Chapter 12
Twelve
Tarryn
“Now we work,” Declan says.
We sit side by side on the workbench, legs swinging like we’re two coworkers instead of two people who just lost control in a barn.
I pull staff lists from the binder and my phone, grateful for something solid to do.
He boots up his laptop and connects to the new camera system, his focus absolute. I wish mine were.
He looks at me, and there’s something in his eyes I can’t read. “I’m in. Every hour you need me. My work here is with you. No distance.”
My chest tightens. “That’s a change for you.”
“I ran once. I’ll not run again.”
“Good.” I try to sound matter-of-fact, but it comes out softer than I mean it to.
“We do it,” I say.
He nods. “We do it. That’s our plan for the next twenty-four hours.” He ticks the items off on his fingers. “Finish the camera pull. Walk the exterior. Meet the marshal at three. Then we hang your nutcracker.”
That earns him the faintest smile. “You added the best part at the end.”
“I’m a romantic who schedules.”
“You’re a menace who schedules,” I counter, and it comes out almost teasing, but underneath, I’m grateful for the distance that humor buys me. I need space to breathe again.
My gaze drifts to the service door. The cold steel catches the light, unmoving, unreadable. “Max had a fight with Dad two days before the fire. He wanted money to cover a permit fine. Dad said no because he submitted the permit renewal late.”
Rumor has it that the fine was almost ten thousand dollars, and it’s regarding a steep slope of vines that need to be checked with environmental hazard permits.
They were grandfathered in because the vines were planted long before the local government required them, but they can pull those permits, and those cab grapes get valuable sunshine.
If they revoke the permit, it would require them to clear the land.
“I heard about the fine. Not the fight.”
“It was loud,” I say. “The office door was open.”
He nods, jaw tight. “We add it to the timeline.”
“And one more thing.” I inhale, steady. “Our insurance rider on the restaurant lapsed the week before. Dad forgot to sign. We fixed it after, but at the time, we weren’t covered. But it cost a lot of money.”
Declan’s expression hardens. “Who else knows that?”
“Just me, Dad, and Max. Now, you.”
“If someone knew, they might’ve thought pressure would force a sale or a loan. That’s motive.”
“I hate that this is about money,” I whisper.
He turns to me, and for a second, the air feels charged again. Not from what just happened between us, but from what’s still unresolved. We’re chasing a threat, sitting shoulder to shoulder, pretending the lines we crossed an hour ago don’t exist.
I look away first. “Let’s finish the footage.”
“Right,” he says. “Work.”
But neither of us moves right away.
I suddenly remember something Jonas said. “It’s also about pride. Land. Power. We take all of that into account.” I feel each word like another box to tick on a list I never wanted to make.
Marshal Reynolds arrives with an assistant right on time. And we walk down to the burnt carcass of the cottage. I’m grateful that Declan is here. I know I could have asked any of my brothers to join me and they would have, but I like having Declan with me.
The ground squelches beneath our boots, the last of the melt pooling in muddy tracks along the fence. The air smells faintly of wet ash and cedar. Declan walks beside me, quiet but alert, while the marshal crouches near one of the blackened posts, gloved fingers tracing the char.
“Four weeks,” he murmurs. “Snow did a number on your evidence, but sometimes, it gives back what it covers.” He lifts a warped nail from the mud, rolling it between his fingers before slipping it into a bag.
I tuck my hands into my coat pockets. “You’ve already gone over this section, haven’t you?”
“Twice,” he says, straightening. “But melt patterns can expose what we couldn’t see in the first pass. Fire likes to tell its story in layers.”
Declan shifts beside me. “You think someone came through here?”
Reynolds’s gaze tracks the fence line, where the grass dips slightly near the gate. “Could be animal. Could be human. See there?” He points to a faint depression in the earth. “Too deep for a deer, too narrow for a truck. Maybe someone on foot. Maybe dragging something heavy.”
I follow his line of sight, heart beating faster. “Like a gas can?”
“Or a snow shovel,” he replies evenly. “Not ruling anything out.” He walks on, pausing every few yards to scan the ground, his flashlight cutting through the dull daylight. “You had cameras up at the main drive, but not back here?”
Declan shakes his head. “The system covered the tasting room and the barn. This side’s been low priority.”
