Chapter 9
WELLS
We have a town hall meeting tonight. Now that Elsie’s back, one of the items on the agenda is the property transfer—which means someone’s finally going to bring up the historical designation that’s been conveniently ignored since Elspeth died.
I have big plans to stage a derailment, but my hand stings every time I so much as flex it. I’m on my way to grab some plum salve before it splits open again and ruins my evening of sabotaging Elsie’s grand plans.
I left her at the house, tucked under a blanket with a dog-eared notebook in her lap and at least two mugs of something warm on the side table.
She offered to come with me, but I waved her off.
Partly because I needed air, partly because the thought of her stumbling into another sharp corner while I’m benched makes my skin itch.
Not that she’s clumsy. That’s not the word I’d use. She’s capable, determined, stubborn to a fault. I’d call her a disaster waiting to happen, but even that feels unfair. She’s more like a storm that doesn’t quite know where to land.
After resting most of the afternoon, I wrapped my hand in fresh gauze, gritted my teeth, and made the short drive toward the edge of town, where Mirabelle Grove curls out from the hillside in rows of orderly plum trees.
Achehoney’s good for bruises, muscle fatigue, tendon strain. Swallow it or rub it into your skin, and it soothes what’s been overworked, what’s tight or twisted. But for cuts—especially the kind that throb across the palm and threaten to split with every movement—you want the salve.
Sticky, opaque, the color of a snapped dandelion stem. It smells faintly of smoke and something metallic, but it seals a wound quickly enough to keep it from tearing wider.
I cross through the half-locked orchard gates without bothering to knock. Isla’s the one at the sorting table today, sleeves pushed up, breath ghosting in the cold. A couple of the orchard hands are nearby, packing jars of cider and dried fruit into crates for the general store.
The air smells faintly of woodsmoke and vinegar. Not many plums this time of year—January’s too lean for that—but Mirabelle still sells cider, preserves, dried slices sugared at the edges. Winter stores.
Although, tucked by the north fence, there’s one stubborn, forever-blooming tree. Its branches are still dusted with pale blossoms even in the dead of January. That tree is the reason Mirabelle Grove never quite empties.
The magic the founders planted here has deep roots, and this is where it chose to linger.
Isla looks up as I round the edge of the porch, hair frizzing at the ends where the wind has caught her. “Wells,” she says. “How’s it going?”
I lift my hand in answer, palm up. “Not great. Took a gutter edge to the hand.”
“Let me guess.” She grabs a cloth to wipe her palms. “Elsie?”
“She didn’t do it on purpose, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“No, but she was involved.”
I shrug.
Isla rolls her eyes. “You’re a bleeding heart, Wells Rourke.”
“It’s only my fuckin’ hand that’s bleeding,” I mutter.
She turns toward the shelves that line the back wall of the shed and returns a moment later with a small clay jar. “Sorry, Wells. There’s not much left. Might not be enough to patch you up, but I’ll brew more in a few days. If you start seeing red streaks, go see Alma.”
I pocket the jar. “Thanks, Winslow. I’ll be back for more.”
“Do you prefer fresh or preserved? The old tree by the north fence still throws out a handful late if the frost doesn’t kill them. There are three ripe clinging stubborn at the top.”
“Fresh, always.”
Her mouth quirks. “Figures.”
“How’s your dad doing, by the way?”
Isla’s dad, Walter, took it hard when her mom left. Took it personally, because how could you not? They were together more than thirty years. Raised two kids, kept the grove running. Then, one day, she packed a bag and drove south without looking back.
Florida, probably, where all the restless women go to reinvent themselves.
“Same as ever. Says he’ll come to the meeting if the moon’s in a good mood. Which, in his language, means probably not.” She squints at me. “You’re bringing Elsie, right?”
“She wasn’t invited.”
That earns me a look sharp enough to sting worse than the cut. “The town might not like what she plans to do, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t get a voice.”
I’m still chewing on that when I turn back down the path, the jar of salve warming against my palm. I’ve never been good at invitations. Easier to assume people would rather be left out than risk hearing them say no.
“Rourke!”
Jack Rhodes is striding toward me from the edge of the market green. Not surprising he’s hot on my trail—I just came from Isla’s, and those two have a way of orbiting each other. They bicker like it’s sport, but they can’t seem to keep their distance.
Jack’s been in Blue Willow longer than I have, though he grew up two towns over.
Elspeth introduced us soon after I arrived, swearing we’d hit it off.
