Chapter 11
Gabe
Elias meets me in the lot behind the bait shop, the air thick with that briny mix of saltwater and oil from the boat engines he’s been working on. He’s got his jacket half-zipped, cap pulled low, the way he always looks when he’s about to deliver news I won’t like.
“Tell me you’ve got something good for me,” I say, leaning on the side of my truck.
He shakes his head. “Window’s shot. Not just cracked—split right down the middle. Frame’s warped, too. You’re looking at a full replacement.”
I exhale through my nose. Not exactly what she’s going to want to hear.
“What about the rest?”
“Body’s fine. No suspension issues. She’s lucky—could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. But between the glass and labor, you’re talking a couple days minimum before it’s drivable.”
I rub the back of my neck. “Alright. I’ll tell her.”
“You want me to get the order in now?”
I nod. “Yeah, I’ll cover the deposit. Just keep it quiet. She doesn’t need to worry about that right now.”
Elias gives me that knowing look—the one that says “you’re already in deeper than you think”—but he doesn’t say anything. Just tips his hat and goes back to his shop.
I’m almost back into town when I see her.
She’s across the street from Baxter’s Feed & Seed, standing at the base of a ladder that’s propped against the south-facing wall. Her hair’s tied back in a messy ponytail, strands of pink catching the late-morning light.
She holds a piece of chalk in one hand, squinting up at the brick like she’s calculating the surface area in her head.
Hasn’t even been three days since the accident.
I slow down, pull into the lot, and kill the engine. “Should you even be up there?”
Sadie looks over her shoulder, caught mid-reach. “I’m fine,” she says, like that should settle it. “I just wanted to trace an outline before the light shifts.”
I glance at the wall. “Baxter’s?”
She nods. “I thought I’d start with this one before the fire station. Smaller scale. Fewer moving parts.”
“Smaller scale,” I echo, looking at the ladder. “Still looks like a long way down if you take a spill.”
She doesn’t argue. Just tucks the chalk between her teeth and grabs the ladder.
“Here,” I say, crossing the lot. “Let me hold it for you.”
Her mouth curves into a smile—quick, almost reluctant—but it still hits me square in the chest. “Thanks.”
I plant my boots and brace the ladder as she climbs, the scent of paint and something faintly sweet drifting down.
Sadie’s been up there for close to an hour already. She works fast, tracing broad curves against the brick. I watch her shoulders move, the way she leans into the reach without hesitation.
“Oh, by the way,” I say, tilting my head up, “your car’s going to take a little longer than we thought. Window needs replacing.”
She pauses mid-line, looking down at me. “That’s okay. I talked to the mayor yesterday—he gave me a bike.”
I blink. “A bike?”
“Mmhmm.”
I can’t help the scoff. “You do realize it’s a long ride from your place to half the places you’re going to be working?”
She shrugs, going back to her tracing. “I’m getting used to it. Besides, I could use the exercise.”
“You should’ve asked for a car.”
That gets a laugh—quiet, almost under her breath—as she looks down at me again. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this about me, Captain Ashford, but I don’t like being a bother.”
I shake my head. “Not a bother at all. And for the record, Jake would’ve loved an excuse to help.”
She glances away, back to the brick. “I’m good.”
We settle into silence after that. Just the scrape of chalk against brick, the occasional shuffle of my boots on the gravel when I shift my stance. She works with the kind of focus you can feel in the air—like nothing else exists for her but the wall in front of her.
Two hours pass like that. My forearms ache from keeping the ladder steady, but I don’t move. Not until she finally comes down, dusting chalk from her hands.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” she asks, arching a brow.
I nudge her shoulder as she passes. “I’m the captain. Decided to take a break.”
That earns me an actual laugh this time, warm and quick.
We lean against the wall, both of us looking up at the faint white lines she’s laid out. “So what’s the vision here?” I ask.
Her eyes light in a way I haven’t seen before. “I’m thinking something that ties the feed store’s history into the land around it. Native plants, maybe a few animals—wild and domestic. Nothing too heavy-handed, just… a celebration of what’s fed this town for generations.”
I find myself watching her more than the wall as she talks. The way her hands move when she explains, sketching invisible lines in the air. The way her voice shifts, softer at the edges, like this is the part of her she doesn’t give to just anyone.
She’s tougher than she looks. That much I’ve figured out in the short time I’ve known her. But there’s something else under it—a carefulness, like she’s learned to move through the world without taking up too much space.
The bike. The way she said she doesn’t like being a bother. The fact that she’s up on a ladder three days after a wreck because she doesn’t want to lose daylight.
I don’t say any of that. Just keep listening, asking questions, letting her paint the picture for me.
When she’s done, she leans back against the wall, eyes tracing her own chalk lines. “I want it to feel like it’s always been here,” she says quietly. “Like the wall was waiting for it.”
