Chapter 8
WELLS
Two days in, and she’s already wearing me down.
Begging for a reprieve, blinking up at me with those glassy, wounded eyes. It’s hard to believe she’s not fishing for sympathy, but I’ve watched her flinch at kindness and apologize for her own feelings. I’m led to believe she doesn’t have enough energy left in her to be calculated.
She’s simply lost her way.
And somehow, I’ve become the fool standing here in the hardware store, trying to keep her stitched together after making her cry for the first time in eight years. Eight years. That’s got to be some kind of record.
It doesn’t help that Bobby’s now staring at me like I’ve kicked a kitten.
“You okay, Lil’ Miss?” he asks. “Wells didn’t forget to shower again, did he?”
Elsie doesn’t answer right away. She sniffs twice, pats her cheeks.
I take a step back, suddenly aware of how big I must seem next to her, of how small she’s made herself. I want to fix it—I’m not too proud to admit that—but I know better than to crowd her.
She clears her throat. “I’m fine. I swear. Just . . . a little emotional.”
Bobby chuckles. “This town’ll do that to you. Blessing and a curse.”
I glance at her again, trying to read what’s left behind in her expression. She’s already rebuilding the wall, quick patchwork. Chin up, shoulders set. I know the signs because I do the same damn thing.
“Do you have any of the small radiant heaters left?” she asks. “I don’t need anything fancy. Just enough to keep my bedroom from icing over again.”
“Sure do. I’ll grab one from the back.”
Bobby shoots me a pointed look as he walks past, and I grimace. This morning, I thought I had the upper hand. Now, I feel like a kid who’s broken his mother’s best vase.
“I know you said you were due for it, but I really didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“You didn’t make me.”
We don’t speak again until Bobby returns with the heater, sets it on the counter, and rings it up with a theatrical whistle. “Town discount,” he says, tapping a few buttons. “Elspeth always got one. Seems fair it applies to her granddaughter, too.”
Elsie gives a slow blink. “Oh. That’s—thanks.”
I wave goodbye to Bobby, but he ignores me in favor of giving Elsie a warm, fatherly smile. It feels like I’m not even in the room, like I’ve been demoted to furniture. He may be trying to keep her from selling before the town has its say, but he’s still charmed by her.
Rolling my eyes, I carry the heater out for her without asking. She doesn’t argue.
Haven & Hearth is right next door. The antique shop’s green-painted door creaks as we push it open, and the windows are crowded with too many things—milk glass lamps, woven rugs, wooden carvings of birds and boats and horses. The same sort of jumble that spills through the inn.
Elspeth curated it that way. Stories in every corner. A hundred small, beautiful things watching from the shelves.
Inside, Ms. Quinn stands behind the counter in a gray wool cardigan buttoned to her throat. She looks me over and purses her lips.
“Rourke,” she says, voice dry as kindling. “You patching up the alcove again? Because I told you last time, those old cabinets are a lost cause.”
“We’re here for some window latches. And to browse a little.” I hold up both hands. “No harm done.”
“Don’t touch the clock shelf,” she warns, narrowing her eyes before turning to Elsie. “And you—your face looks familiar.”
“Elsie Hart,” she says softly. “Elspeth’s granddaughter.”
“Ah,” Ms. Quinn says, softening. “Then you’re allowed to touch one clock.”
Elsie gives her a small smile.
It doesn’t take me long to find the latches. When I head to the counter, Elsie drifts back with a tiny ceramic dish covered in plum blossoms, hair tucked behind her ear like she’s embarrassed to want it. I take it from her and set it beside the latches.
“We should get it,” I tell her. “It matches perfectly with the one in the parlor.”
She presses her lips together. “Yeah, I know.”
Her voice is quiet, but there’s something in it—a flicker of recognition, like a thread pulling taut between past and present. She doesn’t fight me on it, and for once, I don’t push. The dish belongs at the inn. Maybe she does, too, whether she admits it or not.
The next morning, the air is clear enough to sting the lungs, the snow glossed with a thin sheen of light. I haul the ladder out front, toolbox at my feet, pencil behind my ear. We’re doing gutters today, per Princess Elsie’s request.
By the time she steps onto the porch, boots laced and braid crooked, I’ve already cleared the worst of the ice. And thank God for that, because she looks way too eager for someone who has no business dangling three rungs up in the cold.
“It’s not as bad as I thought,” I tell her, tilting my chin. “Mostly just debris, a few warped brackets.”
She perks up. “I can do debris.”
I arch a brow. “Sure about that?”
“No,” she says, “but if I say it with conviction, it might become true.”
Something breaks loose in my chest. A quiet exhale slips out—half laugh, half surrender.
Ignoring the way she grins at having coaxed it out of me, I set the ladder against the eave and climb. The rungs feel familiar under my boots, the cold metal biting through the leather. I’ve done this dozens of times, maybe more, and it doesn’t take long before I settle into it.
“Pass me the scoop,” I call down.
She fumbles through the box and miraculously holds up the correct tool. I take it without looking, mutter my approval, and get back to work.
“Try not to lean,” she warns. “I’m not emotionally prepared to call an ambulance today.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t want me out of commission,” I mutter, scraping out a wad of pine needles. By the lack of reply, she either didn’t hear me or she’s wisely ignoring it.
When I climb down, I’ve cleared the worst of the corner. I jerk my chin toward the far end of the roof. “You want to try the next one?”
Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“Clear the leaves, tighten a screw. I’ll spot you. If you’re lucky, you’ll make it out with both dignity and blood volume intact.”
She hesitates, then sets her jaw. “Okay. Let me.”
I steady the ladder as she climbs, my hand braced firm against the rail.
