Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
ROSCO
I 'm up before dawn, my body still keeping MC hours despite years away from the club.Sleep didn't come easy last night, not Deena's warm body pressed against mine and the echo of promises neither of us should be making.
Last night was a mistake. A momentary weakness.Something that can't happen again.
I repeat these thoughts as I silently pull on boots and a jacket, careful not to wake the woman sleeping down the hall.Bear lifts his head from his bed by the dying embers of last night's fire, watching me with knowing eyes.
"Stay," I whisper, and he settles back down with a soft huff.
Outside, the air bites with early spring chill, mist clinging to the trees and obscuring the valley below.I head straight for my workshop, the one place on this property that's still entirely mine, untouched by memories of what Deena and I once were.
The familiar scent of sawdust and varnish greets me as I flip on the lights.Half-finished pieces stand in various stages of completion--a rocking chair with cherry inlays for Mrs. Havers down in town, a set of maple end tables for Earl's daughter's wedding gift,and my latest project, tucked beneath a drop cloth in the corner.
I uncover it, running my hand over the smooth walnut surface.A crib. Not commissioned by anyone, just something that came to me in the quiet hours, my hands working the wood while my mind drifted to possibilities I've long since abandoned.
This is what I do now. I build things meant to last.Things that stay.
Not like people. Not like Deena.
I grab my tools and lose myself in the rhythm of sanding, the repetitive motion soothing in its simplicity.No complications. No conflicting emotions.Just wood and skill and time.
But even here, she creeps in.The curve of the headboard reminds me of her smile.The careful joinery makes me think of how perfectly her body still fits against mine, like two pieces designed to connect.
"Fuck," I mutter, setting the sandpaper aside before I ruin the finish with too much pressure.I've gone soft in my isolation, letting myself get tangled up in feelings I'd buried years ago.
The door creaks open, and I tense, knowing without turning who it is.Nobody else would dare.
"So this is where you hide." Deena's voice is soft, still rough with sleep.
I don't turn. "Not hiding. Working."
"At five in the morning?"
"Best time for it."
I hear her step inside, closing the door against the morning chill.The space suddenly feels too small with her in it, my sanctuary invaded.
"This is incredible, Ross." Genuine awe colors her tone as she moves deeper into the workshop."You made all these?"
"That's generally what woodworking means." I finally turn, and immediately regret it.
She's wearing my flannel shirt over her sleep shorts, hair a wild tangle of curls, glasses perched on her nose.Her feet are bare despite the cold, and she's clutching a steaming mug of coffee.
My coffee. In my shirt. In my space.
"You brought me a peace offering?" I nod at the mug, aiming for gruff indifference and missing by a mile.
"Actually, it's mine. I just followed the smell of sawdust." She smiles, taking a sip."But I can share if you're nice."
"I'm never nice."
"Liar." She approaches slowly, like I'm some wild animal that might bolt.Her eyes catch on the half-finished crib, widening slightly."This is beautiful. Who's it for?"
"No one," I answer too quickly."Just practicing techniques."
She traces the curved edge with gentle fingers, and I feel the touch like it's on my own skin."It's exquisite. The detail work here--" She indicates the hand-carved leaves and vines along the rails."That's mountain laurel, isn't it?And trillium?"
Of course she'd recognize the plants.The same ones she used to sketch in her notebooks, the ones that grow on our ridge.
"Just patterns," I lie.
Her eyes meet mine, too perceptive by half."This isn't 'just' anything, Ross."
I take the mug from her hands, needing something to do that doesn't involve touching her.The coffee is too sweet, just like she always made it, but I drink it anyway.
"About last night--" she starts.
"Don't." I set the mug down on my workbench."It happened. It was a mistake.Let's move on."
Her expression falls for a fraction of a second before she masks it."A mistake?"
"You're leaving in a few days.You said it yourself--your life, your career, everything that matters is in Atlanta." The words taste bitter, but necessary."What's the point in stirring up old feelings that won't change anything?"
"Maybe they already have." She steps closer, and I force myself to hold my ground."Maybe I'm not the same person who left.Maybe you're not the same person who stayed."
"That's exactly my point. We're different people now."
"Then why does this--" she gestures between us "--still feel the same?Why does being with you still feel like coming home?"
The question hits like a punch to the gut.Because it does. Because having her here, in my space, wearing my clothes, has awakened something I've spent twelve years trying to extinguish.
"It's just muscle memory," I say flatly."Nostalgia. It'll pass."
"Is that what you keep telling yourself?" Her voice sharpens with frustration."Because you've been looking at me for four days like you want to devour me whole, Ross.That's not nostalgia. That's not muscle memory."
"It's a bad idea." I step back, needing distance."We've been down this road before, Dee.It ended with you driving away and me picking up the pieces."
Pain flashes across her face."That's not fair."
"Isn't it? You had your dream school, your big career.What did I have? A half-built garage and a fucking engagement ring I never got to give you."
The words hang between us, heavy with old hurt.I hadn't meant to tell her about the ring.Not now. Not ever.
