Big Risks (Single Dads of Big Wood #2)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Hailey

The "Welcome to Big Wood, Tennessee" sign is so faded I almost miss it.

Population 3,412, or so they claim.

I'm guessing they haven't updated that number since before I was born.

My Subaru groans as I navigate the potholed road leading into town.

She's packed so full that my rearview mirror shows nothing but cardboard boxes and hastily stuffed garbage bags of clothes. Somewhere beneath it all is my coffee maker, the only kitchen appliance I truly care about.

"We made it, Gertie," I tell the car, patting her dashboard affectionately. She responds with an ominous rattle.

The downtown, if you can call it that, is a single street of brick buildings with hand-painted signs. Jones Family Hardware. Hog & Hickory Smokehouse. Big Wood Public Library, which appears to be the size of my former apartment. I slow down, taking it all in. No Starbucks. No Target. Not even a proper grocery store, just something called "Giggly Piggly" that looks like a knock off Piggly Wiggly.

This is exactly what I wanted. A place where ambulance sirens won't jolt me awake at 3 a.m. Where I won't have to scrub someone else's blood from under my fingernails after a twelve-hour shift.

Where the most traumatic event might be a tractor tipping over or someone's prize pig escaping.

I follow the GPS down a series of increasingly narrow roads until it announces, "You have arrived at your destination," in front of a dirt driveway nearly hidden by overgrown honeysuckle.

The farmhouse at the end of the drive is... well, "rustic" would be the real estate euphemism. Two stories of weathered white clapboard with a wraparound porch that sags in the middle. The red tin roof has patches of rust, and at least three shutters are hanging at precarious angles.

It's perfect.

And it’s mine.

I kill the engine and sit for a moment, letting the quiet settle around me.

No car horns. No hospital intercom.

No roommate blasting true crime podcasts at ungodly volumes.

Just birds and the distant sounds of what I assume are cows, but could honestly be any large farm animal.

My knowledge of agriculture begins and ends with a failed herb garden on my Savannah apartment balcony.

The key the realtor mailed me is attached to a wooden keychain carved with the words "Home Sweet Home." I grab it and step out into the humid Tennessee afternoon.

The porch creaks alarmingly under my feet, but I've worked in a hospital where the elevator made death-rattle noises daily, so I'm unfazed.

The lock sticks, requiring a combination of jiggling, sweet-talking, and mild threats before it finally gives way.

"Honey, I'm home," I call out jokingly to no one as I step inside.

Dust motes dance in the sunbeams streaming through the windows. The hardwood floors, though scuffed and worn, have potential. To my right is a living room with a stone fireplace, and to my left a dining room with built-in cabinets. Straight ahead, a staircase rises to the second floor.

I wander from room to room, mentally cataloging projects. The kitchen still has the 1970’s appliances that may or may not work, and hideous orange countertops, but nevertheless, it has good bones. The downstairs bathroom has a terrifyingly floral wallpaper and a claw-foot tub that's either charming or a tetanus risk. But surprisingly, the living room is spacious, perfect for the secondhand furniture I ordered that's being delivered tomorrow.

Upstairs are three bedrooms and another bathroom that appear to have been last updated when I was in kindergarten. I claim the largest bedroom for myself, standing in the center and slowly turning. The walls are a faded yellow, the floors the same worn hardwood as downstairs. Two windows overlook the overgrown backyard and the rolling hills beyond.

"This will do nicely," I tell the empty room. I've been talking to inanimate objects a lot lately. Probably not a great sign for my mental health, but after years of constant human interaction at the hospital, I'm enjoying conversations where no one is coding or bleeding out.

Back downstairs, I prop open the front door and begin the sweaty process of unloading my car. By the time I've made six trips, my arms are trembling and my T-shirt is sticking to my back. Southern heat is southern heat, whether in Georgia or Tennessee.

"Excuse me!" a voice calls from the driveway. "Need some help there?"

A woman about my age with a blond ponytail and the kind of tan that comes from actual outdoor activities, not spray bottles, is walking toward me.

"I'm Becky Henderson," she says, extending her hand. "I live about a half-mile down the road. Saw someone finally bought the old Jenkins place and thought I'd come say hello."

"Hailey Bennett," I reply, shaking her hand. "And yes, to help, if you're offering. I've got about fifty more boxes and the strength of a particularly weak kitten at this point."

Becky laughs and rolls up her sleeves. "Welcome to Big Wood. Fair warning, everyone will know your business by sundown. Small towns, you know?"

"As long as they bring casseroles with their nosiness, I can live with that."

Between the two of us, we empty the car in record time. Becky even helps me make up the bed I ordered online with the fresh sheets that the realtor left as a homecoming gift. So tonight, I'll have somewhere to collapse.

"What brings you to our little corner of nowhere?" she asks as we sit on the porch steps, drinking lukewarm bottles of water from the gas station because I haven't unpacked glasses yet.

