Chapter 13 #2
"Levi said he ran into you in town," Garrett mentioned as he removed another dead branch. He was probably trying to get some type of conversation going and mentioning the chance meeting I had with his packmate yesterday was definitely a good place to start. "Said you gave him sourdough advice."
I felt my guard start to rise, then deliberately relaxed it. "He seemed genuinely interested in learning. And frustrated with his failures."
"That's Levi—he throws himself into things completely, gets annoyed when he doesn't master them immediately." Garrett's expression was fond. "He's been complaining about hockey puck bread for weeks. If your advice helps, we'll all be grateful."
The casual mention of "we," the easy way he included his pack in the conversation, should have been off-putting. Instead, it felt... comfortable. Like he wasn't trying to separate me from that reality, wasn't pretending he existed independently of his pack bonds.
"How long have you all been together?" I asked, surprising myself with the question. "As a pack, I mean."
Garrett paused in his work, considering. "Officially? About three years. But we've known each other longer—met through my father's logging business, became friends first. The pack formation was a natural evolution."
"That's unusual, isn't it? Four Alphas choosing to form a pack together?" I'd heard of such arrangements, but they were rare. Most packs formed around an Alpha and their chosen mate or mates, with other members joining through blood or marriage.
"Unusual, but not unheard of." He moved to the next tree, and I followed. "Most people thought we were crazy. Four dominant personalities trying to live together, work together, build something together? The conventional wisdom said it would never work."
"But it has?" I asked with genuine curiosity of his pack.
"It has." His voice was certain, grounded. "Because we chose it. We all wanted something different than the traditional path—wanted to build our own family, our own way. And we're honest with each other, even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."
I thought about that as I examined the next tree, running my hands over the rough bark. Building your own family. Choosing it deliberately rather than accepting what you were born into or what circumstance forced upon you. The concept was both terrifying and alluring.
"My adoptive parents did that," I found myself saying. "Chose their family. All their children had grown and had families of their own, so they adopted me when I was seventeen. Chose me deliberately, not as a consolation prize but as... as someone they wanted."
Garrett had gone very still. I could feel his attention on me, careful and complete. "That must have meant everything."
"It did." The words came easier than I'd expected, maybe because he wasn't pushing, wasn't prying. Just listening. "They showed me what it meant to be chosen. To be wanted for who you were, not what you could provide or what role you could fill."
"And when they died..." He left the sentence unfinished, an invitation rather than a demand.
"I was twenty-one. Just starting to believe I could have that—a family, belonging.
And then it was gone." I kept my eyes on the tree, not trusting myself to look at him.
"Their biological children inherited the farm.
Sold it within six months. I used what Margaret and Tom left me to buy my own land.
I decided I'd never depend on anyone else's definition of family again. "
The silence stretched between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was weighted with understanding, with the recognition of shared experience. I risked a glance at Garrett and found him watching me with an expression that made my chest ache—compassion without pity, understanding without judgment.
"That's why you're so determined to do everything yourself," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.
"It's safer that way." I turned back to the tree, pulling my loppers from the tool bag. "Can't lose what you never let yourself have."
"Can't gain it either, though." The observation was gentle, not accusatory, but it landed like a stone in still water. Ripples spread through my carefully constructed logic, disturbing the smooth surface I'd worked so hard to maintain.
"These branches here," I said, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. "They're crossing, rubbing against each other. That friction damages the bark, creating entry points for disease. One of them needs to go."
Garrett let me redirect, moving into position without comment. But as he worked, he spoke again, his voice carrying a different quality—more vulnerable, more personal.
"My grandfather used to say that an orchard was like a pack," he said, making careful cuts where I'd indicated.
"Each tree needs its own space, its own light and air.
But they also thrive better together than alone.
They share resources underground—water, nutrients, even chemical signals warning about pests or disease.
The individual trees are stronger because they're part of something larger. "
I watched him work, my throat tight. "Your grandfather sounds like he was wise."
"He was. And lonely, I think, after my grandmother died. He had the land, had his routines, had everything he needed to survive." Garrett paused, setting down the loppers to look at me directly. "But surviving isn't the same as thriving. I don't think he ever really thrived again after losing her."
The parallel was unmistakable, and I wanted to bristle at it, to reject the implicit comparison. But I couldn't, because there was too much truth in it. I was surviving just fine out here on my land. My garden thrived, my preserves sold well at market, my cabin was comfortable and well-maintained.
But was I thriving? Or just existing in an elaborate routine I'd built to keep loneliness at bay?
"I'm not lonely," I said, the defense automatic but lacking conviction even to my own ears.
"I didn't say you were." Garrett stepped closer, and this time I didn't step back.
His scent wrapped around me again, warm and grounding, and I let myself acknowledge what I'd been trying to ignore—that it felt good.
Safe. "I'm just saying that surviving alone and thriving together aren't mutually exclusive options.
You can be self-sufficient and still let people in.
You can be strong and still accept help.
You can protect yourself and still take risks. "
My breath caught. When had he gotten so close? When had I let him? We were standing barely a foot apart now, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, close enough that his scent was all I could smell, filling my lungs with each breath.
"What if taking that risk means losing everything again?" The question escaped before I could trap it, raw and vulnerable and terrifying in its honesty.
"What if not taking it means never gaining anything in the first place?
" His voice was soft, gentle, but there was an intensity in his gaze that held me captive.
