops from the door handle. Her breath catches.

"Oh." Just that. One syllable carrying the weight of someone seeing something that breaks through the insulation they've been wrapping around themselves for months.

"Yeah." My voice quieter than I planned. "Every time."

Down in the field, I show her everything. Booth frames milled from last month's timber. Cedar planks I hand-selected from the best logs, straight grain, no knots, sanded smooth enough to run your palm across without catching. The bonfire ring Hunter built at the field's edge, stone and iron, massive, big enough to throw heat across the whole clearing on a cold November night.

Hay bale seating in concentric rings around the fire pit. Carving station with two dozen pumpkins lined up on a table I built yesterday. Cider press. Sound system mounts on the stage frame. Everything rough and real and built to last.

Anna comes around the equipment barn with fairy lights draped over both arms and a smile that could power the whole festival without electricity.

"You must be Selene!" Her sneakers are muddy, her dark hair's in a messy bun, and she's got pumpkin vine stuck to her flannel. She's maybe five-four and radiates enough energy to fill a stadium. "Kidd's told us about you."

"He has?" Guarded. But polite. The handshake is firm.

"The sandwich story is famous. Luke won't stop quoting it. He does this impression of Kidd's face when you called him out." Anna laughs, bright and infectious. "Come on. I need someone with actual taste, because if I let these cowboys handle the aesthetics, it'll look like a rodeo threw up on a craft store."

Selene almost smiles. The closest I've seen. A crack in the concrete.

"I can help with that."

They disappear into the barn together. Selene walking into the heart of this ranch like she's being pulled by something she doesn't understand yet. Anna already talking, already folding her into the fabric of this place with the effortless warmth that made Luke fall in love and made the rest of us grateful she showed up.

Back to the timber line.

Afternoon chainsaw work, mindless and physical. Bucking a downed log into eight-foot sections, the saw screaming through heartwood, kick and shudder of each cut. Sweat-soaked by three o'clock. Thermal stripped off, working in a tank top that's more sawdust than fabric.

Movement at the meadow's edge. Selene. Standing at the split-rail fence. Watching me work.

No wave. No call. Just standing in golden afternoon light with fairy lights draped over one shoulder and her eyes on me. Thirty yards of pumpkin field between us, and I can feel her gaze on my skin like a handprint.

Her hands on my arm Tuesday. Cleaning that cut. Careful, competent, trembling at the edges. So gentle with a wound she didn't cause.

Kill the engine. Wipe my face with a rag that's more cedar dust than cotton. Walk over, leaving the saw on the stump.

"Enjoying the show?" Grin against the fence rail. Two feet between us. Her cheeks are flushed from cold, a maple leaf caught in her hair, red against the dark.

"Anna sent me to tell you cider's ready." Not looking at my face. Looking at my arms, at the muscles in my shoulders where the tank top leaves them bare, at the chest she can see through the sweat-damp fabric. Her gaze travels up slow, like she's reading something she knows she shouldn't. When it reaches my eyes, she catches herself. Looks away hard.

"Cider sounds good."

"Sawdust in your hair."

"Always."

She reaches up. Fingers through my curls, once, quick. Cedar flecks coming back between her fingertips. Two seconds of contact that rewires everything behind my ribs. Her touch is careful. The same careful as the bandage. The same tender precision. Like she's hardwired to be gentle and trying to pretend she isn't.

"There. Better."

Don't move. Don't breathe. Close enough to smell her. Citrus and warm skin and something floral underneath that I can't name and don't need to.

"Selene."