Chapter 3 Annabelle
G ravel crunches under my boots, sharp, brittle, and unforgiving. My suitcase wheels groan behind me, snagging on every divot as if screaming, ‘ Turn around, Annabelle. Move to Alaska!”
But it’s too late.
Lords Valley spreads ahead, smug and picturesque, its fences draped in spring blossoms and its air thick with the scent of lilacs and renewal. Paper lanterns and streamers snap in the breeze as May Day hums to life.
It’s all so bright and so cheerful, it makes me want to vomit.
Where was all this sweetness when I needed it? Where were these happy, busy people when I was locked in a San Francisco apartment, clutching a kitchen knife in one shaking hand and praying Mike Bishop wouldn’t pick that night to come back?
I swallow hard, tightening my grip on the suitcase. Inside, the hidden weight of the gun and my journal knock softly against the lining.
I’m not the girl they remember. Not anymore.
The town doesn’t know it yet, but the woman they once called their Pie Princess—their first town nurse, their smiling Annabelle—is returning as something cracked and dangerous, something that might not survive this return.
A stray dog shuffles at the curb, ribs shining through patchy fur. I crouch, clicking my tongue, but she bolts, vanishing behind the scorched skeleton of my childhood home.
I straighten slowly, staring at the blackened beams jutting into the sky like snapped bones. I don’t even remember walking here. My roots have turned to ash and blown with the wind. I drag in a shaky breath and force myself forward, back to town, because there’s only one place left to go.
I can’t face Derek Fields yet. Not after everything I left him to clean up. God knows, I’m not ready to face myself, but I need somewhere to breathe. Somewhere to sit. Somewhere the ghosts don’t talk back, and the demons stay drunk.
So I head for the Rusty Lantern Pub.
The door creaks open to whiskey, pine cleaner, old smoke, and sweet memory.
Inside, the worn leather barstools haven’t changed. Neither has the low hum of voices, or the battered jukebox whispering an old country song no one listens to anymore.
I roll my suitcase across the floor, pulse rattling under my skin. Familiar faces glance up, nodding like I just stepped out for a minute and not, you know, years .
“Welcome back, Annabelle,” George calls from behind the bar, his smile warm and worn-in. For half a second, I almost believe I’m home.
He steps out from behind the counter, all warmth and minty dish soap, and wraps me in a quick, sturdy hug. I stiffen—then lean in just for a second, tasting the safety I’ve missed.
“It’s good to see you.”
I manage a smile that cracks like glass. “You too.”
“What’ll it be?”
“D ouble whiskey. Neat.”
George doesn’t blink. He pours. No questions. Just service with emotional restraint.
I slide into a corner booth. Leather sticks to my thighs like judgment. The first sip brings mercy. The second one, forgiveness. And the third, a forget-me-not moment. Whiskey never fixes anything, but tonight, it’s trying.
I close my eyes as the pub hums around me. Smoke settles in my bones, but it doesn’t take long for me to feel him. I know his footsteps by name. They carry the weight of a man who was born to undo me. And damn it, I want to be undone.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Annabelle Waters, back in town.”
His voice detonates the past. I open my eyes and see Derek Fields, standing by my table like he never left my dreams—or nightmares—or both.
He looks older and sharper around the edges. Still broad-shouldered, and still magnetic gravity in human form. A grease smudge stains above his brow, and a strand of gray lightens his temple. He’s the same, and completely different. Like me.
The grip on my glass tightens.
“Mr. Fields,” I say coolly.
His mouth quirks. “ Mr. Fields? Last time you called me that, you were dating my kid. What happened to Derek , Pie Princess?”
The nickname slices me open, but I don’t let it show.
“We didn’t date.” My voice is flat and sharp. A little too sharp. “I thought we were past that. And you know what happened to Derek , Derek.”
Which is a lie.
Because I don’t know what happened to him after I left. I don’t know if he hated me, missed me, erased me. I only know that I never stopped trying to forget how he made me feel. Safe, seen, and wanted.
Loved.
“Drinking alone, or waiting for rescue from bad whiskey decisions?” he asks.
I bite my cheek, holding back a smile I have no business letting slip.
“I thought you’d be the last person to play knight in shining armor.”
“Wrong. I’m the grease-stained hero whose horses never break down.”
He slides into the booth as if time and heartbreak are just technical glitches he’s already fixed.
“Come on, Annabelle,” he murmurs. “I’ve had you in my bed. And you’re right, we’re past all that, so I think you can call me by my first name.”
