Rescued In The Storm (The Callahans of Elk Ridge #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Sarah

T he clock on the wall hasn't even hit five a.m., but the ovens at Miller's Bakery have been warming the space for nearly an hour. I lose myself in the rhythm of kneading, my hands coated in flour as I work the dough against the wooden counter. There's something soothing about the repetitive motion, the way the dough transforms from sticky to smooth beneath my fingertips.

Outside, Elk Ridge is beginning to wake up. Streetlights still glow against the predawn darkness while my little corner of Main Street smells like cinnamon, vanilla, and the rich aroma of fresh coffee. I breathe it in, centering myself for the day ahead.

"Almost ready for the morning rush?" Maya asks, tying her apron as she emerges from the back room. She's been my assistant for nearly two years, and I don't know what I'd do without her.

"Finishing the last batch of cinnamon rolls," I say, glancing at the clock.

My heart does that familiar little stutter it always does on Tuesday mornings. Because I know what's coming next.

Right on cue, the bell above the door chimes. And there he is.

Connor Callahan walks into my bakery like he does every week. He’s tall, impossibly broad-shouldered, with that perpetually windswept dark hair that looks like he just hiked down from some mountain peak. Which, knowing Connor, he probably did.

"Morning," he says, his voice rough like he hasn't used it much yet today. Those striking blue eyes sweep over the display case before landing briefly on mine.

"Morning," I reply, wiping my hands on my apron. "The usual?"

He nods, and I try not to let my eyes linger on the way his flannel shirt stretches across his shoulders as he leans against the counter. I've gotten good at this part. The casual exchange. The careful distance. The pretending I haven't been in love with him since we were seventeen.

"One black coffee and a blueberry scone," I say, more to myself than to him as I grab a to-go cup.

I still don't understand why he comes here. His family's lodge serves excellent coffee and breakfast. His brother Declan is a phenomenal chef who could probably make scones that would put mine to shame. I even supply the lodge with baked goods on occasion. There's no logical reason for Connor Callahan to go out of his way to stop by my bakery once a week, every week.

Yet here he is.

I slide the coffee and pastry bag across the counter. "That'll be $5.75."

He hands me a ten. "Keep the change."

Our fingers brush, and I focus on the register instead of the warmth of his skin. This is the moment where he usually grabs his order and leaves with a brief nod, disappearing back into his world of mountain trails and guided adventures that doesn't include me.

But today, something's different.

Connor's fingers linger on the counter, tapping twice before he reaches for the bag. He opens his mouth like he might say something else, then seems to think better of it.

"Thanks, Sarah." My name sounds different when he says it. Softer somehow.

I watch him leave, the bell chiming his departure as my heart squeezes in my chest. Through the window, I can see him pause outside, take a sip of his coffee, then pull out half of the scone. He takes a bite, wrapping the rest carefully back in the bag before continuing down the sidewalk.

Maya bumps my shoulder gently. "Earth to Sarah. The timer's been going off."

I blink, coming back to myself in time to rescue the cinnamon rolls before they turn from golden to burnt. Another Tuesday morning at Miller's Bakery. Another glimpse of Connor. Another day of pretending that's enough.

* * *

The morning rush has finally died down, leaving me with a moment to breathe and Maya with a chance to restock the display case. I'm wiping down the counters when the bell chimes again, and I look up to see Kathryn Callahan strolling in.

"Please tell me you have at least one cinnamon roll left," she says, leaning against the counter. "The Coffee Loft ran out of your deliveries an hour ago, and I've got a customer threatening mutiny."

I laugh, reaching for the last one I'd set aside. "Lucky for you, I saved one for my afternoon coffee break. But I suppose I can be persuaded to part with it."

Kathryn and I have an unusual friendship. She owns The Coffee Loft across town, and we've worked out a comfortable arrangement. I supply her shop with pastries daily, and she keeps me caffeinated with her experimental latte creations that somehow always turn out perfect.

It also doesn't hurt that she became a Callahan last spring when she tied the knot with Connor's cousin Nolan in a ceremony so picture-perfect it belonged on the cover of Mountain Living magazine.

"So," Kathryn says, putting the cinnamon roll away. "I saw a certain wilderness guide leaving your shop earlier."

I busy myself with reorganizing already-neat stacks of napkins. "Connor stops by every Tuesday. You know that."

