Chapter 4
Chapter four
Ronan
The gravel crunches under my boots as I climb the porch steps, the sound sharp against the quiet that settles over everything this time of day.
Late afternoon light filters through the pines, turning the world gold at the edges, but the warmth doesn’t reach me.
I unlock the door, step inside, and let the familiar hush wrap around me like an old coat.
Pine, woodsmoke, the faint metallic tang of tools. Home, or as close as I get to it.
I shrug out of my jacket, hang it on the hook, and head straight for the kitchen. Kettle on. Coffee grounds into the press. Same rhythm. Same order. The motions keep my hands busy and my mind from wandering too far. I’ve had enough wandering for one day.
The woman, Isla, keeps surfacing anyway.
Her face when she said my name. The way her voice caught on Declan’s.
The feel of her waist under my palms when the ladder gave way.
Solid. Warm. Real in a way that made my chest tighten.
I pour hot water over the grounds, watch the bloom rise and settle.
Push it down. She’s Declan’s sister. That makes her untouchable. End of story.
I carry the mug to the porch and settle into the Adirondack chair.
The wood groans under me. I stare out at the sliver of ocean visible between the trees, gray and restless under the fading sky.
Gulls wheel low, calling to each other. The wind carries salt and cedar.
I sip the coffee, let it burn all the way down.
Routine. Control. That’s what keeps the days from bleeding into each other.
I’m halfway through the mug when I hear an engine laboring up the gravel road. Not a local. Too tentative on the turns. I set the coffee on the arm of the chair and stand, muscles already coiling the way they do when something’s coming.
A beat-up sedan rounds the last bend and pulls to a stop in front of the cabin. Dust settles around the tires. The driver’s door opens, and there she is.
Isla.
She steps out slowly, like she’s not sure she won’t be shot for trespassing.
She’s wearing jeans, a soft gray sweater, and her hair pulled back in a loose knot that’s already coming undone from the wind.
She looks smaller out here, away from the community center’s walls.
More uncertain. Her eyes find me on the porch, and for a second, something flickers across her face.
She closes the car door, walks up the short path, and stops at the bottom of the steps. Keeps a careful distance.
“Hi,” she says.
I don’t answer right away. Just watch her. She’s clutching a small notebook against her chest like a shield. Her knuckles are white.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she starts. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
I lean one shoulder against the porch post and cross my arms. “What do you need?”
She glances back at her car, then at the cabin, then at me.
“The cottage I’ve rented. It’s… worse than I thought.
The roof’s leaking like the community center; there’s a window that won’t latch; and the kitchen sink drips so loudly I can hear it from the bedroom.
I can’t afford to hire anyone right now.
Not yet. I was hoping…” She swallows. “Maybe you could tell me what to tackle first? Or point me to someone cheap? Or, I don’t know, show me how to stop the worst of it myself? ”
Her voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent I recognize. Fear. I’ve seen it in guys coming off bad patrols. I’ve felt it in myself some nights when the dreams won’t let go.
I study her face. Dark circles under her eyes. Lips pressed thin. Shoulders tight, like she’s bracing for a no. Why is she afraid? I haven’t been mean to her or anything.
I could send her away. Tell her to call the landlord. Tell her it’s not my problem. But the words stick somewhere behind my teeth.
She’s Declan’s sister…and she’s scared.
I exhale through my nose. “Come up.”
She hesitates, then climbs the steps. Stops just outside arm’s reach. Close enough to talk. Far enough to run if she needs to.
I turn and open the door wider. “Inside. Wind’s picking up.”
She steps past me, careful not to brush against anything. The cabin feels smaller with her in it. She stops in the middle of the living room, looks around without really looking. Takes in the sparse furniture, the woodstove, the single framed photo on the shelf that I never turn faceup anymore.
I close the door behind us. “Sit if you want.”
She shakes her head. “I’m okay standing.”
I lean against the kitchen counter, arms still crossed. “Show me what you’ve got.”
She opens the notebook, flips to a page filled with neat handwriting and little sketches.
Sinks. Window. Roof spots circled in red pen.
“The roof’s the worst. Water’s coming in over the kitchen and the back bedroom.
I put buckets down, but it’s spreading. The window in the living room rattles every time the wind hits.
And the sink…” She trails off, gives a small, tired laugh.
“It’s like water torture at three in the morning. ”
I nod once. “Sink’s easy. Washer’s probably shot. Window’s likely the glazing or the sash. Roof…” I pause. “That’s bigger. Needs shingles replaced; maybe check flashing. Can’t do it in one day.”
“I know.” Her voice drops. “I just need it to stop getting worse until I get paid.”
Silence stretches between us. I can hear the kettle cooling on the stove, the faint tick of the woodstove settling. She’s watching me, waiting for the verdict.
I rub a hand over my jaw. Feel the stubble. Feel the pull I don’t want to name. She’s asking for help.
“I’ll come tomorrow,” I say finally. “While you’re at work. I’ll start with the roof, patch what I can, and stop the leaks. Sink after that. Window if there’s time. You leave the key under the mat. I’ll lock up when I’m done.”
Her eyes widen. “You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t.” My tone comes out sharper than I mean it to. I soften it. “But I will.”
She blinks fast, like she’s trying not to let anything show. “Thank you. Really. I’ll pay you back. As soon as I—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I cut her off. I don’t want her thinking she owes me anything.
She nods, swallows again. “Okay. The key’ll be there. I go to the center at eight. I’m usually there till five or six.”
“Got it.”
She closes the notebook and tucks it under her arm. Looks like she wants to say more, but doesn’t know how. “I should go. Let you get back to… whatever you were doing.”
I don’t move to stop her. Just watch as she walks to the door. She pauses with her hand on the knob.
“Ronan?”
“Yeah.”
She turns just enough to meet my eyes. “I’m not here to cause trouble. I just needed a place to start over. That’s all.”
Something twists low in my gut. Not pity. Recognition. I know what starting over looks like when you’re running on fumes and fear.
“I know,” I say quietly.
She gives a small, tremulous smile, the first real one I’ve seen from her. “Good night.”
The door closes behind her with a soft click.
I stand there a long minute, listening to her car start, listening to the engine fade down the gravel road. Then I walk to the window and watch the taillights disappear into the dusk.
The cabin feels emptier than it did before she walked in.
I pick up my cold coffee, carry it to the sink, and pour it down the drain. Rinse the mug. Set it in the drainer. Same motions. Same order.
But the rhythm feels off now, like something’s shifted just enough to throw everything out of alignment.
Tomorrow I’ll go to the cottage while she’s at work. I’ll patch the roof, fix the sink, and maybe the window. I’ll work alone, the way I like it. No conversation. No questions. No eyes watching me like they’re waiting for me to crack.
And when I’m done, I’ll leave the key under the mat and walk away.
That’s the plan.
I tell myself it’s simple. Duty. A promise I never made but feel anyway because of the man who called me brother.
But as I lock the front door and turn off the lights, I can still feel the ghost of her waist under my hands. The way she looked at me when she said thank you—the quiet fear she carries like a second skin.
And I know, deep down, where I don’t let myself look too often, that tomorrow won’t be as simple as I want it to be.
I head to the bedroom, strip down to boxers, and slide under the covers. It’s too early to go to bed, but I have nothing else to do. The sheets are cool against my skin. I stare at the ceiling, listen to the wind move through the pines.
Sleep doesn’t come easily.
When it finally does, I dream of falling ladders and a woman with tired eyes who looks at me like I might be worth trusting.
I wake before dawn, heart pounding, and tell myself it’s just another day.
Just another job.
Nothing more.