CALLA
My stomach growls audibly as Mrs. Dalloway's wagon rattles to a stop outside the Whistle's office. The sound echoes in the evening air like a protest against the long day we've endured, and I press a hand to my abdomen in embarrassment.
"Hungry?" Brakkor asks, swinging down from the wagon bed with that easy grace that seems at odds with his broad frame.
"Starving." The admission slips out before I can try to stop it, and I feel heat creep up my neck. "I suppose you are too."
He shrugs, running hands through his dark hair. "Could eat."
I hesitate, weighing propriety against practicality.
The proper thing would be to part ways here, let him find his own meal at the inn while I retreat to my cottage alone.
But the day has been productive, and something about the way he handled himself at the depot—stepping back when my approach worked better—makes me reconsider.
"I could cook something," I hear myself say. "It's been a long day, and you could probably use a proper meal"
"Haven't had something homecooked since I lived with my mother." His tusks catch the lamplight as he grins. "Why not."
"Fair warning—it won't be anything spectacular. I'm not exactly known for my culinary skills."
"Can't be worse than whatever they're serving at the inn."
I lead him through the winding cobblestone streets toward the south of town, where my cottage sits nestled between an old oak and a patch of wildflowers that have grown untamed since Father stopped tending them.
The timber frame looks smaller with Brakkor beside me, his broad shoulders nearly spanning the narrow front path.
"Cozy," he says, ducking slightly as we pass under the low doorframe.
The interior feels cramped with his presence filling it—Father's old reading chair by the fireplace, the small dining table that seats two if both people don't mind their knees bumping.
Everything here carries memories of quiet evenings and careful conversations, and now this large, intense man stands in the middle of it like a storm that's wandered indoors.
"Make yourself comfortable." I gesture toward the sitting area while I move to the kitchen alcove. "There's not much space, but..."
"It's perfect." He settles into Father's chair, and something about the way he fits there—careful not to overwhelm the delicate furniture—makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.
I pull ingredients from the pantry, my hands moving through the familiar motions of preparing a simple stew. The rhythmic chopping of vegetables and sizzle of onions in the pan creates a domestic soundtrack that feels both foreign and oddly comforting with him here.
"Those signatures were definitely forged," I say, stirring the pot. "The pressure was all wrong, and Maddie's 'M' has a distinctive flourish that wasn't there."
"Professional job though." Brakkor leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "Whoever did this has experience with document fraud."
"Which means we're dealing with someone who knows what they're doing." I add herbs to the stew, the savory aroma filling the small space. "This isn't some opportunistic scheme."
"No, it's systematic. Targeted." His voice carries that edge I recognize from when he's piecing together a story. "We need to warn everyone in Harvest Hollow that someone's actively sabotaging their businesses."
I pause, wooden spoon halfway to my mouth for tasting. "Absolutely not."
"We can't just sit on this information while people's livelihoods crumble around them."
I ladle stew into two bowls, the steam rising between us like the tension in my small kitchen. "And we can't send everyone into a panic when we don't even understand what we're dealing with yet."
"How is warning them panic?" He shifts forward in Father's chair, making the old wood creak. "These people have a right to know someone's targeting their businesses."
"Do they?" I set his bowl on the side table next to him, noting how his large hands dwarf the delicate bowl. "What exactly would you have me tell them? That someone might be stealing their shipments for reasons we can't explain?"
"Better than letting them think it's their fault when their businesses fail."
I settle into the smaller chair across from him, cradling my own bowl. "You don't understand the people here, Brakkor. They're not like the hardened city dwellers you're used to writing for."
He takes a spoonful, chewing thoughtfully. "Meaning what?"
"Meaning they wake up each morning focused on perfecting their craft, on the simple pleasure of making something beautiful.
" I watch him taste the stew, surprised by the careful way he handles the spoon.
"Maddie doesn't just bake bread—she creates little moments of joy for everyone who walks into her shop.
The Penwhistles don't just run errands; they catch up with neighbors and share gossip that keeps our community connected. "
"Sounds naive."