She’s careful, but the cold makes her movements stiff.
It’s not a problem so long as she follows the steps.
And to her credit, she does—crouches the way I showed her, knees bent, back steady, and sets to scooping.
Leaves and half-frozen muck come free in small clumps.
I hover close, ready to catch her if she slips.
“You’re not terrible at this, either,” I say after a minute. “Maybe handiwork is your calling.”
She snorts. “I contain multitudes.”
“I’ll let you know when I meet the rest.”
The corner of her mouth tilts upward, but she doesn’t look down. She keeps working, breath fogging pale in the winter air. I sort through the toolbox for a new bracket, listening to the scrape of her scoop.
“This one’s stripped,” she calls, tapping the screw. “The head’s all messed up.”
“I’ve got another in the kit,” I answer. “Don’t force it.”
She leans a little to pry it loose. The gutter shifts. I step in, one hand on the ladder, the other reaching to catch the bracket before it can fall. My knuckles clip the jagged edge of the downspout.
The sound is quick and ugly—metal splitting skin—and then I’m hissing through my teeth. Blood wells fast, bright against the gray metal. I curl my hand into a fist like that’ll be enough to stop it.
“I’m okay,” I mutter before she can get the words out. My jaw’s tight, though, and I know it shows. I’m used to chronic pain, the kind that lingers in the background like shitty weather, but I haven’t injured myself like this in years. Not with blood and rust biting into the cut.
Her eyes widen. “What happened?”
I step back, keep the ladder steady with my boot, and press my hand to my side. Blood’s already sliding down my wrist, a sharp streak of red blooming against the clean snow.
She scrambles down too fast, nearly slipping. “Oh my God, Wells. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—did I—was it—”
“I said I’m fine. It was me. I wasn’t looking.”
“But you wouldn’t have—if I hadn’t leaned or—Jesus, that’s a lot of blood.”
“It looks worse than it is,” I say, though the sting tells me otherwise.
She ignores me, cradles my arm with surprising care, and gives a firm tug. “Come on. Inside. We’ll find a first aid kit.”
“I used the last of the gauze when I split my knuckle fixing the porch rail.”
“Then I’ll improvise. I’ve seen Grey’s Anatomy.”
I let her pull me back across the snow, one hand pressed tight to my chest, the other brushing the edge of her coat. The trail we leave behind is dotted in red.
The heat of the house hits like a wall. She doesn’t hesitate as she steers us straight to the kitchen. She knows the layout by heart, as if muscle memory has been guiding her through these rooms all along.
“I’m all right,” I say again, quieter now. The words don’t stick.
She tears through the drawers like a woman on a mission. I sink into a chair, letting the ache pulse. I almost tell her not to bother. I’ve scoured these cabinets before, and there’s never been a first aid kit here.
But then, tucked behind the flour tins, she finds one. A pale blue tin I’ve never seen, stocked with gauze, wipes, tape. She freezes for half a second, as if she can’t quite believe it, either, then shakes herself and brings it over.
The gauze trembles slightly in her hand. She’s rattled. Thinks this is her fault.
I’d like to blame her for everything that is, or has, or will go wrong on principle, but it’s hard to keep up the tough-guy act when she looks like that—cheeks flushed, brow drawn tight, heart sitting squarely in her hands. I don’t know what to do with that kind of sincerity.
“It’s really not bad,” I say again.
Blood streaks down to my elbow, bright against my skin, dripping onto the worn floorboards like punctuation. I flex my fingers, wince at the pull.
“Let me look.” Her fingers are steady when she takes my wrist, turning it toward the light. The cut runs jagged across my palm, sharp and raw. She presses an antiseptic wipe to it.
“Shit,” I bite out, jerking in the chair.
“Sorry,” she whispers. “This part’s the worst.”
My teeth grit. “It’s fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“And I generally don’t like repeating myself.”
She looks up at me then, gaze open and steady. I shift mine to the window instead, fix it on the snow collecting along the sill. Her hands work with practiced care—dab, wrap, anchor the tape smooth and clean.
If she sheds another tear over this, I might as well hand her the keys and call it a day.
“You don’t need to blame yourself, you know,” I say gruffly. “Not for this.”
“I can’t seem to help it.”
I don’t argue. I don’t let go of her wrist, either. Her hands are warm against mine, careful in a way that unsettles me. She finishes the wrap and smooths the tape down with her thumb, lingering long enough that I feel the weight of it.
“You’re good at this,” I say, low. “De-escalation. Staying calm when most people wouldn’t.”
Her mouth tightens. She doesn’t meet my eyes. “I’m not that good at it. Not usually. Not easily.”
“You’re doing just fine now.”
That makes her still. She lets go of my hand, puts the gauze back in the tin, fusses with the supplies like she can’t afford to look at me. Somewhere above us, a floorboard gives a soft, measured creak.
“You’re not mad?” she asks.
“No. I’m not mad.”
She clears her throat, offers, “Want me to grab you some tea or something? I can finish up outside.”
“No.” I’m on my feet before she can move. “We’re done for today.”
She doesn’t push it. Instead, she turns to rinse her own hands at the sink, shoulders drawn tight. I stay where I am, flexing my bandaged fingers, the ache dulled more by her touch than the gauze. She may think I’m the one giving her emotional whiplash, but she rattles me worse.
“Thank you, Elsie,” I say finally. “It’s good you were here to patch me up.”
“Right,” she says without turning. “But if I weren’t here, you never would have been hurt at all.”
She doesn’t intend me to feel the full brunt of the guilt tucked in that sentence, I think. Or maybe she does, hoping I’ll flinch and throw it back. Instead, I let the silence stand, heavy between us, and watch the water run clear over her pale hands.