Chapter Nineteen #2
Sammy approached my table with careful movements, his red-gold hair catching the last rays of sunlight. Despite being part of the MC for months now, he still carried himself with the wariness of someone who expected to be sent away at any moment. I recognized that look.
Had worn it myself not so long ago.
"Can I sit?" he asked, gesturing to the empty chair beside me.
I nodded, then added, "Yes," because words were gifts I could now give, even when they weren't strictly necessary.
He settled into the chair, fidgeting slightly with the prospect patch on his cut. "That thing you do," he began, his voice dropping lower, "with the plants. Bug told me about it. He said you..." he trailed off, as if unsure how to phrase his question without sounding offensive.
"Talk to them," I finished for him.
"Yeah." His eyes widened slightly, perhaps surprised by my direct acknowledgment. "Is that... can you teach someone?"
The request caught me off guard. No one had ever asked me to share this ability—this connection that had kept me alive when everyone else had died. It had been my secret, my advantage, my private comfort in fifteen years of isolation.
But that was before Rooster. Before the MC. Before I'd discovered that sharing didn't always mean losing.
I set my beer down and stood. "Come with me."
I led Sammy away from the pavilion, toward a quieter corner of the riverside property where herb gardens and native plants grew in carefully tended beds. The landscaping had been my project, suggested by Butch after I'd redesigned our security systems.
"Might as well make it beautiful as well as functional," he'd said when I'd proposed incorporating plants that would serve as both early warning system and food source.
We reached a quiet spot where rosemary, basil, and thyme grew alongside native wildflowers. I stopped, kicking off my boots and socks without explanation. Sammy watched curiously, but followed my example when I motioned for him to do the same.
"Skin contact helps," I explained, feeling the cool earth beneath my bare feet. "Plants respond to touch, vibration. Energy."
I knelt beside a flourishing basil plant, its aromatic leaves full and vibrant in the evening air. Sammy joined me, his movements carrying the natural grace of his fox nature.
"Give me your hands," I instructed.
He extended his hands, palm up. I took them and placed them gently around the basil plant's stem, making sure his skin made contact with both the plant and the soil surrounding it.
"Close your eyes," I said. "Feel first. Listening comes later."
Sammy obediently closed his eyes, his expression shifting from curiosity to concentration. I watched his face, recognizing the initial confusion I'd seen in Rooster when I'd first tried to explain this connection.
"What am I supposed to feel?" Sammy asked after a moment, his eyes still closed.
"Pulse," I replied. "Plants have heartbeats. Different rhythm than ours. Slower. Steady."
I placed my own hands beside his, establishing my connection with the plant.
The familiar sensation flowed through me—the gentle, persistent life force that existed in all growing things.
Not thoughts like humans had, not emotions as we understood them, but patterns.
Rhythms. Information coded in ways that had taken me years to interpret.
"I don't feel anything," Sammy admitted, frustration edging his voice.
"Try this," I suggested, moving his hands to a different position. "Don't try so hard. Plants aren't loud like people. They whisper."
I demonstrated by closing my own eyes, letting my shoulders relax as I sank into the familiar connection. "Feel that vibration? That's water moving through stem. Reaching leaves. Sun converted to energy."
Sammy's eyes remained closed, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then, gradually, his expression shifted—surprise flickering across his features. "There's... something. Like a humming?"
I nodded, though he couldn't see it. "Yes. That's it."
I let him feel the sensation for another minute, watching as wonder replaced concentration on his face. Then I decided to show him something more—something I rarely revealed to anyone.
"Watch," I said, withdrawing my hands from the plant.
I held my palm about six inches from the basil plant, focusing my energy and intent. Slowly, deliberately, the plant's stem bent toward my hand, leaves reaching as if drawn by an invisible force. Not touching, not physically manipulated, but responding to my call.
Sammy gasped, his eyes wide. "Holy shit! You're not even touching it!"
I smiled slightly, letting the plant return to its natural position. "Communication goes both ways. I listen. They respond."
"Can I learn to do that?" he asked, excitement replacing his usual caution.