"Daphne, I'm not asking you to dismantle your walls or abandon your independence.
I'm just asking you to consider that maybe—maybe—letting a few people past those walls wouldn't destroy what you've built. It might actually make it stronger."
I wanted to argue. Every instinct screamed at me to deflect, to redirect, to rebuild the professional distance between us.
But standing here in his grandfather's orchard, surrounded by trees that had survived decades of neglect and were being carefully brought back to life, I couldn't find the words to deny what he was offering.
Not commitment. No demands. Just possibility.
"I don't know how," I whispered finally. "I've spent five years building these walls. I don't know how to just... stop."
"Then don't stop all at once." Garrett lifted his hand slowly, giving me time to step away if I wanted.
When I didn't, he brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, the touch feather-light and achingly gentle.
"Just maybe... lower them a little. Let us get to know you.
Let yourself get to know us. No pressure, no expectations beyond basic friendship. "
His hand dropped back to his side, and I almost—almost—reached for it. The urge startled me with its intensity.
"Basic friendship," I repeated, testing the words. "That's all?"
"For now. For as long as you need." His smile was small, but genuine. "I meant what I said before, Daphne. I'll take whatever you're willing to give. Even if that's just occasional apple tree consultations and arguments about proper pruning techniques."
A surprised laugh bubbled up, breaking the tension. "We haven't argued about pruning techniques yet."
"Give it time." His eyes crinkled with humor. "Levi says I'm stubborn."
"Levi seems to have opinions about everything," I said thinking of the man I met yesterday, but there was no heat in it.
"He does. You'll get used to it." Garrett picked up the loppers again, moving to the next branch I'd marked. "If you stick around long enough, that is."
If I stuck around. The phrase hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. Not when, not assuming, but if—leaving the choice squarely in my hands, where it belonged.
I should have felt pressured. Should have felt that familiar tightness in my chest that came whenever people wanted things from me. But instead, I felt... lighter. Like maybe, just maybe, these men understood something fundamental that others hadn't—that I needed to be the one to choose.
"Tell me more about the pack," I heard myself say as we continued working. "How does it actually work, four Alphas living together?"
Garrett's face lit up with obvious pleasure at my interest, and for the next hour, as we pruned and talked, he painted a picture of his pack that was nothing like what I'd imagined.
There was structure, yes—Oliver as head Alpha, his word final in disputes.
But there was also democracy, discussion, genuine care for each member's needs and opinions.
Levi handled the business side, the logistics and finances. Micah was strategic, always thinking three steps ahead. Garrett himself was the steady one, the mediator, the one who kept everyone grounded when tensions ran high.
"It's not always easy," he admitted as he made another cut.
"Four dominant personalities means four strong opinions.
We've had our share of arguments, times when compromise felt impossible.
But we always come back to the same foundation—we chose this.
We chose each other. And that choice is worth fighting for. "
As the afternoon sun slanted lower through the trees, casting everything in golden light, I realized something startling. I'd been here for hours. Hours of working side by side with Garrett, talking, sharing things I never shared with anyone, and I hadn't once felt the urge to escape.
My guard was still there—I could feel it, a familiar weight in my chest. But it had lowered, just slightly, just enough to let in a little light. A little possibility.
"I think that's enough for today," I said finally, stepping back to survey our work.
The feeling of exhaustion already going over me as I glanced back at the trees.
They looked better already, They'd need another session in a few weeks to address the finer details, but the heavy work was done.
"The trees will thank you come harvest time. "
"Will you come back?" Garrett asked, and there was such hope in his voice that it made my heart clench. "In a few weeks, to finish the work?"
I should say no. Should make up an excuse, maintain distance, protect myself. But looking at him standing there in his grandfather's orchard, dirt under his nails and hope in his eyes, I found I didn't want to say no.
"Yes," I said simply. "I'll come back."
The smile that spread across his face was worth every ounce of fear the admission cost me.
As I packed up my tools and prepared to leave, Garrett walked me back to my truck. The sun was setting now, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that made everything feel slightly unreal, like we were suspended in a moment outside normal time.
"Thank you," he said as I loaded the last of my equipment. "For today. For the trees, for the conversation, for... all of it."
"You're welcome." I paused with my hand on the truck door, gathering courage. "And Garrett? Thank you too. For understanding. For not pushing."
"Always," he promised. "Whatever pace you need, Daphne. We're not going anywhere."
I drove home as the sun dipped below the horizon, my hands steady on the wheel but my mind racing.
Garrett's scent still clung to my clothes, a reminder of how close we'd stood, how natural it had felt.
His words echoed in my mind—about surviving versus thriving, about orchards and packs, about choices and risks.
I'd spent five years building a life that couldn't hurt me, couldn't leave me, couldn't disappoint me. But maybe, just maybe, I'd also built a life that couldn't surprise me with joy, couldn't offer unexpected connections, couldn't grow beyond what I'd carefully controlled.
As I pulled up to my cabin, I caught myself looking back down the road toward the Henderson property. Toward Garrett and his pack, toward possibility and risk that those men could be to me in the future.
I wasn't ready to dismantle my walls and I might never be fully ready to either.
But perhaps... perhaps I could open a window or two.
Let in some air and light, see what grew in the space.
After all, even the most self-sufficient garden occasionally benefited from a little outside help. The trees had taught me that today.
And maybe, just maybe, I was ready to learn what else they could teach me.