Chapter Thirteen
~ Knox ~
The first rule of public relations is to control the narrative. The second is to always look like you’re the one in charge, even if you’d rather be anywhere else. By ten A.M., I was already failing at the first and nailing the second.
Saturday morning meant the market. It always did—since before the river was the river and before my last name was more of a brand than an identifier.
I hated it, but I went anyway, because if I didn’t, the gossips would get creative, and if I left a void, someone like Luther Bridger would fill it.
So I put on my cleanest jeans, the black shirt with the buttons that made my biceps look less like a war crime and more like a farmhand’s wet dream, and took Newt to the market. I’d never brought a boyfriend here before.
I’d never had a boyfriend to bring.
He was two steps behind me, head down, hands shoved in his pockets. He wore an old sweater I’d probably left out for him on purpose and boots so new they still creaked. He wasn’t looking at me.
He was looking at the sidewalk, then at the weeds in the cracks, then at the sign for Rosie's Bakery. I could feel the tension in him from five feet away—like a live wire, vibrating with the effort of not running back to the truck and hiding behind the seat.
“Keep up,” I said, more out of habit than malice. I didn’t have to look back to know he obeyed.
The market was already a feeding frenzy—kids running wild, dogs on leashes, vendors shrieking about turnips and cheese. The air was saturated with the scent of sugar and fertilizer and the kind of sweet decay you only get in a town that thinks composting is the solution to everything.
People noticed us immediately. They always did. Some McKenzie part of me was proud of it. We moved like a unit—my stride was longer, but Newt matched it by walking faster, his steps measured, like he was counting them in his head.
I could sense his unease, the way it pulsed off him with every glance from the crowd. I found it funny that someone so prone to disappearing could be so conspicuous when he wanted to blend.
I kept my eyes moving. That’s how you survive in places like this. It’s not just about spotting the threat; it’s about noticing who notices you, who talks to whom, who looks away too quickly.
In the first hundred feet, I’d already catalogued Mrs. Kimura—floral dress, hands full of kale, eyebrow arched up a full centimeter—the cluster of local teens vaping by the bandstand, and three separate pairs of eyes from the Bridger camp.
Mrs. Henderson almost dropped her jars of jam when we passed her stall. She did a double-take—first at me, then at Newt, then at me again, like she was making sure the headline in her brain matched the byline. I stared back. She blinked first.
A win, but a petty one.
I heard the whisper ripple down the line, each vendor passing the torch. “That’s him, the Bridger boy. No, with Knox, not—well, I’ll be.” Even without turning around, I could feel them adjusting their stories, revising the script to include the new detail.
Newt tensed beside me, his hands curled so tight in the sweater cuffs I worried he’d rip the seams. I didn’t blame him. I’d lived here my whole life and even I wanted to crawl out of my skin.
He edged closer to me, so close our elbows brushed. It was instinct, not affection, and I decided not to punish him for it.
“Stay close,” I said, and dropped a hand to the small of his back. I pressed, gently, but there was no mistaking the message: mine.
The way his body reacted—shoulders rising, head ducking—was both a confession and an apology.
The bakery stand was our first stop, not because I wanted a scone but because if we lingered anywhere else, the rumors would get ahead of us. Rosie was there, as usual, face flushed and arms dusted with flour. She gave me a nod, professional but not unfriendly, and then her eyes darted to Newt.
She smiled at him, softer than I expected. “You want the cinnamon or the orange-cranberry?”
He hesitated. “Cinnamon,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
Rosie wrapped it up, then leaned in, voice conspiratorial. “Next time, I’ll save you a jelly doughnut. They go fast.”
He nodded, and for a second, I thought he might smile.
I almost smiled too, but then I caught the reflection in the display case—Sheriff Hardesty, two booths down, staring right at us. His face was flat, unreadable, but his eyes were sharp.
I took the bag from Rosie, paid in cash, and steered Newt away before she could say anything else. I didn’t like the way people looked at him. It was too close to the way people had looked at me after I’d come back from the service—like they were waiting for the next explosion.
We made it three more stalls before someone tried to stop us.
It was Mr. Brewster, local blowhard and part-time deacon, who always wore his good church shirt to the market as if God cared about his produce choices.
He sidled up, mouth already puckered for a lecture. “Morning, Knox,” he said, dragging out the vowels. “And, uh, Newt, right? Been a long time.”