Her eyes widen, lips parting in shock."Engagement... what? You never said--"
"Because you never gave me the chance." I drag a hand over my face, suddenly exhausted."You made your choice, Deena.You chose your future over any future with me.And now you're back, temporarily, and I'm supposed to what?Fall at your feet because you decide you might want me again?"
"That's not what I'm doing." She takes a step toward me, then seems to think better of it."I don't know what I'm doing.I just know that being here, with you--it feels right in a way nothing has in years."
"For now," I counter. "Until the roads clear.Until your precious sabbatical ends.Until the next big research opportunity calls you away."
"You don't know that."
"Don't I? The girl I knew was ambitious.Driven. Determined to make her mark in the scientific world.That doesn't just disappear."
"No, it doesn't." Her voice softens."But priorities change. People change."
"Not enough." I turn back to my workbench, picking up a chisel.A clear dismissal. "We're stuck together for now.That's all this is. That's all it can be."
I don't look at her, but I can feel her gaze burning into my back.Several long seconds pass before I hear her soft exhale.
"For someone who builds things meant to last," she says quietly, "you're awfully quick to tear down something before it's even had a chance to stand."
The workshop door closes behind her with a soft click that somehow carries more finality than if she'd slammed it.I drive the chisel into the wood with more force than necessary, ruining the joint I'd spent hours perfecting.
"Goddammit," I mutter, throwing the tool aside.
Outside, clouds gather on the horizon, threatening more rain.More days trapped together. More chances to forget why letting her back in is the stupidest thing I could possibly do.
But as I look at the half-finished crib with its mountain wildflowers carved into the wood, I wonder if it's already too late.
The axe splits the log with a satisfying crack.I set up another, swing again, the physical exertion burning through the restless energy that's been building since my confrontation with Deena this morning.She's been avoiding me all day, burying herself in her plant samples and research notes at the kitchen table while I've been out here, turning perfectly good firewood into kindling.
Bear watches from the porch, head on his paws, occasionally whining when I swing with particular force.Traitor. He'd rather be inside with her, but I needed his company more than she did.
I'm setting up another log when I hear the cabin door open.Footsteps cross the porch, too light to be Deena's.I turn to find a small woman with silver hair standing beside Bear, scratching his ears.
"Mrs. Havers." I straighten, wiping sweat from my brow with my forearm."Didn't hear you drive up."
"That's because I walked, young man." She smiles, blue eyes twinkling."My arthritis isn't so bad that I can't manage the path from town when the fancy strikes me."
That's a three-mile hike at least.Brenda Havers might be pushing seventy, but she's made of mountain stock, tougher than half the MC brothers I've known.
"Your rocker's not finished yet," I tell her, embedding the axe in the chopping block.
"Not why I'm here." She pats Bear's head, then makes her way toward me."Earl mentioned you had company.Millie's niece, if I recall correctly."
Of course. Small town. No secrets.
"Roads washed out. She needed somewhere to stay." I keep my voice neutral, but Mrs. Havers' knowing look tells me I'm not fooling anyone.
"Mmm-hmm. And that somewhere just happened to be your cabin?Miles from town? With only one spare room?" Her eyebrows lift."Interesting choice."
"Her house collapsed. I was closest."
"Rosco Stone, I changed your diapers and taught you Sunday school.Don't think for one minute you can lie to me." She steps closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially."That's the girl who broke your heart, isn't it?The scientist?"
I consider denying it, but what's the point?Mrs. Havers has been the town's unofficial historian for decades.She probably has both our birth certificates filed away somewhere.
"She needed help," I say simply."Nothing more to it."
"So I shouldn't mention the kiss Earl's grandson saw through your kitchen window last night?"
Heat rushes to my face. Fucking small towns."Earl's grandson needs to mind his business."
"Hard to do when he was delivering groceries you ordered." She winks."Don't worry, I've sworn him to secrecy.For all the good that will do."
Great. By sundown, the entire town will know I've taken up with Deena again.That's all I need--people making assumptions, planning futures that won't happen, and asking questions when she inevitably leaves.
"It was a mistake," I mutter."Won't happen again."
Mrs. Havers studies me with shrewd eyes."Is that so? Then why are you out here destroying perfectly good firewood instead of facing her?"
"I'm not--" I start, then sigh at her knowing look."It's complicated."
"Love usually is." She pats my arm."But some things are worth fighting for, Rosco.Even if you've been burned before."
"She's leaving," I point out."Back to Atlanta. Her career.Her life."
"Maybe. Maybe not." Mrs. Havers glances toward the cabin, where Deena's silhouette is visible through the kitchen window."But are you man enough to find out?Or are you going to hide out here until she's gone, wondering what might have been?Again."
The question hits harder than I'd like to admit.I've spent three years in self-imposed isolation, telling myself it was peace I wanted.Freedom from the complications of people and their messy emotions.
But these past five days with Deena have felt more alive than the previous three years combined.
"I'm not hiding," I insist, though we both know it's a lie."I'm processing."