"It sounds peaceful." I set my bowl down, leaning forward.
"These people have built something precious here.
They trust that their neighbors won't cheat them, that their suppliers will deliver what they promise, that their world makes sense.
If I tell them that someone is systematically destroying that trust... "
"They deserve to know the truth."
"They deserve to be protected from unnecessary fear until we understand what we're protecting them from." I pick up my spoon again, stirring the vegetables around. "This is my town, Brakkor. I've spent my entire adult life making sure nothing disrupts what we have here."
He eats in silence for several moments, and I watch the hard lines around his eyes soften slightly. "You really do care about these people."
"More than anything."
"Even more than the story."
I smile, feeling some of the tension ease from my shoulders. "The story matters because they matter. And you know what? If you stopped thinking of your time here as punishment and started seeing it as an opportunity to experience something genuinely beautiful, you might grow to love them too."
He considers this, taking another careful bite. The domestic quiet settles around us—the gentle tick of the mantel clock, the soft bubble of leftover stew on the stove, the distant sound of Mrs. Bramblewood calling her cats in for the evening.
"Alright," he says finally. "What do you think our next step should be?"
I feel a small spark of satisfaction at the word 'our.' "We need to look more carefully at who's been affected. Your records showed that most businesses have suffered losses, but there's one notable exception."
"Exception?"
"Garron Pike." I set my empty bowl aside. "His construction supply business has actually seen increased orders recently. Strange, considering his family has been building and maintaining virtually every structure in Harvest Hollow for three generations."
Brakkor pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. "I hadn't thought of that."
"I could be wrong, of course." I sink back in my chair, watching the way the firelight plays across his weathered features. "But we might as well go talk to Garron and see how he's doing. Find out where these orders are coming from."
Brakkor nods slowly, setting his empty bowl on the side table. "Makes sense. If everyone else is struggling and he's thriving..."
"Exactly." I rise to collect our dishes, stacking them with practiced efficiency. "And come to think of it, Thornak must be doing well too, since he runs the lumber mill. If Garron's getting increased construction orders, he'd need more wood."
"Right." Brakkor stretches in Father's chair, the old wood creaking under his weight. "Though I have to admit, I wouldn't know Thornak from any other person in town. Hell, I don't really know anyone here."
He pauses, running his hands through his dark hair. "Except for you, and honestly? I haven't actually liked you until the last twenty-four hours."
I bark out a laugh, the sound sharp in the quiet cottage. "Thanks."
"What I mean is—" He holds up a hand, but I'm already grinning.
"No, no, I understand completely. The feeling was mutual." I carry the bowls to the kitchen, speaking over my shoulder. "You showed up like some kind of journalistic tornado, ready to tear apart everything I've spent years building."
"And you seemed determined to bury every story worth telling under a mountain of cautious editing."
"Cautious editing that keeps this town functioning." I face him, leaning against the kitchen counter. "Though I suppose your approach has its merits too."
He stands, moving to the window that overlooks my small garden. The wildflowers catch moonlight like scattered stars, and I watch his expression soften as he takes in the view.
"It really is beautiful here," he admits quietly.
"It is." I join him at the window, noting how his presence seems less overwhelming now, more like it belongs.
"Which is why we need to be smart about how we handle this.
Garron's been part of this community for decades—his family built half the houses in Harvest Hollow.
If he's involved in something questionable... "
"We approach carefully." Brakkor glances at me, and I catch something like respect in his tired eyes. "Your way."
"Our way," I correct, surprising myself with how easily the words come. "We'll visit him tomorrow morning, casual-like. Maybe I'll mention needing some repairs done on the Whistle's office."
"Good cover." He moves toward the door, then hesitates. "Thank you. For dinner, for... Well, just thanks."
"No problem, really." The cottage suddenly feels too small again, but this time it's not uncomfortable. "Thank you for not pushing when I asked you to step back today."
He nods, reaching for the door handle. "See you in the morning, Calla."