8. Flint
Eight
Flint
W e get our first big October storm after Marigold’s been in my cabin for two weeks. Black clouds hang low over the mountains, threatening heavy rain all day but never quite bursting—then as night closes in, the wind starts to howl.
I’m at the bar, like always, serving customers when Jana needs a break and grappling with stock orders in the office otherwise. A few brave souls have come out for an evening drink, huddled around their regular booth, but the bar’s mostly empty tonight.
Good. Most folks in Starlight Ridge know better than to get caught out in a big storm.
When thunder rumbles loud enough to drown out the speakers, I stride out of the office and give Jana a nod. We’ll close up early tonight, because there’s no sense keeping people out in bad weather and making ‘em vulnerable. Especially Jana, who hasn’t actively chosen to be here.
“Text that fiance of yours,” I tell her when I reach the bar, sliding behind it to start unloading the dishwasher and wiping down. “Tell him you’ll be done in ten minutes and to come walk you home.”
Jana scoffs, tossing down a cloth. “I can make it home on my own, Flint.” But she whips out her phone and taps out a message anyway.
Another loud rumble of thunder, then lightning strobes the night sky. I rub my jaw and stare out of the window as rain starts to lash down, blown sideways by the strong wind.
Thank god Marigold stayed home to draw pet portraits this evening. She should be tucked up warm and dry, sheltered from the storm.
I rub my aching chest for a moment, then get the hell back to work.
There are a few grumbles when I shoo the regulars from their booth, but no one really puts up a fight. Sure, they don’t want to jog home in the rain, but judging by how the storm’s building up speed, it’s only going to get worse as the night goes on. Better to make a break for it now.
“Go,” I tell Jana when her fiance Stig bursts through the bar doorway eight minutes later, soaked through and breathing hard. Christ, he must have sprinted down the mountain trails to reach here in time, mud splattering his legs and wind whipping his blond hair, and I nod at the guy with newfound respect. He barely looks at me, too fixated on Jana.
I get that. I’d sprint to Marigold too, if I ever thought she was in danger.
With Jana gone and the regulars ushered out into the driving rain, I close up the bar in record time. My chest tightens as I work, my whole body tensed with adrenaline, and every time lightning flashes outside, I grit my back teeth and move faster.
No time, no time.
When I step outside and turn to lock the bar door, the wind shoves so hard I stagger three steps to the left. Have to lean my body weight into it to get near the door again, fumbling the key into the lock.
Holy shit. This is going to be a big one.
Thunder crashes over the mountainside, rattling my bones.
The grass is sodden as I run for the treeline, mud sucking at my boots and slowing my steps. The trees ahead moan and bend in the wind, trunks creaking, branches whipping, and I cover my head with one arm as I plunge into the forest.
Static crackles in the air, even here in the darkness under the canopy, and it smells like a mixture of rain and smoke. Partway up the trail to my cabin, I pass the smoldering remains of a tree, freshly split in two by lightning. Scorched earth surrounds its base, with even the carpet of dried pine needles turned to ash.
Fire.
It’s soaking wet tonight, with rain seeping through the canopy, but I pause and stamp on the smoking pine needles just in case. The last thing Starlight Ridge needs is a fire.
Only once I’m completely satisfied that there are no sparks left on the forest floor do I turn back to the trail and keep jogging. Marigold. Is she okay? Is she scared?
A quarter mile out from the cabin, I hit the steepest slope, my thighs burning as I push myself not to lose any speed. Need to get back to her. Need to see that she’s safe with my own eyes. Except it’s dark beneath the trees, and each flash of lightning blinds me all over again, stopping my eyes from adjusting to the gloom—so I crash into a small body without warning.
“Oh!”
My arms react before my brain does, snatching the person to my chest before they hit the ground. Guess my body already understands what my reason is sluggishly putting together, because it knows this form, that soft voice, these trembling hands gripping my soaked shirt. Knows them better than anything.
“Marigold?”
She’s shivering, wet through. “There—there you are,” she pants, clinging onto me for dear life. “I was worried about you in the storm.”
