Chapter Twenty-Three
Drew
Firebrook Valley
By the time I pulled back into town, the sun was already sliding behind the mountain, draining the day of color the way Firebrook Valley always did in winter.
It happened quietly, without drama, as if the landscape had performed this routine a million times and would continue on with or without our presence.
The crisp bite of the cold air nipped at my skin as I stepped out of my rental.
The air carried the faint, earthy scent of melting snow mixed with the distant perfume of woodsmoke puffing steadily from chimneys.
The streets were damp with slush, the sidewalks scattered with the gritty imprints of boots—the kind left by people who lived here year-round and didn’t have the luxury of waiting for better weather.
Downtown Firebrook Valley looked the same as it always had.
That unchanging facade irritated me, yet it steadied me; it was a deep breath of pine-scented air grounding me amid the chaos.
I didn’t come back here because I liked it.
I came back because I was supposed to, because my family had chosen this valley like it was a tradition carved in stone.
Traditions didn’t care whether you were tired, grieving, or furious.
Their weight pressed down like the heavy blanket of snow that muffled every sound.
Still, there were things I respected about this place.
A subtle pulse of resilience hummed beneath the surface, like the low rumble of a distant river.
Even when I resented it, that undercurrent of authenticity pulled at me.
People didn’t live here to be impressive; they lived here because they wanted something real.
The calluses on their hands and the pride in their work spoke volumes.
It wasn’t the life I would’ve chosen, but it wasn’t fake.
I normally didn’t spend a lot of time downtown, but with everything going on, Bella had to be in town.
Now there was a chance she’d be at her father’s house, but I’d bet anything Bella was at Mabel’s.
Mabel offered that unvarnished kindness that lingered in the air like fresh-baked bread.
Either way, Bella hadn’t called me, and I wished she had.
Odd. We were on opposite sides of this. I should have been thinking, “Not you. Anyone but you.” But I wasn’t.
Her presence was a magnetic pull that made my skin tingle—a quiet electricity that reminded me how rare it was to feel someone so completely in my bones.
I wanted to see her so badly I ached . .
. and hoped. Hope was what brought me to Mabel’s.
If Bella had come back to deal with this crisis, she was likely as frustrated as I was. Dare I hope aching for me as well?
Mabel’s sat right off the main stretch, wedged between a hardware store and a little shop that sold hand-knit hats even in the summer.
The windows were fogged and the lights were warm, the whole building glowing as if it possessed its own weather system.
It was always full, not in a trendy way, but in the way a town fills a space when it truly needs it.
I’d never chosen to hang out there. It wasn’t my spot, and as far as I knew, it hadn’t been Bella’s either. But I could see her choosing it now, drawn to the gentle glow of its fire. I parked across the street and sat in my car for a second, my hands gripping the steering wheel as my pulse spiked.
Bella. Here. In town. She has to be.
And, if she is, she needs me.
The thought that my father had punched hers sent a surge of protective heat through my veins. It wasn’t just for her, but for whatever fragile thing we’d started in Vermont—the thing I refused to let this feud destroy.
I exited my car, crossed the street, opened the door, then stood there as the warmth of Mabel’s Cookies and Coffee shop hit me.
Every table was taken. Late afternoon meant teenagers.
Half the room was made up of kids hunched over textbooks, arguing quietly over math problems or laughing under their breath.
A couple of them wore aprons. Beneath the scent of cinnamon was the unmistakable funk of sweaty varsity jackets and detergent-fresh hoodies.
The room had too many bodies and not enough open windows which was exactly how I remembered it.
Mabel believed in everyone taking a turn working there, and the town embraced that quiet solidarity.
I’d worked here one summer myself, mostly out of a stubborn need to prove I wasn’t above it.
The memory of sticky counters and spilled sodas lingered.
In Firebrook Valley, a shift at Mabel’s was a rite of passage, an invisible bridge built between neighbors.
Mabel herself was behind the counter, conducting the room like an orchestra as she moved between the coffee pots and trays of cookies. She was in her early seventies, rounded and happy, her cheeks always faintly flushed. She looked up and saw me, her eyes crinkling with genuine delight.
Mabel had a specific kind of energy—welcoming, unthreatening, and affectionate in a way that didn’t ask for permission.
“Drew Burke,” she called out, her voice booming with the rich timbre of someone who laughed deeply and often. Half the place turned to look. “Well, look at you. You come in here like you forgot how doors work.”
