Chapter 23 Bump In the Night
bump in the night
ROXANNE
The bad news is, I was more despondent than I should be from being rejected by a horse. The good news is, I’m writing well again. Where I used to type a few sentences and delete them, my creative mind is buzzing, and words are flowing.
After another wonderful dinner, where Duke was still curiously absent, I had my first full interview with Georgia. We discussed her time in the Army, her accident, and life after. She was excited to tell me more of her story, which makes me excited to tell the world.
Georgia looks like she’s spent more time on a red carpet than a battlefield—curves that belong in a magazine spread, copper hair that catches the light, hazel eyes that miss nothing.
She’s stunning, but it’s not just her beauty that draws people in.
It’s her confidence, the way she moves through a room like she’s been through the absolute worst and survived it all with style.
I’ve also noticed how the men here are drawn to her—everyone except Duke, Topper, and Thatcher. Well, they do gravitate toward her, but it’s different. You can tell their relationship with Georgia has been built with a foundation of mutual respect and friendship.
On the way to his guesthouse, Topper drops me off at Duke’s so I can finish writing up my notes from the interview.
“Text me when you’re ready to go back to the lodge, and I’ll come and get you.”
“Oh, I don’t want to bother you. It might be late, and I don’t mind walking.”
I’m not sure why I said this. Being outside in the wilderness at night terrifies me, but still, I didn’t want to be an inconvenience.
His face softens as he picks up the slight quiver in my voice. “No bother at all, ma’am. I stay up late anyway.”
I thank Topper and climb out of the cart, and he waits until I get inside before driving away.
The porch light is on, casting a faint golden glow over the front steps, and part of me wants to think that Duke left it on for me on purpose.
Once I close the door, I hear a soft click upstairs.
The man of the house is keeping himself scarce.
Better this way, though, so I can fully concentrate on my night’s work.
I curse myself when I sit down at the desk, my AirPods are still charging on my nightstand at the lodge. I load the soundtrack to Tosca, one of my favorite operas, and keep the volume low enough to break the silence without waking Duke. The music centers me, and I begin to write.
Staff Sergeant Georgia Lennox keeps her stories locked and loaded with punchlines, but behind the bravado is a woman who spent fourteen years in uniform, survived the blast that nearly killed her, and now shows up for others the way her friends showed up for her when she came back to civilian life.
Georgia doesn’t talk much about the medication.
About the mornings she couldn’t get out of bed.
The stretch of months where numbness was the only thing that felt safe.
This place gave her back her brain and her body learned to follow.
She says the people of Firebird don’t care if you’re broken, they care if you’re honest about what’s breaking you.
I type and type until my eyelids are heavy. I keep typing until the fog of exhaustion reminds me I never texted Topper. I don’t want to stop writing, but I know that anything I type now, I’m going to reread in the morning and think what the hell is this?
It would feel so good to rest my eyes just for a second, and the desk is the perfect height for me to lay my head on my arm, and …
The first sensation I feel is something licking my toes, but it’s the clink of something being set on the desk that jolts me awake. I blink the sleep from my eyes and my heart slams into my chest, unleashing a wave of butterflies.
There he is.
Cowboy Ken.
His tattered baseball cap is pulled low, but it can’t hide the smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
That mouth, slightly crooked, frustratingly kissable, twitches as he watches me rub my sleepy eyes.
He’s wearing a threadbare gray T-shirt that clings to him in a way I’m not emotionally prepared for.
I blink up at him, half-suspecting this is still part of a dream. I mean, he’s smiling at me, offering me coffee, and he’s standing close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his neck below the line of his jaw.
“You mumble in your sleep,” he says. “Something about the tragic overuse of ellipses in today’s writing.”
My fingers reach for the mug of coffee, the steam still curling out of the fresh brew. “It’s an epidemic.”
“I’m sorry I woke you,” he says, taking a sip from his own mug.
“Jameson woke me. You brought me coffee, which I thank you for.” The coffee hits my tongue, and I breathe in the earthy and comforting vapors. “I apologize, I meant to text Topper to come and get me, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open.”
His expression shifts and his forehead creases slightly. “You didn’t … you didn’t hear anything last night, did you?”
My head tilts. “Hear anything? Like what? A Bigfoot call?”
He almost spits out his coffee and brings the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh. “Uh, no, never mind.”
“I honestly was in another dimension and can’t believe I slept so sound sitting at the desk.”
“Good … good.”
“Did you hear something?” I tilt my head, wondering if there’s more of a point to his question.
“Nope. Just … are you ready to head back for breakfast?”
I rub my neck. “Shortly, I want to check what I wrote last night. My brain gets a little wonky when I try to write at 1 a.m.”
He tips the bill of his cap. “Then I’ll see you around, Trouble.”
Before I can ask what he’s going to do today, he’s gone, with Jameson plodding along at his heels. Thankfully, what I wrote was not terrible, and I soon pack up and head out to start another day of learning about the different programs for the vets.
The following night, Topper lets me have my own golf cart to go back and forth. I’m eager to transcribe the notes from my sit-down with Thatcher. Tonight’s opera is Madama Butterfly.