She was worried about me ? So she came out looking for me, putting herself in danger? My gut plummets, and I grab Marigold’s hand to start dragging her back up the winding trail to the cabin.
“Never,” I grit out, following the path by memory rather than eyesight, “do this again. Never put yourself in danger like this. Fuck .”
My artist is silent behind me, letting herself be dragged home.
Thunder rumbles, vibrating the earth beneath our feet, and I tug her faster. Marigold huffs and mutters something behind me, but she strides faster to keep up.
Don’t care if I’m pissing her off right now. Need to get her back in the cabin. Need her safe.
The lights of the cabin send a wave of relief crashing over me—but I move even faster, hustling Marigold through the trees, over the packed dirt, and up the steps to the deck. The string lights I wound around the deck rail at the beginning of summer are lashing in the wind, their little bulbs still glowing heroically.
“Come on.” Less gentle than I should be in my worry, I push Marigold toward the door. She actually pauses to kick off her muddy boots first—so I snarl and lift her against my chest, carrying her inside the cabin like an unruly child and slamming the door against the wind.
I’m being an ass, and I know I am.
But I can’t think straight until the door’s locked behind us and Marigold is safe inside the cabin once more. Then I set her rigid body down, my heart hammering against my ribs.
As soon as I let her go, Marigold gets the hell away from me, kicking her muddy boots off by the wall. And I know she’s mad, because she’s moving jerkily and she won’t look my way, but I can’t bring myself to be sorry. Not yet. Not with the wind moaning outside and thunder rumbling louder than a heavenly drum roll.
“It’s not safe,” I say at last, toeing my own boots off. They’re caked in mud and dead leaves, and yeah, this’ll be a bitch to clean tomorrow, but it’s worth it to have Marigold safe from the storm. “You can’t just go out in bad weather like that. Not in the mountains.”
Marigold mutters something, then finally turns to me with crossed arms. She’s wearing sweatpants and some kind of fleecy blue sweater, and the whole outfit is soaked and clinging. Her blonde ponytail is plastered to one shoulder, and her cheeks are pale from the cold.
“ You were out there.”
I stomp to the log burner. “That’s different.” There’s a small fire burning already, but we’re gonna need to make this thing sweat if we want to warm up.
“Why’s it different?” Marigold demands, and lord, I’ve never heard her argue back so fiercely. She’s powerful under that shyness; a force of nature, standing tall with her chin raised. “I’m allowed to care about you too, Flint. I’m allowed to worry.”
The burner door jerks open in my hand, and I shove another log on there haphazardly. It’s sloppy work, but I’m too rattled by her words to do better. She really was worried?
“It’s different because I’m from here.” The burner door squeaks closed, the handle scorching my icy fingers. “I know what these storms can be like.”
“Rain, wind, thunder, lightning.” Marigold checks each off on her fingers, an angry blush staining her cheeks. “Yeah, I’m familiar with all of those. They’re not exclusive to Starlight Ridge, you know.”
“But they’re harsher in the mountains.” My bones creak as I push to my feet, and lord, I’d give my life savings for Marigold to understand me right now. To listen to what I’m saying. “You don’t get it, okay? You’re just a tourist—”
“ Just a tourist?”
My head pounds. “No, wait. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Just a tourist,” Marigold says again, her voice waspish. “Right. I see.”
The fire crackles merrily in the log burner, completely at odds with the storm raging outside the cabin—and the argument raging inside. The heat spreads over my legs, but it won’t get either of us warm until we change into dry clothes. Until we call a truce and take it in turns beneath a hot shower.
Too bad we’re busy glaring daggers at each other, a chasm yawning open between our shivering bodies. This isn’t a huge cabin, but we might as well be standing at opposite ends of a football stadium right now. How did things go so wrong?
“Next time I won’t bother,” Marigold declares.
Is that supposed to upset me? “ Good .”
She shakes her head and turns away. The sound of the bedroom door shutting behind her echoes through the cabin.