I quickly closed the door behind me, ending what must have been an uncomfortable draft for those near it.
A couple of teenagers snorted and huddled to whisper things that likely weren’t compliments.
I resisted the urge to turn around and walk right back out.
Instead, I made my way to the counter and rested my palms on the worn wooden surface. “It’s good to see you, Mabel.”
She smiled as if I’d just handed her a bouquet of flowers. “You look tired.”
“Not irresistibly handsome?” I muttered, my words laced with reluctant fondness.
Mabel leaned forward, her eyes bright with mischief. “Not today.”
Her honesty didn’t sting. Instead, I smiled and said, “Thankfully you look younger and happier every time I see you.”
“You’re forgiven for sending a cold draft right up my granny panties.”
I coughed on a laugh.
She made a dramatic show of grabbing a mug, pouring the coffee, and sliding it toward me as if this were a normal afternoon and not the day my father had decided to punch Gabe.
Then she looked at me closely. She wasn’t gossiping or prying; she was noticing.
“How’s your father?” she asked, her voice softening into an empathetic undertone.
I made a face, my frustration rising like the steam from my mug.
Mabel sighed as if she’d been expecting the reaction. “Well, at least you’re here to sort it out.”
I held her gaze. “You heard?”
“We all did,” she said, her tone layered with the insight of someone who had watched patterns repeat like the seasons. “And we all care.”
I frowned. “Thank you.”
She lifted one shoulder. “There are no secrets in this town,” she said then smiled. “At least none I’d keep if I heard them.”
I smiled at that. A newspaper wasn’t necessary when a town had someone like Mabel. But at least she owned it.
Her eyes flicked toward the back of the room, then to me. “Bella’s here,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial level. “I put her off to the side. She looks . . . upset.”
My chest tightened. I knew it.
Mabel kept her eyes on mine, steady and knowing. “You gonna go over there, or are you gonna stand here and make that face until your jaw locks up?”
“I’m going,” I said.
“Good.” Then, like she couldn’t help herself, Mabel added, “My grandfather had an old donkey once.”
I blinked. “Mabel—”
“Hush,” she said, wagging a finger at me.
“He had one donkey, and it was useful. Kept his livestock safe. Protected the farm. Good choice. Then one of my uncles gave him another donkey.” She took a sip of coffee.
“My grandfather thought if one donkey was good at protecting his livestock, two would be even better.”
I stared at her, caught by the simple rhythm of the story.
Mabel continued, her eyes twinkling. “He didn’t anticipate how much those two donkeys would fight. Kicking and biting and braying like they were trying to kill each other. Tore the whole place up.”
I let out a breath that sounded dangerously like a laugh. “And?”
Mabel spread her hands. “Eventually, he had to get rid of one of them. Didn’t want to. Felt bad about it. But it was the best thing for his farm. And for those donkeys.”
She held my gaze, the twinkle fading into something gentler. I knew exactly what she was saying, and I hated that she was right.
“If you’re suggesting Firebrook Valley would be better without my father,” I said, “I completely agree.”
Mabel’s expression softened. “Mm.”
I shook my head. “If I could get my father to sell and leave, I’d do it in a heartbeat. No offense. I don’t think this place is healthy for him.”
Mabel nodded slowly, as if she’d been reaching that same conclusion for years.
“I hope it works out for them,” she said.
“And for you.” Then she tilted her head, her eyes sharp again.
“And for Bella. Because your donkey hit her donkey, and now her donkey’s so riled up she’s not having a very good day either. ”
I stared at her. I couldn’t help it; I laughed—a quiet, rough, disbelieving sound. “That sums the situation up,” I muttered.
Mabel patted my hand as if I were twelve years old, her touch warm and reassuring. “Go.”
I picked up the mug, took one sip I didn’t taste, and turned toward the back of the shop. And there she was.
Bella sat alone at a table near the corner, a glass of water in front of her as if she wished it were something much stronger.
Her shoulders were slightly slumped, her expression drawn, and her eyes were dark in a way that made my chest ache.
She looked like someone who’d just walked through a storm and didn’t know where to put the wet clothes.
I stood there for a second longer than I meant to. I wanted to walk over, pick her up, drag her out of this town, and tell her none of this was our problem. But it was.
So, I walked toward her table. I slid into the seat across from her and met her gaze.
“So . . .” I said, my voice low, careful, and impossibly aware of the room around us. I gestured toward the counter, toward the case of pies that had been baked that morning. “Want to split a piece of pie?”