Chapter 2
Jake
I drive another nail into the fence post with more force than necessary, satisfaction coursing through me as the wood splinters slightly.
The fence line between my property and the Wolfcreek Ranch has needed repairs for months, but I’ve been putting it off.
Not because I’m lazy—hell, there’s nothing else to do out here but work—but because it means getting too close to that cottage where the redhead and her kid live.
The October wind whips across the open pasture, carrying the scent of pine and approaching snow. Alberta winters don’t mess around, and this one’s coming early. I pull my worn Stetson lower over my eyes, adjusting my work gloves before grabbing another post from the truck bed.
Movement from the cottage catches my eye. Eleanor emerges with a cardboard box in her arms, her daughter skipping behind her. The little blonde girl clutches something orange and round. A pumpkin. Halloween decorations.
My chest tightens, and I hammer another nail with enough force to bend it. Goddamnit.
Four years ago, Avril and I would’ve been doing the same thing—hanging fake spiderwebs across the porch while Melanie bounced around in her witch costume weeks before trick-or-treating. Melanie loved Halloween. Said it was better than Christmas because you got to be someone else for a day.
I yank the bent nail out and toss it aside, the metal pinging against a rock. The sound carries across the field, making Eleanor glance in my direction. She raises a hand in greeting, a tentative smile on her face.
I turn my back, focusing on the fence post. I don’t need her friendliness. Don’t need her or her daughter reminding me of everything I’ve lost.
The accident plays through my mind for the millionth time—the phone call, the ice-slicked roads, the broken guardrail. By the time I reached the hospital, Avril was already gone. Melanie hung on for three days in the PICU before the machines could do no more for her tiny, broken body.
I sold our house in Calgary the next month. Bought this run-down cattle ranch as far from civilization as I could get while still maintaining a business. Five thousand acres of solitude, broken fences, and stubborn livestock that don’t give a damn about my grief.
“Hello there!” Eleanor’s voice carries across the field. She’s walking toward the fence line, the little girl trailing behind her, still clutching that damn pumpkin. “Are you fixing the fence? We’ve had some deer coming through lately.”
I grunt in response, keeping my back to them as I position another post. The last thing I need is conversation.
Not discouraged in the least bit by my silence, she continues, “We’re just putting up some Halloween decorations.”
“I can see that,” I mutter, still not turning around.
“We’ve got extra pumpkins if you’d like one,” she offers. “Nora picked too many at the patch yesterday.”
“No thanks.” The words come out harsher than I intended, but I don’t soften them with an explanation.
There’s a pause, and I can feel her uncertainty hanging in the air between us. Good. Maybe she’ll take the hint and leave me alone.
“Well, if you change your mind...” she trails off. “We’re just over there. I made pumpkin bread, too.”
The little girl pipes up then, her voice high and sweet. “It has chocolate chips in it! It’s the best kind.”
Melanie used to say the same thing. The hammer slips in my grip, nearly crushing my finger. I swear under my breath.
“We should let Mr.—I’m sorry, what was your name again?” Eleanor says.
“Jake,” I answer curtly, still not looking at them. “Jake Brennan.”
“We should let Mr. Brennan finish his work, Nora,” she continues. “Come on, let’s go hang the ghost on the porch.”
Thank God. They’re leaving. I wait until their footsteps retreat before risking a glance over my shoulder. The little girl—Nora—is looking back at me, her expression curious rather than hurt by my rudeness. She waves, the pumpkin clutched against her chest with her other arm.
Something twists in my gut. I turn away quickly, focusing on the fence with renewed intensity. I don’t need their kindness or their pumpkin bread. I don’t need neighbors or friends or anything except this land and the work that keeps me too tired to think.
Tomas MacGallan bought the place next door about eight years back, but they’re hardly ever around.
Just the woman and her kid in that cottage, and occasionally some security types patrolling the perimeter.
There were rumors in town about who owned it—some said a wealthy foreign investor was using it as a tax write-off, others said a reclusive tech billionaire owned it.
I didn’t care then, and I don’t care now. As long as they keep to themselves and keep their cattle off my land, we’ve got no quarrel.
Except now there seems to be more activity over there. Cars coming and going this past week. Voices carrying across the fields. Changes in the routine that’s been predictable for years.
I hammer the last nail into the post, testing it with a firm shake. It’ll hold through winter, at least on this section. I’ve got another quarter mile to inspect before sundown.
As I load my tools back into the truck, I can’t help glancing toward the cottage again. They’ve got a string of orange lights going up around the porch now, and what looks like a scarecrow propped in a rocking chair. The woman is laughing as the little girl tries to position a plastic skeleton.
Melanie would be eleven this year. Would she still love Halloween? Would she still want me to carve pumpkins with her, or would she be too old for that now?
The familiar ache spreads through my chest, the hollow feeling that never really goes away. I slam the truck’s tailgate closed with more force than necessary and climb into the driver’s seat. The engine roars to life, drowning out the sound of the little girl’s laughter carried on the wind.
As I drive along the fence line to the next section that needs work, I catch myself checking the rearview mirror, watching the cottage grow smaller in the distance. The orange lights twinkle like fireflies against the darkening afternoon sky.
For a split second, I allow myself to imagine what it would be like to accept their invitation. To taste homemade pumpkin bread again, to hear a child’s excitement about Halloween.
Then I remind myself why I’m here, in this isolated corner of Alberta. Not for connection. Not for healing. Just for survival, one day at a time.
I turn my attention back to the fence line, to the work that keeps the memories at bay. At least for a little while.