I raise my glass instead of answering, but every sip burns away my resolve, because loving him again could destroy us both. Derek Fields isn’t just an ex.
He’s the man who’s tied to my biggest secret. The man I’ve been running from and toward at the same time. The man who, if I’m not careful, will rot for me in jail.
The old pull is instant. But so is the ache—the heavy reminder of why I’m really here. If we marry, Mike’s hold on me vanishes. And with it, any need for me to stand up in court.
I f we marry, maybe… Maybe I can finally stop running.
And as I sit across from him, feeling the heat of his gaze, the rough softness in his voice, the quiet promise that he’s never stopped waiting, I realize something terrifying.
I’m not sure I’ll survive loving Derek Fields again. But I know I won’t survive not loving him.
“I heard you were back.” His arm is flung over the seat as casually as a date, and as loaded as my whole messy return.
“You heard? What, did the cows gossip?”
He snorts. “Word travels fast, especially when a woman hauls a floral suitcase down Main Street like she’s auditioning for a country music video.”
“It’s paisley, thank you. And it matches my trauma.”
He laughs, loud and real. It’s just enough to make my stupid heart do a flip it has no business doing. I hate how much I missed that laugh and how much I want to bottle it like perfume.
“Annabelle,” he says, voice dropping.
Dangerous. Soft. Almost tender.
“Don’t.” I set my glass down. “Not yet.”
A beat passes. His jaw ticks, but he nods.
“Okay. Just… Didn’t expect to find you here. Thought you’d be halfway to Alaska by now.”
“Alaska may be an option if I can’t bury the past. Reclaim my life. Maybe commit a light crime.”
He arches a brow. “Need backup again?”
I snicker. That’s Derek. Always offering help, despite consequences. “I think one murder between us is enough.”
God, if only baking pies were felonious enough to derail Mike’s case, I’d open up a bakery.
His smile falters, memory flickering in his eyes. For a second, this place isn’t the pub. It’s the riverbank. A wedding that never happened. A promise neither of us knew how to keep.
Silence stretches, and I want to fill it with something stupid, like a pie recipe or the weather. Instead, I come up with something even more absurd. “So…still single?”
He blinks. “Seriously?”
“Just checking if that backup offer includes benefits.”
Whiskey loosens my tongue, but it’s not like we’re strangers.
His eyes darken. “That depends. You offering a merger?”
“Let’s not skip the prenup, grease monkey. I’m barely in town.”
But my voice betrays me. A little too breathy. A little too hopeful.
He raises his glass, lazy and lethal. “To new beginnings.”
I tap mine to his, pulse hammering, betting on drink and ruin, both. Whiskey burns less, but not enough.
He watches me. He’s always been good at that, never pushing, just waiting.
Waiting until you break.
I break first.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” I mutter. “I’ve survived fine on my own.”
He leans back, arms draped over the booth as if he owns the place. “Right. That’s why you walked ten miles from the station instead of calling for a ride?”
I bristle. “I needed the air.”
“Or an excuse not to face anyone.”
I glare.
He sips.
Of course, he’s right. I didn’t call. I couldn’t bear my brother’s disappointment or Emma’s tears, because it’s torture when someone actually gets your pain.
But Derek? He looks at me like I’m still me, which somehow hurts worse.
“You always ran,” he says quietly.
I flinch.
He sees it.
Damn him.
“I’m not running anymore. Not even to Alaska.”
His gaze sharpens. “So? Why skip your brother’s wedding?”
My chest caves in. There are too many ghosts in that chapel.
“Derek, please. Not tonight.” My words are a prayer against every nightmare I carry. “Let me decompress.”
I finish my whiskey in one pull. It’s the only way I stay sitting upright. “I should go.”
“To the Motor-Inn?” His brow lifts, half amusement, half a silent “You’re making terrible decisions again.”
“Yes, Derek. To the Motor-Inn. My parent’s house is in ashes and Eric's is full.”
He mutters under his breath, “Stubborn as hell,” then downs his drink and stands, stretching off this conversation like it’s a bad hangover.
“Suit yourself. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. That place hasn’t been cleaned since Bush was in office.”
I roll my eyes. “Which one?”
“The first one.”
I snort against my will. The tiny, involuntary sound almost feels like laughter, but I’m too raw.
He watches with that unreadable look until he slips his hand into mine and whispers, “Stay with me.”
The words land softly, gentle, but with steel underneath.
I fake a smile. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”
We both know that’s a lie.
He lets it go, as he always does, giving me space even when every part of him wants to pull me back.
I’m so ready to be pulled back, I just don’t know how to open my fingers.