I don’t know why, but that hits me in a place I don’t usually let anyone touch.
“Then it will,” I tell her. I can see the faint smudge of chalk dust across her cheekbone, the streak of pale pink hair curling loose from her ponytail.
I glance at my watch. “You need more chalk for that?”
She nods, brushing off her hands. “And a couple paint bases. I’ll be mixing colors before I start shading.”
“McAllister’s, then,” I say, jerking my chin toward my truck.
She hesitates, the way she always seems to when it comes to accepting anything from me. “I was just going to bike.”
I glance at the ladder still leaning against the wall. “You’ve been up and down that thing for hours. Humor me.”
A beat passes, and then she nods.
We load her supplies into the back of the truck and head toward McAllister’s Hardware. The old place smells like sawdust and paint thinner the second we step inside, and Sam McAllister himself waves from behind the counter, calling me “Captain” the way he always does.
Sadie drifts toward the art section, scanning the neatly arranged rows of pigment jars. I hang back, letting her have her space, but watching enough to notice how methodical she is—reading labels, testing chalk texture between her fingers, even checking the edge sharpness on the pastels.
When she’s done, I carry half the load to the register without asking. She doesn’t argue.
I drop her off at her place, figuring that’s the end of it, but as she’s unloading her bag I hear myself say, “I’m heading into town to grab something to eat. You want to join me?”
She looks up, startled. “I’m a little exhausted. I was just going to rest.”
I could leave it there. Should leave it there. Instead—“There’s a fish shack near the beach. Walking distance back. I’ll have you home in two hours, promise.”
Her mouth tugs to the side, like she’s weighing the risk. “Let me just change.”
Five minutes later she’s back, trading the paint-smudged jeans for a soft skirt and a light top, sandals on her feet. The simple change somehow makes her look like she belongs in the sunlight—except for the way she keeps rubbing at her wrist when she thinks I’m not looking.
I don’t comment.
The fish shack is the same as it’s always been—weathered cedar siding, picnic tables worn smooth by decades of salt air, gulls patrolling the edge of the beach. Mark behind the counter gives me a chin lift and goes back to flipping something on the griddle.
I steer Sadie toward a corner table, the one under the shade tarp that still catches the breeze off the water.
“Order for both of us?” I ask.
“Go ahead,” she says, settling into her seat.
I get us the fried snapper sandwiches—light batter, Mark’s homemade slaw—and a side of kettle chips.
When I sit back down, I lean forward on my elbows. “Going out on a limb here, but… I’m surprised you even agreed to lunch. You didn’t exactly seem to like me.”
Her eyes go wide in a way that makes her look younger, almost guilty. “That’s not true.”
“It is,” I counter, a half-smile tugging at my mouth. “First time you saw me, you practically ran.”
She glances at my chest, at the uniform shirt with the station patch. “It wasn’t you. It’s the uniform. I don’t exactly have fond memories of firefighters.”
I scratch my jaw, weighing my next words. “But… I thought Max was a firefighter.”
She nods, eyes dropping to her hands. “He was. But so was the rest of the pack.”
Something cold flickers in my gut. I want to ask more, but before I can a group of teens in board shorts and hoodies cut across the deck.
“Hey, Captain Ashford!” one of them calls. “You coming to the bonfire this weekend?”
I snort. “You know how I feel about fire.”
They laugh, exchange a few words I barely catch, and wander off toward the beach.
Without thinking too much about it, I undo the top buttons of my shirt and shrug it off, leaving just the black undershirt.
She tilts her head. “What are you doing?”
I don’t tell her the truth—that I’d strip down to nothing in this public place if it meant making her feel safer. Instead, I change the subject. “You going to the bonfire?”
Her brows lift. “I didn’t even know this was a thing.”
“It’s not,” I say, leaning back. “At least, not officially. Couple people decided to make it happen anyway. They’re talking about setting it up right at the cliffs—sunset start, music, the whole deal.”
I don’t mention the part that makes my jaw tighten—the thought of a crowd, open flames, people drinking too much and pushing too close to the edge.
“Sounds… lively,” she says carefully.
“You should go,” I tell her. “Meet some people. This town’s a lot nicer if you give it a chance, Sadie.”
Her gaze flickers up at me, quick and unreadable. “I’ll be busy.”
“Maybe. But if you get the time, go. It’ll be worth it.”
Mark brings our plates and sets them down with a nod. The fish is golden, steam curling off the edges, the slaw spilling out just enough to drip into the paper-lined baskets.
She takes a bite, closes her eyes for half a second, and I can see some of the tension ease from her shoulders.
We eat in companionable silence after that, the sound of the waves and the occasional gull filling the gaps. I don’t push her to talk more about Max, or the pack, or why the sight of a uniform makes her want to bolt. Not yet.
But I file it away, every detail. Because whatever her past is, it’s not done with her. And I have the feeling neither am I.