Thatcher Green, former Sergeant First Class with the Army Rangers, runs his kitchen the way he once ran missions—with a kind of focus that leaves no room for chaos.
He spent over a decade in the military, serving alongside Duke and Georgia on operations most people will never read about.
The military left its marks—faint scars along his forearms, a stiffness in his right shoulder—but it also taught him rhythm, discipline, and calm under pressure.
He’s not an intimidating man so much as a commanding one. Tall, broad through the chest, his dark hair kept hair trimmed and neat. There’s a warmth in his eyes, though—hazel shot through with gold—that softens everything when he smiles.
I asked him what he most enjoys about cooking.
“Cooking’s about precision, routine and structure,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. “There’s rhythm in it. You prep, you cook, you clean—it’s all motion with purpose. After the Army, I needed that again.”
Watching him teach a class is like watching therapy in motion—steady, deliberate, healing. He’s built a space where the broken learn to create again.
I smile and sip from the bottle of San Pellegrino I brought over.
Not bad, Roxanne. Not bad at all.
The library has become my favorite place to disappear to at night.
It’s quiet, but not too quiet. Cozy, but not smothering.
The overhead lights are dimmed, casting a warm amber glow over the room.
My laptop hums quietly, the cursor blinking beneath a sentence that actually doesn’t make me cringe.
It feels so good that my words are coming again. Slowly, but they’re coming.
I’m about to craft a new paragraph about Thatcher Green walking me through how he elevates the breakfast casserole when the familiar scent of cedarwood and soap wafts into the library.
Something warm zings through me when I glance up and my eyes meet Duke’s. I turn down my music as he takes his cap off and fidgets with it. His worn henley is pushed up past his rippled forearms, and there’s the faintest smudge of dirt scattered across his cheek.
Duke steps in slowly and suddenly the air feels heated … charged. Jameson runs to my side, sits and pants with his tongue out, waiting for me to scratch in the special place behind his ear that I find instantly nowadays.
“Missed you at dinner again,” I say.
His eyes bounce around the room before he takes a seat in the chair opposite the desk. “Been working on the fences in the pasture. Did you get another good interview?”
“Yes, Thatcher. He … wow, the stories he has to tell.”
“He is an exceptional human being, and he’s the only one who can make chicken and dumplings the way I like it.”
I lean back and smile. “He said you really worked closely with him to design the menu. Did you have aspirations to be a chef?”
His eyes narrow. “That sounds suspiciously like an interview question to me.”
“It’s not. I’ve been enjoying the food so much and want to also understand what led you to your passion for it.”
Duke fidgets with his cap for a few moments before answering.
“I’ve been a little bit of a foodie in my civilian life and when you only eat MREs while deployed, you realize that vets deserve better when they come home.
When I hired Thatcher to run the kitchen, I asked if I could help design the menus.
He trained me a little in the kitchen and together we brought the food to life. ”
“Ahh,” I say. “That makes sense.”
Silence settles on us for a few beats too long. Jameson jumps when Duke rises from his chair. “Anyway, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Oh, you didn’t.”
He nods once and then turns toward the door before stopping.
“I was thinking…” he starts, then clears his throat. “If it’s too difficult to get back and forth from here to the lodge, or if it’s uncomfortable … you don’t have to use this space. We could expand the Wi-Fi to your area of the lodge.”
The air sharpens.
“It’s not uncomfortable for me here,” I say carefully. “Is it for you? That I’m here, I mean.”
His eyes flick to mine, and he hesitates. “No. It’s … I figured maybe you’d want more privacy.”
“I’m absolutely comfortable here as long as I’m not disturbing you.”
He hesitates again and then finally answers. “No, no. Well, night, Roxanne.”
“Goodnight.”
I think he’s waiting to hear what I’m going to call him, and he blows out a long breath before heading upstairs.
I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep again until I hear the first cry. At least, I think that’s what I hear. The ticking of the clock on the shelf is the only sound for a moment until a scream shatters the silence from upstairs.
Duke.
I sprint up the stairs, my heart thudding in my ears. Jameson barks and trots over to me when I open the door. He jumps up on me as if to say he’s glad I’m here.
Duke is thrashing in the sheets, his face slick with sweat, jaw clenched and chest heaving like he’s running a marathon. He’s yelling in short, clipped bursts of words.
“We can’t … we can’t leave without him!”
“Mr. Faraday?” I inch slowly to the side of the bed and reach out for him with trembling hands.
The instant my fingertips graze his arm, I’m yanked forward. In one swift, disoriented motion, his arm slams across my chest, pinning me to the mattress before I can scream. His forearm presses against my collarbone—firm, but not choking—like he’s subduing an unseen threat.
“Where is he?!” he shouts through clenched teeth.
“It’s me! It’s Roxanne!”
His eyes are open but unfocused, pupils blown wide, mind still somewhere far from this room.
“Stop! It’s me! It’s Roxanne,” I say over and over again.
His breathing stutters, the fight draining from his limbs. He blinks rapidly, eyes flicking between confusion and reality as awareness floods back in. His grip loosens.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then he jerks back, sitting upright, dragging his hands through his hair like he’s trying to scrape the last of the nightmare from his mind.