“Low priority’s where people like to hide,” Reynolds says. He stops again, squatting to scrape away wet leaves from the base of another post. Beneath the debris, the soil is blackened, rich with the smell of burned oil. He glances back at us. “That wasn’t from wood.”
Declan crouches beside him. “Accelerant?”
“Could be.” Reynolds seals a small sample bag and tucks it into his coat. “Could also be runoff from a mower or old equipment. But your burn patterns don’t match a simple accident.”
The cold creeps down my spine. “So you think it was intentional.”
He looks at me then, steady and unreadable. “I think someone knew exactly what they were doing.”
Declan’s jaw tightens. “You thought the day of the fire it wasn’t accidental.”
Reynolds gives a faint nod. “Fires are good at hiding their truth. But they always leave it somewhere.” He gestures for us to keep walking. “It’s usually in the places no one thinks to look.”
We follow the curve of the fence until it meets the edge of the trees. The snow here is thinner, the ground uneven. Reynolds bends, brushing away a crust of ice near the base of a cedar. A glint catches the light. He pries something from the mud—small, metallic, half-melted.
“What is it?” I ask.
He holds it up between his fingers. “Part of a lighter, maybe. Or a cap from a fuel canister. Hard to tell in this shape.” He studies it a moment longer, then slips it into an evidence bag. “Either way, it doesn’t belong out here.”
Declan exhales slowly, the sound tight. “Does that mean the investigation is moving again?”
Reynolds’s eyes lift to the horizon, the vineyard stretching quiet and bare beyond the trees. “It never really stopped,” he says. “We’ve just been waiting for the snow to melt.”
It’s dark by the time we finish, and the marshal and his assistant finally leave.
Inside, the last guests finish early dinners. Staff move through a practiced closing routine that looks the same as it always did, even though the steps are different tonight.
Through the hall glass I watch Ryker and the floor manager in a warm square of light, two figures framed like witnesses. The glow spilling from the main house windows. The tree waiting for its tiny soldier.
“We still have one thing left,” he says.
I turn toward him, the adrenaline finally beginning to fade. “What thing?”
“Your nutcracker.”
I can’t help the small, uneven smile that slips through or the tremor in it. “Right. Let’s give the tree a guard.”
We return to the barn and lift the white box from the table and walk back to the main house. It’s quiet now, just the tree, the gentle hum of the heater, and the reflection of its lights in the glass. We stand shoulder to shoulder and scan the branches for the right spot.
“Here,” I whisper, choosing a branch a little above eye level, near a gold star and a string of wooden beads we found in a box last week. He holds the branch steady while I slip the ribbon and hook into place. The little soldier swings once and settles like he’s taking his post again.
“Welcome to our home,” I tell the ornament softly. “You were missed.”
Declan’s voice is low behind me. “You’re back too. With me.”
I look up at him, and for a long moment, neither of us needs to say anything else. I move closer, and he wraps me in his arms. The lights flicker in the glass, painting us both in gold and green. For the first time since the fire, I let myself breathe.
“I’m in,” I say against his chest. “I’m not running. I’m not pulling away. I’m yours. My place beside you isn’t going anywhere, and we fight for both.”
His hand presses against my back. “I’m in,” he answers. “Every step. Every hour. I’m here in the dark and here in the morning. We make our future ours again.”
I tilt my head back to look at him. “That’s official.”
“It’s official,” he says.
“And have dinner at the café,” he adds. “Grilled cheese. Tomato soup.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You and your crouton pain.”
“I suffer for love.”
The sound that leaves me isn’t quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, somewhere in between. The last of the tension slips out with it. We step back to admire the tree, the nutcracker catching the light like he was always meant to be there.
“Tomorrow,” I say.
“Tomorrow,” Declan repeats.
For a heartbeat, the plan feels alive, more than a checklist, more than defense. It feels like a vow. He takes my hand, and I hold it tight. The day is done. The threat isn’t. But the line we drew tonight is clear as fresh snow, and we’ll draw it again and again until someone crosses it.
We turn out the lobby lights and step into the crisp air.
The sky above Paradise glows with a stubborn band of pale blue that refuses to fade.
The valley lies still; the vines sleep. Through the window, the tiny soldier keeps his watch while we lock the door and head down the steps, our shoulders brushing, our steps in rhythm now.
We’re not hiding. We’re not waiting for luck. We’re making it.