Chapter 17
Shepard
By the time I get to the library, Marjorie’s already in her spot at the front desk, her floral cardigan buttoned all the way up despite it being one of the warmer days we’ve had in weeks.
She’s got that particular air of someone who’s been in this building longer than the furniture, and she treats me—her part-time librarian, full-time scapegoat—with a mix of fondness and barely concealed bossiness.
“Morning, Shepard,” she says without looking up from her mug of tea. “You should’ve gone to the bonfire last night.”
“I heard.” I set my bag down behind the counter and glance at the clipboard schedule.
She leans back in her chair and eyes me over the rim of her mug. “We had people from out of town coming in just for it. Even a few from up north. Music, dancing, more booze than was probably wise.”
I laugh. “Sounds like it got a little out of hand.”
“Oh, it did,” she says with a smirk that makes her look ten years younger. “Some of the shopkeepers are already complaining about broken flowerpots and missing lawn chairs.”
I picture Gabe at the cliffs, trying to police half-drunk twenty-somethings with a bonfire at their backs. “Maybe I should’ve gone. Just for the entertainment value.”
She gives me a look that says she knows exactly why I didn’t go—too much work, too much routine.
I pull the cart toward the back room, where stacks of unsorted donations and half-empty boxes wait for me like neglected houseplants. The “local history” section Marjorie mentioned isn’t just books about Driftwood Cove; it’s decades of personal archives.
Church cookbooks with handwritten notes in the margins. Town council minutes from the seventies. Yellowed photographs of people nobody alive can name anymore.
The board meeting she’s so focused on is scheduled for the end of the month. The library’s been pushing for an expansion for years now—more space for digital archives, a bigger community room, proper climate control for the older paper records.
The Driftwood Cove Beautification Initiative has already gotten grants for new signage, landscaping, and a string of murals across town, and Marjorie is convinced—utterly convinced—that if we can tie the library’s renovations to that effort, we might finally get the funding we’ve been scraping for.
She’s not wrong. The mayor loves a project that photographs well, and nothing says “picturesque small-town charm” like a library front with fresh paint and a heritage plaque.
I’m halfway through sorting a box of donated paperbacks when she calls from the front, “Millie’s here!”
Millie breezes in wearing an oversized sweater and leggings, cheeks flushed pink, hair in a messy bun that’s holding on by sheer willpower. She’s nineteen, maybe twenty, and still has the kind of energy you can only get from being young and a little reckless.
“You look… cheerful,” I say, which is my polite way of noting she’s clearly still riding out the aftereffects of last night’s drinking.
“I’m alive,” she says with a grin, setting her tote bag on the desk. “Barely.” She glances around like she’s making sure no one’s listening. “That bonfire was insane. I think half the town was there.”
“Marjorie already gave me the highlights,” I tell her. “Broken lawn chairs, missing flowerpots, questionable dancing.”
Millie giggles. “That’s accurate.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small stack of hardcovers, spines cracked but still intact. “I found these for you.”
I take the top one, turning it over in my hands. The cover is worn, the title pressed in gold: A Visual History of Driftwood Cove. I glance at the others—collections of paintings, old black-and-white photographs, and a battered volume of local folklore.
“Where’d you find these?” I ask.
“In my grandma’s attic. She was going to toss them, but I told her you’d want them for the library.” Millie beams, clearly proud of herself.
“They’re perfect,” I say, and I mean it. They’re exactly the kind of thing that’ll give our local history section the edge Marjorie wants for that meeting.
But more than that, I know exactly who they’ll really be perfect for.
Sadie.
She’s been throwing herself into the mural work like it’s the only thing tethering her here, and maybe it is. These books—especially the one with old sketches of the town—might give her something new to work from. Or at least make her feel like what she’s painting is part of a bigger story.
Marjorie comes over, peering at the books like she’s inspecting rare artifacts. “Millie, these are wonderful. See, Shepard? The Beautification Committee should be commissioning artists for inside spaces too. Imagine a Driftwood history mural along that big empty wall in the reading room.”
I picture it—the tall, sunlit wall broken up with color and texture, something that makes people stop the way they do in front of Sadie’s work outside.
She’d hate the idea at first, I’m sure. Too much attention.