I consider giving her the sanitized version. The one where I just wanted a change of pace, a quieter life. But something about her straightforward friendliness makes me opt for honesty.

"I was a trauma nurse in Savannah. Burned out hard after eight years of seeing the worst of the military injuries. After pulling late night shifts, my apartment was my sanctuary. At least until I came home to find the guy I had been seeing, sleeping with my roommate in my bed. After that, everything in the city just reminded me of things I was trying to forget." I take a swig of water. "So I cashed in my savings, bought this place sight unseen, and here I am, having what my mother is calling a 'third-life crisis.'"

Becky doesn't offer platitudes or the head-tilted look of pity I've come to dread. She just nods. "Sometimes you need to blow everything up and start over. My husband and I did the same thing five years ago. Left Nashville after his tech startup failed. Best decision we ever made."

"I'm hoping for the same outcome," I say. "Minus the husband part. I'm on an indefinite break from relationships."

"Well, I should warn you, the single ladies outnumber eligible men about four to one around here. Although—" She breaks off, grinning. "There is Walker Hayes. He came back from the Army a few years ago. Keeps to himself mostly, but Lord have mercy, that man could make a statue blush."

"I'll be sure to maintain my composure if I run into him," I laugh. "But seriously, I'm not looking. This year is about fixing up this house and figuring out what I want to do next. Career-wise, I mean."

Becky stands, brushing off her jeans. "Well, the urgent care in town is always hiring if you want to keep your nursing skills sharp. But if you want something temporary, the elementary school nurse is about to go on maternity leave, so they will be looking to fill that spot through the end of the school year. Also, if you need anything, sugar, power tools, or local gossip, I'm just down the road."

After she leaves, I tackle a few more boxes before exhaustion catches up with me. The house is quiet in a way that's both peaceful and slightly unnerving after years of city living. As darkness falls, I realize I haven't located the box with lamps yet. Rather than rummage through everything, I grab my phone and use its flashlight to guide me upstairs.

When I'm halfway up, I notice a small cord hanging from the ceiling at the top of the landing. Curious, I pull it, and a set of wooden stairs unfolds with a groan. The attic. I wasn't even sure the house had one.

Common sense says to leave attic exploration for daylight hours, but I've spent years running toward emergencies while others ran away. Curiosity is my default setting and I’ve never lived in a house with an attic, so I don’t know what to expect.

The attic is surprisingly large, with a pitched ceiling and small windows at either end, letting in faint moonlight. My flashlight beam catches dust motes and cobwebs as I step carefully across the floorboards.

The space is mostly empty except for a few forgotten items: an ancient-looking rocking chair, and some Christmas decorations. Though when I swing my light back, I see a wooden chest tucked under the eaves.

It's beautiful, made of dark wood with brass fittings, about the size of a small coffee table. Not locked, just latched. Hesitating, I feel like an intruder in my own house.

"This is ridiculous," I mutter to myself. "It's my attic now."

The lid opens with a creak. Inside, on top of old photos and keepsakes, is a bundle of letters tied with faded green twine. Military green. The paper has yellowed with age, but the handwriting is neat and precise.

I shouldn't read someone else's private correspondence. That's what the ethical part of my brain says. But the part that stayed up past bedtime with a flashlight and novels as a kid is already untying the twine.

The top letter is about eight years ago.

Dear Red,

They say Afghanistan is beautiful. Maybe it is somewhere beyond the wire and the mountains where we patrol. I wouldn't know. Three months deployed and all I've seen is the inside of our base and the same stretch of godforsaken desert.

The guys in my unit have nicknames for everyone back home. You're "Red" to them now too because of that copper hair I described. They ask if I've heard from you yet. When I tell them the internet connection is spotty, they nod like they believe me.

But I keep writing anyway. Maybe that makes me a fool. Or maybe it's just that out here, with death so close you can smell it like the rain, the thought of you is the only thing that feels like home.

I'll try again tomorrow to find words that might make you write back.

Still yours,

James

I sit back on my heels with a strange ache in my chest. Who was Red? Why didn't she write back to this James who wrote with such raw longing?

After carefully refolding the letter, I tie the bundle back exactly as I found it. I close the chest, suddenly feeling like I've intruded on something intensely private. Tomorrow, in daylight, I'll decide what to do with them.

Back in my bedroom, I lie on freshly made sheets, listening to the unfamiliar creaks and sighs of my new home. My phone buzzes with a text from my mother.

Mom: Have you been murdered by hillbillies yet?

I smile despite myself.

Me: Not yet. House is perfect. Will call tomorrow.

Setting my phone aside, I stare at the ceiling. For the first time in months, I'm not thinking about the past, the patients I couldn't save, or the sight of walking in on my boyfriend and my roommate. Instead, I'm wondering about James and his unanswered letters to Red.

It's not much, but it's something new. A curiosity that doesn't hurt, and a mystery with no life-or-death consequences.

As I drift toward sleep, I realize I'm actually looking forward to tomorrow. In my line of work, that's been a rare feeling indeed.