Chapter 3 – Abigail
After hours of hanging lanterns, arranging hay bales, and fielding questions from curious townsfolk, my muscles ache with a pleasant fatigue.
Night has fully settled over Whitetail Falls.
Despite the exhaustion, my mind refuses to quiet—filled with to-do lists, budget calculations, and frustratingly persistent thoughts of Scott Martin's steadying hands on the ladder.
Those large, capable hands. The unexpected gentleness in them.
I need a drink.
The Copper Kettle Tavern sits at the corner of Foxglove Lane and Dewdrop Way, its weathered wooden sign swinging gently in the evening breeze. Warm light spills from its windows, painting golden rectangles on the cobblestones outside.
When I push open the heavy door, the atmosphere envelops me immediately: a heady blend of spiced cider, wood smoke from the stone fireplace, and the rich, yeasty scent of fresh-baked pretzels.
The bar itself stretches along one wall, backed by gleaming bottles and a large copper kettle that must have inspired the tavern's name.
"Abigail!" The bartender raises a hand in greeting. "First round's on the house for our festival planner!"
Several patrons turn to look, offering friendly nods or curious glances. Three weeks in town and I'm still getting used to being recognized, remembered, acknowledged. In Portland, I could frequent the same coffee shop for years and remain pleasantly anonymous.
I smile, sliding onto an empty barstool. "Thanks. Whatever's seasonal on tap would be perfect."
"Coming right up. Our pumpkin ale just came in yesterday."
As Mike moves to pour my drink, I shrug off my jacket and stretch my shoulders, trying to release the tension that's built up over the day.
The tavern buzzes with a dozen different conversations, laughter punctuating the gentle backdrop of acoustic guitar playing from hidden speakers.
It feels lived-in, welcoming, exactly what I needed tonight.
"Tough day?"
The low, slightly raspy, and painfully familiar voice comes from my right.
I turn to find Scott Martin sitting two stools away, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.
He's traded his flannel shirt for a simple gray henley that does nothing to disguise the breadth of his shoulders.
The tavern's warm lighting softens the angles of his face.
"Surprising day," I correct him, hoping my voice sounds steadier than it feels. "I didn't expect half the town to volunteer to help with setup."
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Whitetail Falls doesn't do anything halfway."
The bartender returns with my ale, a rich copper-colored brew topped with a perfect foam head in a glass mug. "You two know each other?" he asks, glancing between us.
Scott answers before I can. "We've met."
The deliberate understatement makes me laugh. "Scott's making sure I don't burn down the town with my festival plans."
"Ah." he grins, polishing a glass. "So you've experienced the full Scott Martin safety inspection."
Scott rolls his eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. "Someone has to think about these things."
"And you volunteer so selflessly," I tease, taking a sip of my ale. The flavor blooms across my tongue. Notes of pumpkin, cinnamon, and nutmeg balanced by a pleasant bitterness. "This is delicious."
"Local brewery," Scott says. "Family-owned for three generations."
"Of course it is." I can't help the smile that spreads across my face. "Everything in this town seems to have history behind it."
"Not everything," Scott counters, his blue eyes meeting mine. "You're new."
Something in his tone, warmer than our previous interactions, makes me pause. For a moment, neither of us speaks, and I'm suddenly aware of the space between us, of the way the tavern's ambient noise seems to fade around the edges of our conversation.
Clearing my throat, I gesture to the empty stool between us. "May I?"
He nods, and I slide over, narrowing the gap.
Up close, I notice the faint stubble along his jaw, the small scar near his temple, the way his henley sleeves are pushed up to reveal strong forearms. It's ridiculous how attractive I find him, especially considering how frustrating our interactions have been.
"So," I say, curling my fingers around my mug, "does the town's resident safety inspector ever take a night off? Or are you mentally calculating fire hazards even now?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "I'm multi-talented. I can enjoy a drink and worry about code violations simultaneously."
"Impressive."
"It's a gift," he deadpans, and I laugh again, surprised by this glimpse of dry humor beneath his serious exterior.
From across the room, someone calls Scott's name, and he raises his glass in acknowledgment. I follow his gaze to a table where a group of construction workers are playing cards. One of them makes a gesture that might be an invitation to join, but Scott shakes his head slightly.
"Your crew?" I ask.
"Some of them." He takes a sip of his drink. "Good men. Hard workers."
"They respect you." I've seen how people defer to Scott around town, not out of fear but genuine regard.
He shrugs, uncomfortable with the observation. "I pay fair wages and don't ask them to do anything I wouldn't do myself."
Scott doesn't seem the type to stand back while others work.
"Is that why you're skeptical about the festival?" I ask, genuinely curious. "You think I won't be getting my hands dirty?"
His eyes meet mine, searching. "I've seen you hauling hay bales and climbing questionable ladders. That's not my concern."
"Then what is?"
He's quiet for a moment, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. The fireplace crackles in the background, sending shadows dancing across the brick walls. When he speaks, his voice is lower, meant only for me.
"My father was on the town council twenty years ago. He pushed for a similar festival—not fall, but winter. Ice sculptures, sleigh rides, the works." Scott's gaze fixes on something distant. "He convinced local businesses to invest. My family put up most of our savings."