Newt nodded, staring at the oranges.
Brewster smiled, cold and rehearsed. “Glad to see you back on your feet, son. Your daddy must be worried sick.”
I braced for impact, but Newt only shrugged. “He’ll live.”
There was a beat of silence, then Brewster turned back to me, like he wanted to appeal to the higher authority. “You take good care of him, now. Town’s got an eye on the Bridger boys.”
I smiled, all teeth. “That so? Good thing I’ve got plenty of eyes, then.”
Brewster’s face twitched. He moved on, hands deep in his pockets, probably already planning his next prayer request.
Newt watched him go, then whispered, “Sorry.”
“For what?”
He didn’t answer.
We kept walking, and I kept my hand on his back. If anyone else wanted to comment, they kept it to themselves.
Sheriff Hardesty was waiting at the edge of the cheese stall. He was the kind of man who looked older than he was, all thick neck and buzz cut and a smile like he’d paid someone to teach him how to use it.
He nodded as we passed. “Morning, Knox. Newt.”
I gave him the same nod back, not breaking stride.
He followed, steps perfectly matched to ours. “You boys need anything, you let me know.”
“Sure,” I said, already bored with the interaction.
He lingered, though, walking parallel. “You know, Newt, your brother was here earlier. Asking around. Looking for you.”
I felt Newt stiffen. I squeezed his side, hard enough to remind him not to flinch.
“He’s not getting within a hundred yards,” I said, eyes forward.
Hardesty held up his hands, like he was just a referee and not the town’s only real law. “Didn’t say he would, just thought you’d want to know.”
“Duly noted.”
He fell back, merging into the crowd, but I knew he was still watching.
After that, the rest of the market was noise and color and not much else. Kids darted in and out of legs. Old men haggled over the price of beans. Someone sang, badly, into a microphone, but nobody cared enough to ask them to stop.
Newt relaxed, eventually. Not completely, but enough that he stopped looking over his shoulder every five seconds. He even made a joke at the honey stand, something about bees and communism, and I almost laughed out loud.
We bought what we needed—milk, eggs, a sack of potatoes that would last us a week if Harlow didn’t get into it—and circled back toward the truck.
It wasn’t until we were almost to Rosie’s booth that I realized how many people had watched us the entire time. We were news now. Not just a curiosity, not just a spectacle. We were the new normal.
I liked that.
As we reached the corner of the lot, Newt said, “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“Do what?”
“Parade me around. Make a scene.”
I stopped, turned to face him. “If I wanted a scene, I’d start a fistfight in the parking lot.”
He rolled his eyes, but there was a glimmer of something in his expression—relief, or maybe just gratitude. “Still, it’s a lot.”
I shrugged. “Better to get it over with.”
He looked away, chewing his lip. “I don’t think I’m good at this.”
I smiled, smaller now. “You don’t have to be.”
Newt looked thoughtful for a moment and then unwrapped the scone and took a bite. Sugar stuck to the edge of his mouth. I reached over, thumbed it away, and licked my finger.
“You got something,” I said.
He blushed, but this time, he didn’t apologize.
We were almost home free—bags packed, Newt a little less green around the gills—when the universe decided it wasn’t done fucking with us.
I saw James Bridger before Newt did. He was at the far end of the farmer’s row, half-hidden behind a display of heirloom tomatoes, pretending to inspect the stock, but really just waiting for us to notice him.
He hadn’t changed since the last time I’d run him off McKenzie land—crisp suit, hair so well-groomed it looked shellacked, jaw clenched in a way that made his cheekbones pop like fence posts under strain.
He stood perfectly still, arms folded behind his back, as if being the most rigid man in the valley was a full-time job.
He waited until we were within striking distance, then made his move. A step forward, a tilt of the head, and a soft, sinister smile—barely there, but enough to send a chill up the spine of any reasonable person.
Newt went rigid at my side. The change was immediate and total, like a wire getting yanked tight enough to snap. His pulse, which I’d been tracking with my thumb on the small of his back, sped up. He almost dropped the bag of scones.
“Don’t,” I said, not loud, but not gentle either.
He nodded, but the panic was radiating off him. I squeezed his hip, grounding him, then angled my body to put myself between Newt and his old man.
James didn’t say anything. He just looked at Newt, then at me, then at Newt again, like he was trying to calculate how the hell we’d ended up here.