"Process faster." Mrs. Havers starts back toward the porch."Life's too short for second chances to go to waste.Trust me on that one."
I watch her disappear into the cabin, no doubt introducing herself to Deena and probably telling embarrassing stories about me as a kid.I should go in, run interference.Instead, I pick up the axe again, setting another log.
The sound of laughter drifts through the open window--Deena's bright and warm, mixing with Mrs. Havers' throaty chuckle.The sound twists something in my chest, a longing for what could be.What won't be.
Because Mrs. Havers is wrong.This isn't a second chance. It's temporary shelter from a storm, nothing more.Deena made her choice twelve years ago, and no amount of chemistry or nostalgia or toe-curling kisses will change the fundamental truth: she belongs to a world I'll never be part of.
The axe comes down with enough force to split the log clean through.If only my feelings for her were as easy to sever.
By the time I've exhausted myself and stacked enough firewood to last through next winter, the sun is beginning to set.Mrs. Havers left an hour ago, insisting she could make it back to town before dark despite my offers to drive her.Stubborn old woman.
I clean up and head inside, steeling myself for whatever awkwardness awaits.The cabin is quiet except for the soft sounds of Bear's snoring from his bed and the occasional clink of glassware from the kitchen.
Deena stands at the counter, her back to me, stirring something that smells like heaven.She's changed into jeans and a soft sweater, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail that exposes the curve of her neck.
"You cooked," I say, more statement than question.
She doesn't turn. "Mrs. Havers mentioned it was your favorite.Beef stew with dumplings."
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know." She finally faces me, expression carefully neutral."Consider it a peace offering.For invading your workshop this morning."
I move to the sink, washing up without responding.The domesticity of her cooking in my kitchen, the table set for two, Bear contentedly sleeping nearby is too dangerous.It's too easy to imagine this as permanent rather than the temporary arrangement it is.
"Mrs. Havers mentioned you're building her a rocking chair," Deena says when the silence stretches too long."She showed me pictures of some of your other work on her phone.The writing desk you made for the library.The display cases for the historical society."
I shrug. "Keeps me busy."
"It's more than that." She ladles stew into bowls, setting them on the table."It's art, Ross. Really impressive art."
The simple appreciation in her voice catches me off guard.Not many people see beyond the function of the pieces to the care that goes into them.
"It's just wood," I downplay, taking my seat.
"And plants are just plants." She raises an eyebrow."Until they're medicine, or food, or the cornerstone of an entire ecosystem.It's not 'just' anything when you pour yourself into it."
I take a bite of stew to avoid responding.It's good, too good, exactly the way my mother used to make it, which means Mrs. Havers gave her the recipe too.The old matchmaker is more transparent than she thinks.
"About this morning," Deena starts cautiously."You're right. I did make my choice twelve years ago.And I won't pretend I regret the career I've built."
Something in my chest tightens."But?"
"But I've spent twelve years wondering what I gave up to get it." She meets my eyes directly."Whether the trade-off was worth it."
"And now?" I can't help asking, though I'm not sure I want the answer.
"Now I'm wondering if it has to be one or the other." She sets down her spoon, focusing entirely on me."What if there's a way to have both?What if I can have my career and..."
"And what?" My voice is rougher than intended.
"And you." The simple declaration hangs between us, bold and fragile all at once."If you wanted that. If you want me."
The question doesn't have a simple answer.Want her? Of course, I want her.I never stopped. But wanting and having are different beasts entirely.
"Atlanta is four hours away," I point out."Even if you rebuild here, your lab, your life is there."
"Remote work exists. Grant-funded field research.Academic sabbaticals." She counts off on her fingers."I'm not saying it would be easy, but--" She stops, frustration crossing her features."Never mind. It was a stupid idea."
"No." The word escapes before I can stop it."It's not stupid. It's just..."
"Complicated," she finishes for me, a sad smile playing at her lips."I know. Everything worth having usually is."
The echo of Mrs. Havers' similar sentiment isn't lost on me.Something shifts in my chest--not resolution, exactly, but possibility.A door cracking open where I'd thought it permanently sealed.
"I don't want to be something you resent," I admit finally."When the novelty wears off and you're stuck commuting or compromising your research."
"And I don't want to be something you're afraid to want because you're convinced I'll leave again." She reaches across the table, not quite touching me but close."We're both scared, Ross. But at least I'm willing to admit it."
The challenge in her eyes isfamiliar.It's the same look she'd give me when daring me to climb higher, swim farther, dreambigger.Always pushing me beyond what I thoughtpossible.
Before I can respond, Bear suddenly lifts his head, earsperked.A low growl builds in his chest as he rises, moving toward the frontdoor.
"Someone's coming," I say, instantlyalert.No one visits after dark except inemergencies.
Headlights sweep across the windows as a vehicle navigates the rutteddriveway.Bear's growldeepens.
"Stay here," I tell Deena, moving to thedoor.The familiar rumble of a motorcycle engine cuts through the night--not just any bike, but one I'd recognizeanywhere.
Tank's Harley.
And if he's here, at my cabin, after dark, something is verywrong.