I can feel where this is going, a tightness forming in my chest. "What happened?"
"Blizzard hit the weekend of the festival. No one came. Insurance didn't cover the losses because he'd cut corners on the policy." Scott's jaw tightens. "We nearly lost our house. My mother took extra shifts at the diner for years to make up for it."
The vulnerability in his admission catches me off guard.
"I'm sorry," I say softly. "That must have been hard to watch."
"It taught me to look for what can go wrong before getting excited about what might go right."
Something clicks into place, his thoroughness, his questions about budget and contingencies. They're not arbitrary obstacles, they're protective instincts forged in difficult experience.
"Thank you for telling me that," I say, resisting the urge to touch his hand. "It helps me understand your perspective better."
He looks surprised, as if he expected argument rather than empathy. "Most people just think I'm being difficult."
"Oh, you are," I counter with a smile. "But now I know why."
The tension breaks, and he chuckles—a warm, rich sound that I immediately want to hear again. "Fair enough."
The bartender slides two fresh drinks in front of us. "From Mabel and June," he explains, nodding toward a corner table where the two older women from The Enchanted Bean sit, watching us with unabashed interest.
Scott groans softly. "Town matchmakers. They've been trying to pair me off for years."
"They told me we argue like an old married couple," I admit, feeling heat rise to my cheeks.
His eyebrows lift. "Already? We've had exactly two conversations."
"Apparently that's enough." I lift my glass in a small toast toward the women, who beam back.
Scott shakes his head, but I notice he doesn't contradict the assessment. Instead, he asks, "Why Whitetail Falls?"
The question catches me off guard, not because it's unexpected but because I'm still formulating the answer for myself.
"I needed a change," I begin, tracing a drop of condensation down my glass. "In Portland, I was just another event planner in a sea of them, always competing for the same clients, the same venues. One wedding blurred into the next. I started to feel... interchangeable."
Scott listens intently, his full attention on me in a way that's both flattering and unnerving.
"I visited Whitetail Falls last year during a road trip. Just passing through, but something about it stayed with me." I smile, remembering. "When I saw the cottage for sale on Willowbrook, it felt like serendipity."
"But you're not sure if you're staying." His observation is gentle but direct.
"I..." The question pierces something vulnerable in me. "People here keep asking if I'm just passing through. Like they're waiting to see if I'm worth investing in."
"Small towns have seen plenty of city folk come and go, using places like this as temporary escapes before returning to real life."
"Is that what you think I'm doing?" I ask, surprised by how much his answer matters to me.
Scott studies me, his gaze thoughtful. "I think you're trying to figure that out yourself."
The accuracy of his assessment leaves me momentarily speechless. I am trying to figure out whether Whitetail Falls can become home, whether I belong here, whether the warmth I feel in this community is something I can claim as mine.
"The festival matters to you," he continues, his voice lower. "It's not just a project. It's your way of showing you want to be part of things here."
I swallow against the sudden tightness in my throat. "Is it that obvious?"
"To someone who's watching carefully? Yes."
The tavern seems to recede around us, the space between our barstools charged with something I can't quite name.
"Scott..." I begin, not entirely sure what I want to say.
But the moment breaks as a group of newcomers bursts through the door, laughing loudly. Scott straightens, the openness in his expression fading as he retreats behind his usual reserve.
"I should get going," he says, finishing his drink. "Early start tomorrow."
Disappointment washes through me, but I nod. "The council vote."
"That too." He stands, leaving money on the bar. "Goodnight, Abigail."
"Goodnight, Scott."
He pauses, seeming to struggle with something. Then, with a nod to the bartender, he turns and walks away, pausing briefly to exchange words with his crew before disappearing into the night.
I remain at the bar, nursing my drink, aware of the curious glances from other patrons. Mabel and June look positively crestfallen at Scott's departure, and I can't help but share their sentiment.
Just when the conversation had begun to reveal something real, he'd withdrawn.
Thirty minutes later, I step outside into the crisp night air. The streets of Whitetail Falls are quiet now, most shops closed for the evening. Overhead, stars pierce the clear sky. I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck and begin the walk home, fallen leaves crunching beneath my boots.
My mind replays the evening: Scott's revelation about his father, his insight about my own uncertainties, the way his blue eyes seemed to see past my carefully constructed confidence.
As I turn onto Willowbrook, the glow of my porch light beckons in the distance. Tomorrow brings the council vote, more festival preparations, and inevitably, more interactions with Scott. I should be focused on securing approval, on budgets and timelines, on proving myself to this town.
Instead, I find myself wondering what it would take to see behind Scott's walls again, to draw out the man who notices everything, who listens so intently, who carries old wounds and still finds room for dry humor.
The man whose approval, for reasons I'm not ready to examine, has come to matter more than the entire council's combined.
This isn't what I came to Whitetail Falls for. It isn't what I planned.
But as the autumn wind whispers through the trees, carrying the promise of frost by morning, I can't deny the truth: Scott Martin has become more than a hurdle to overcome.
He's become a puzzle I desperately want to solve.