"Mmm." She raises an eyebrow, seeing right through me. "And you just happen to make fresh blueberry scones every Tuesday morning?"

"I make fresh scones every morning," I counter, but I can feel my cheeks warming.

"But blueberry ones—his favorite—always on Tuesdays." She pops another bite into her mouth, watching me with those knowing eyes. "I'm just saying, for someone who claims to be over him, you sure pay attention to his preferences."

"It's called good customer service."

"It's called you've been in love with him since high school."

I sigh, dropping the pretense. "And he's never noticed. Not once in all these years." I turn away, stacking clean mugs with more force than necessary. "Besides, I've accepted that we'll never be more than... whatever we are. Acquaintances who exchange pleasantries once a week over coffee and pastries."

"Sarah—"

"It's fine." I wave her off. "Really. I've moved on."

The lie sits heavy on my tongue. I haven't moved on. I've gotten better at pretending.

Kathryn looks like she wants to argue, but the bell chimes again, saving me from further interrogation. Two hikers come in, their backpacks and sturdy boots marking them as lodge guests rather than locals.

"Do you have any of those amazing apple tarts left?" the woman asks, scanning the display case. "We had them at Mountain Laurel Lodge yesterday, and the chef said they came from here."

"Just baked a fresh batch," I reply with a smile, grateful for the distraction. I box up half a dozen while her companion studies a trail map spread across one of my small cafe tables.

"We're thinking of doing Eagle Point tomorrow," he says to his partner. "The view from the summit is supposed to be incredible. You can see three mountain ranges from up there."

"If you're looking for Eagle Point, you should take the eastern trail," Kathryn chimes in. "My husband says it's less steep, and there's a beautiful meadow of wildflowers about halfway up."

"Is it difficult?" the woman asks, looking uncertain.

"Not at all," Kathryn assures her. "It's one of the easier trails around here. Perfect for beginners, and the views are worth every step."

I hand over their boxed tarts, listening to their excited chatter about tomorrow's hike. Something stirs in my chest—a restlessness I can't quite name. I've lived in Elk Ridge my entire life, surrounded by some of the most beautiful mountains in the state, and yet I rarely venture beyond the familiar streets of town.

"Maybe I'll check it out," I say, surprising myself.

Three heads turn toward me.

"You? Hiking?" Kathryn's eyes widen slightly.

"Why not?" I straighten my shoulders. "It's not like I'm chained to this bakery."

"No, of course not, it's just..." She hesitates. "I don't think I've ever heard you express interest in hiking before."

"Well, maybe it's time for a change." The idea takes firmer root with each passing second. Eagle Point. A trail even beginners can handle. A view of three mountain ranges.

Something Connor would do without a second thought.

The hikers wish me luck before leaving, promising to come back for more tarts before they check out of the lodge. As soon as the door closes behind them, Kathryn fixes me with a suspicious look.

"This doesn't have anything to do with a certain wilderness guide, does it?"

"Not everything in my life revolves around Connor Callahan," I say, the words coming out sharper than intended.

She holds up her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. Just be careful out there. The weather can change quickly this time of year."

"I know how mountains work, Kathryn. I've lived here my entire life."

"Knowing and experiencing are two different things." She gathers her things, heading for the door. "Text me if you decide to go. Let someone know where you'll be."

After she leaves, I find myself staring out the window at the mountains that frame our little town. They're always there, steady and unchanging, while life happens in their shadow. How many times have I watched Connor disappear into those trees, leading groups of strangers on adventures I've only heard about?

Too many times to count.

By closing time, my mind is made up. Tomorrow morning, I'll leave Maya in charge of the bakery, and I'll hike to Eagle Point. I'll see those three mountain ranges for myself. I'll do something unexpected, something outside my carefully constructed routine of baking and waiting and watching other people live their lives.

At home that night, I pull out the hiking boots I bought three years ago on a similar burst of inspiration. One that faded before I ever put them to use. They still have the price tag attached. I grab my phone and search for information on the Eagle Point trail, making notes about what to bring.

Water. Snacks. A small first aid kit. My camera.

It's not like I'm attempting Everest. It's a beginner trail, one that tourists tackle every day. How hard could it possibly be?

As I set my alarm for earlier than usual, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers that I'm being impulsive, that I should wait and plan better. But a louder voice—the one tired of playing it safe—drowns it out.

Tomorrow, Sarah Miller is going hiking.