"Maybe," I answered honestly. "Starts with listening. Feeling. Fox shifters have good instincts. Might take time."
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Rooster watching us from a distance, his massive frame outlined against the sunset.
Bug stood beside him, their heads bent in conversation.
I didn't need to hear them to know they were talking about me—about how different I was now from the feral creature who had once hidden in these same bushes rather than face a single question.
I felt a strange pride in that observation—in being seen without fear filling my chest. In being witnessed teaching rather than hiding.
"Plants saved my life," I told Sammy, the words coming more easily than they would have even a month ago. "When everyone left. When I was alone. They warned me of dangers. Showed me safe paths. Guided me to food and water."
Sammy's expression sobered as he absorbed this glimpse into my past—the fifteen years of solitary survival I rarely discussed. "That's why you're so good at security stuff," he said with sudden understanding. "You've got extra eyes everywhere."
I nodded. "Extra ears too."
Bug had moved away from Rooster now, heading toward the food tables, but Rooster remained—watching me with such naked pride that I could feel it through our bond even at this distance.
Three months ago, his observation would have made me uncomfortable, would have triggered the instinct to disappear.
Now I met his gaze directly, letting my own pride flow back to him through the bond. Look at me, I thought. Look at what I can do now. Look at who I'm becoming because you believed I could.
"So, can we try again?" Sammy asked, drawing my attention back to him. "I want to learn how you do that thing with your hand."
I settled more comfortably on the ground, appreciating his enthusiasm. "Start smaller," I advised, guiding his hand back to the plant. "First conversation is always 'hello.'"
As the evening light faded around us, I continued my careful instruction, finding joy in sharing something that had once been my most closely guarded secret. The words came more easily with each explanation, my voice growing stronger rather than weaker with use.
Behind us, the celebration continued—music and laughter spilling from the pavilion.
But here in this quiet corner, with soil beneath my feet and plants responding to my touch, I was building a different kind of connection.
Not just to the natural world that had saved me, but to the human one that had finally welcomed me home.
As twilight settled over the gathering, I felt a gentle tug in my awareness—like fingers plucking at invisible strings connected to my consciousness. The plants along the riverbank were trying to tell me something.
I slipped away from the celebration, moving silently through the deepening shadows toward the water's edge. No one noticed my departure except Rooster, whose eyes I felt on my back as I walked away. Through our bond, I sent reassurance—not running, just listening.
The music and laughter faded behind me as I reached the riverbank. Without hesitation, I kicked off my boots and socks again, letting my bare feet sink into the cool soil. The earth here was rich and damp, alive with information that flowed into me through skin contact.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the messages coming from the reeds that swayed at the water's edge, from the ancient willows whose roots drank deeply from the river, from the night-blooming flowers just beginning to open their petals to the evening air.
Something was different tonight. Something was crossing.
I stood perfectly still, head tilted slightly as I sifted through the plant whispers.
Fifteen years of survival had honed this ability to a razor's edge.
Plants didn't communicate in words or pictures, but in sensations, vibrations, patterns of growth and movement that I'd learned to interpret as clearly as spoken language.
And tonight, they were telling me about visitors.
Not human. Not bear, like most of the MC members. Something else.
I heard Rooster's approach long before his arms wrapped around me from behind—his heavy footsteps, his familiar scent carried on the evening breeze, the way nearby plants bent slightly in response to his passing.
Three months ago, even expected contact would have made me flinch. Now I leaned back against his solid chest, drawing strength from his warmth.
"Trees talking again?" he murmured against my ear, his breath stirring my hair.
I nodded, keeping my eyes closed to maintain the delicate connection. The information was becoming clearer now, filtering through my consciousness as the plants continued their silent reports.
"Lynx shifters," I said softly, opening my golden eyes to stare across the water where twilight shadows deepened among the trees. I raised my hand, pointing to the far shore. "Passing through. Maybe... my family."
Rooster's arms tightened slightly around me, surprise and concern flowing through our bond. "Your family?" he repeated, voice careful, but not dismissive. He had never questioned my abilities, not since the day I'd led the MC straight to Victor's surveillance devices.