Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jo
Cutting Day felt like waking up inside someone else’s happy memory.
By midmorning the whole farm had transformed.
The field behind the barn was packed—trucks, wagons, long rows of trees tagged and waiting.
Snow still crusted the ground, but the air had warmed enough that your breath puffed instead of burned.
Someone had put up big canvas tents with sides half-rolled, outdoor heaters glowing like little suns inside.
Kids ran in and out of them squealing, faces pink, hats crooked.
It looked . . . organized. Like a festival. Like Silas had once drawn a blueprint labeled How to Make a Whole Town Feel Safe and everybody just kept following it after he was gone.
Bibi and Libby held court at one of the tables, bundled in coats and scarves with knit hats I suspected were older than I was.
Mr. Carlisle paced around them like a rooster guarding his favorite hens, arms folded, glaring at anyone who looked like they might let the ladies carry anything heavier than a napkin.
Milo arrived with a date—cute, rosy-cheeked, clearly overawed by all of it—and they got the same over-the-top squealing reception Nate and I had endured the first time we’d shown up in town together.
Hugs. Questions. Somebody actually clapped.
Milo’s ears went red. His date looked like someone had dropped her into a snow globe and shaken.
Everywhere I turned there was something.
Kids weaving between trees, dragging sleds, arguing about which one was the “best” tree like they were negotiating a peace treaty.
Tables lined with food—chili, cookies, pies, some mystery casseroles I’d decided it was best not to ask about and just enjoy.
There was a big thermos station where Milo seemed to be in charge of hot chocolate and coffee, shouting orders like a caffeinated general.
And Martin, up on the wagon bench with Thunder and Lightning, giving ride after ride through the snowy rows.
The horses looked like they’d been born for this exact job.
Ears forward, breath pluming, tails flicking as they pulled the wagon through the trees over and over, each time coming back fuller of laughing people than they’d left.
I’d been to festivals all over the world—impromptu marketplaces, pop-up tech showcases, secret meetups—but I’d never seen anything like this. No admission fees. No sponsorship banners. No agenda.
Just . . . gratitude. For Silas. For the farm. For being together.
People kept pressing things into my hands and Nate’s: jars of jelly, handmade ornaments, carved wooden animals, a watercolor of the farmhouse that made my throat tight.
One little girl shyly handed me a lopsided clay star with my initials scratched into the back.
Another boy gave Nate a drawing of the barn with Thunder and Lightning in front of it, and Nate standing beside them with arms crossed and an enormous superhero cape.
“It’s a good likeness,” I told him.
“Of the horses?” he asked with a grin.
“Of the attitude,” I whispered back.
He nudged me with his shoulder. I bumped him back. On and off through the morning we held hands without thinking about it. No longer about appearances. It was just because it felt wrong not to.
Somewhere between a second cup of Milo’s hot chocolate and a group of kids begging Nate to judge a snowman-building contest, I realized my shoulders had stopped living up around my ears. I was happy. In public. Without a single contingency plan running in the back of my head.
It scared the hell out of me.
“Is that them?” I asked, when a dark sedan pulled in near the main lane.
Nate followed my gaze. Claire stepped out first, wrapping her coat tighter around herself, eyes wide and bright as she took everything in. His father got out a beat later.
I’d seen pictures of Nate’s family. But seeing Nate’s father made my breath catch.
He was an older copy—same bone structure, same way of standing like he expected the world to come to him, same expensive coat Nate had arrived in.
But where Nate had loosened here, softened around the edges, Ethan had a hardness to him.
His gaze hit and bounced around as if assessing the worth of the event.
Nate went to meet them. Claire pulled him into a hug that was all warmth and familiar. She cupped his face like a mother, then turned and hugged me tightly.
“You must be Josephine,” she said, eyes kind and sharp at the same time. “I’ve heard entirely not enough about you.”
“Same,” I said, and got a laugh.
Ethan shook my hand politely, eyes flicking over me in appraisal, not unkind, just assessment. He wore the same kind of city shoes Nate had worn that first day at the farm—the ones utterly wrong for dirt and snow and pine needles. Somehow, that made me want to defend him a little.
“We set aside a place by the heaters for you,” Nate told them. “Unless you want to dive right in with the chainsaws.”
Claire laughed. Ethan’s mouth quirked like the idea was absurd. “I’ll observe, I think,” he said.