She was right. We’ve been thick as thieves ever since, trading favors and the occasional late-night drink when the pipes burst or the gutters gave out.
He runs a carpentry shop by the western creek, takes on repair work all over the county. Sleeves rolled, scarf sliding off his shoulder, sandy-brown mullet wild from the wind. He always moves like he’s late to something.
“You skipping prep?” he asks, falling in beside me.
“Wasn’t planning to. Just needed something for my hand.”
I pull the bandage back far enough for him to see the angry line across my palm. Isla says the salve won’t heal it clean, but it’ll keep the sting down until a fresh batch is ready.
“Shit, what happened?”
“Little gutter incident.”
Jack winces, then cuts me a sidelong glance. “Elsie?”
“Why does everyone assume that?”
“It’s obvious you’ve got your hands full—figuratively, and apparently not so figuratively.”
I scowl at him. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t say she did.” He lifts a brow. “Damn, Rourke, it’s only been a few days, and you’re already ready to bite heads off on her behalf. I figured you’d be furious she’s here, trying to sell Elspeth’s inn.”
He’s right; I am. I think back to that first day, when all I wanted was to barrel through her excuses, shut her down before she could turn the inn into a real estate listing. But I’ve already caught myself giving her too much. Compliments she hasn’t earned. Defenses she didn’t ask for.
That isn’t me. Sweetness for the sake of being sweet to someone I shouldn’t be is worse than dishonesty.
“I am angry,” I say finally. “If she can’t see the magic of this town for what it is, then she doesn’t have a right to make decisions. And she sure as hell shouldn’t be able to give away the rights to the inn. It’s on my agenda for town hall.”
Jack gives a low whistle. “We’ll see how that goes over.”
“I’m not looking to start a fight. I just want to protect the town.”
“Uh-huh,” he says. “Protect it from the big bad wolf that is Elsie Hart.” I shoot him a look. He holds up his hands, smirking. “I’m just saying, maybe ease up a notch. You’re not exactly neutral.”
“I care about the place.”
“And you kinda care about the girl, too,” he says plainly. “Or you’re starting to, despite your grievances. Doesn’t take a genius.”
I open my mouth, then close it again. Jack’s known me too long to bluff.
He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Listen. Blue Willow loves its traditions, yeah, but it’s not frozen in time. We make room. We evolve. You’ve been here what—six years now? You think that doesn’t count? You’re not some outsider waiting for a gold star.”
I shake my head, half-amused. “Tell that to Dr. Torres.”
He snorts. “The doctor still calls me ‘that boy with the earring,’ and I’m nearly thirty.”
He starts to turn away, then pauses. “You know what else Blue Willow loves? Its families. Its founders. The Harts built a quarter of this town, and like it or not, Elsie’s one of them.”
“She hasn’t even tried to understand the place.”
Jack shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s just trying to figure out whether it wants her to.”
He peels off toward the square, whistling something low and aimless, and leaves me standing there with the salve jar warm in my pocket and a pulse in my hand that has nothing to do with the cut.
Fucking hell, I have to invite Elsie to town hall, don’t I?
Here we are, hours later. My hand throbs, and my other problem—sitting thigh to thigh beside me on these hard wooden benches—is fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. I shift, restless. I don’t want anyone here thinking I’m her ally. I don’t want her thinking it, either.
I respected the hell out of Elspeth, and the last thing I want is someone speaking for her who clearly doesn’t have her best interests in mind. I only invited her, last minute, because Isla and Jack made me feel guilty. And because I didn’t want the whole town thinking I was trying to shut her out.
The hall hums in that winter-evening way. Wet coats steaming along the back rail. Coffee in foam cups that squeak when squeezed. Pine cleaner baked into the floorboards, paper signs curling at the edges.
Bobby shuffles papers at the front table, baseball cap set aside.
A little brass bell rests by his elbow, though he only rings it when things get rowdy.
About thirty people fill the room—more than usual.
Most months, these meetings barely draw a dozen.
But word travels fast in a small town, and tonight, curiosity’s packed the benches.
He clears his throat. “All right, uh . . . last month’s minutes. Plow schedule, bake sale, gazebo paint.” A few nods. Dull mumbles of “aye.”
It moves like this for a while: a lost mitten, someone griping about salt on Main, Ms. Quinn’s yarn squeaking on needles she isn’t really knitting with. The rhythm settles everyone down. Even me. Almost.