Too many people watching her work. And since the place is open all day, I don’t like the idea of her coming by way too early, or way too late just to work.
But if I gave her the books, if I told her it was just for inspiration… maybe she’d come around.
Millie’s already moving toward the back, chattering about how she found some first editions buried under a box of Christmas decorations.
Marjorie starts in again about the meeting agenda—how we’ll need visual aids, how the mayor’s wife should be on our side if we play it right, how she’s been writing her speech in her head for weeks now.
I let her talk, half listening, half already thinking about the moment I’ll hand those books over to Sadie. The way her brow will furrow at first, suspicious of any gift. The way her fingers will linger on the pages once she realizes what they are.
And maybe the way she might look at me differently after that—not like the guy who’s always on the periphery, but like someone who sees her, not just her art.
I’m done at the library earlier than I expected, which doesn’t happen often.
The back room’s finally looking less like a hoarder’s den and more like an archive, and Marjorie has moved on to terrorizing Millie about alphabetizing the children’s section.
I could go home, put on a pot of coffee, maybe get a jump on the weekend cataloging.
But instead, I find myself thinking about the books.
I told myself I’d give them to Sadie “when I happened to see her next,” but I know damn well that’s a flimsy excuse. I’m already halfway to the mural site before I’ve even decided if I’m going.
The south-facing wall of Baxter’s Feed & Seed is empty when I pull up, sunlight spilling across the whitewashed surface she’s been working on. No Sadie. No scattered paint jars. Just the faint trace of chalk lines in her careful hand.
I tell myself I’ll just drive by her place, see if she’s around.
She is.
She’s outside, barefoot, standing over a battered wooden table streaked with every color imaginable. Overalls rolled at the ankles, the faded denim mottled with paint stains from a hundred different projects. Her hair’s up in a loose knot, tendrils stuck to her temple in the warm breeze.
She’s bent over a mixing tray, coaxing two shades together with the tip of a brush, sunlight catching on the gold flecks in her hair.
And then I see them—tiny phoenixes painted up one strap of her overalls, each one different. No more than an inch tall, but detailed. Feathers in flame shades. Tiny bursts of color.
I get out of the truck, holding the books against my side. “Morning.”
She glances up, squinting, and when she smiles it’s like she’s been caught in a good moment she didn’t expect to share. “Morning. Why are you always up so early?”
I adjust my glasses out of habit, though they don’t need adjusting. “Librarian hours. Old habit. We open at ten, but the real work starts before anyone else walks in.”
She tilts her head, studying me like she’s deciding if that’s a decent answer. Then she nods at the table. “Mixing paints before I head over to the mural. Trying to get this shade right before the light changes.”
I glance down at the tray—deep crimson merging into something more molten, like embers cooling. “Looks delicate.”
“It is.” She straightens, wiping her brush on a rag. “The whole piece has to feel… alive, even when it’s still. If I get this shade wrong, the rest of it dies on the wall.”
Her precision makes me braver than I should be. “What’s the mural about?”
She hesitates. Her gaze flicks toward the table, then back to me. “It’s about resurrection,” she says finally, voice quiet. “Something ugly, burned down to nothing, finding a way back.”
There’s weight to her tone, more than just artistic metaphor.
I’ve seen her in town enough to know she moves through the world like someone guarding something. And now, in the warmth of her yard, with paint smudged across her forearms and a smear on her cheekbone, I see her not just as an artist… but as an Omega.
Not in the way men leer at Omegas, or the way small-town gossip chews over their choices, but in the way something ancient stirs in me, an awareness that has nothing to do with sight or scent—only recognition. Like my bones know her before my mind does.
She reaches out—hesitant, almost testing—and her fingertips brush my hand.
It’s nothing. Just a touch. But my pulse spikes anyway, and neither of us moves for a long moment.
I clear my throat and lift the stack of books. “I, uh… I thought you might like these. Millie found them—old art books, local history. A couple have sketches of Driftwood Cove from decades ago.”
Her eyes light, the guardedness melting for just a second. She takes the top one like it’s something fragile. “Oh my god, these are incredible.” She flips through the pages, her mouth curving into a smile. “Shepard, these are—”