I almost said of course you will. I bit my tongue and smiled instead.
“Come on,” Nate murmured in my ear as more people came rushing up to greet them. “They’ll be fine.”
I watched Claire get swept up by the ladies of the town like she’d always been one of them. She fit in so easily it made my chest ache with gratitude for the kindness of the people of this town.
Ethan stood a little off to the side at first, hands in his pockets, posture careful.
A group of local men approached him a few minutes later, all easy smiles and small-town politeness.
I saw one of them clap him on the shoulder, another hand him a cup, everyone laughing at something he said.
It looked . . . suspicious. Not relaxed, not hostile. Still, something felt off.
And then there was Nate. The more the day went on, the more I saw him as the center of this very odd, very wonderful universe. Calls of his name. Hands reaching to shake his. Kids pointing at him with the kind of devotion usually reserved for cartoon characters and firefighters.
He didn’t try to be Silas. He didn’t force it.
But he stepped into the spaces Silas had left.
He helped organize which fields to open next and sent Gabe and his dad out with the right groupings of families.
He made sure the heaters were checked, the older folks had chairs, the little kids’ parents weren’t juggling hot drinks and toddlers at the same time.
I’d known him as the man in the suit from Boston, the controlled negotiator, the infuriatingly calm kidnapper. Seeing him here—in an old flannel jacket someone had found for him, gloves on, hair dusted with snow—he looked . . . like he belonged. Like maybe he always had.
I understood, in a way I hadn’t before, why this town had wrapped around him so quickly. Because regardless of why he’d come, he was tending what his uncle had built—the farm, the connections. And caring for those Silas had cared for . . . even me.
The sun slid down faster than seemed fair.
One minute the sky was pale, the next it was awash in pink and gold, shadows stretching long between the trees.
Someone threw a switch on the barn and strings of lights came on—around the tents, through the rows, up along the roofline Nate had been stapling them to two days ago.
The field turned into something out of a postcard. Fires glowed hotter, the snow glimmered, tree branches sparkled. People oohed and aahed and I stood there, hand in Nate’s, thinking, I can’t believe this is my life. Mine. The fugitive. The girl with the escape plans and three passports.
And right on the heels of that thought came another. This can’t last.
I exhaled slowly, willing the panic down. That’s when I glanced toward the edge of the tents and caught sight of Ethan again.
He wasn’t with the men anymore. He was leaning against the side of the farmhouse, a little away from the door, shoulders hunched in a way that didn’t match his coat or usual posture. His face looked pale. Greenish, even in the warm light.
“Something’s wrong,” I said.
Nate followed my gaze. His brow furrowed. “I’ll—”
“You keep being the host,” I said before I could stop myself. “I’ve got him. I’ll text you if he needs you.”
He looked like he wanted to argue, then squeezed my hand and let go. “Okay.”
I crossed the clearing, weaving between kids and adults and someone carrying an entire tray of gingerbread cookies. Up close, Ethan looked worse. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he was breathing shallowly through his mouth.
“Hey,” I said lightly. “You look like you lost a fight with a snowman.”
He gave a short, strangled laugh. “Couple of your locals asked if I wanted to try some ‘real’ grain alcohol,” he said, words slightly slurred but still precise. “They drank three shots. I drank three shots. Thought it was good diplomacy.” He swallowed. “It was a mistake.”
“Yeah, that stuff is gasoline with branding,” I said. “Come on. Let’s get you somewhere warm and close to a bathroom in case your diplomacy decides to make a reappearance.”
He didn’t protest when I slipped an arm under his and steered him toward the house. He didn’t lean on me, exactly, but I could feel the effort it cost him to walk straight. I thumbed out a quick text to Nate with my free hand.
Your dad’s not feeling great. Bringing him inside. He’s okay but green.
Inside, the farmhouse felt dim compared to the glow outside. I guided Ethan up the couple of steps and into the hallway, half-turning him toward the downstairs bathroom.
“If you need to puke,” I said, “this is your best friend.”
“Not my first time,” he muttered, then winced, as if the admission hurt.
“Yeah, I figured.”
I meant to sit him on the bench outside the bathroom door and wait for Nate. Somehow, Ethan drifted away from it, like a moth pulled toward a different flame.
Toward Silas’s office.