Chapter 4
The Protector’s Perspective
Austin
The first sound I hear in Everwood is a goat.
Not a city siren, not my alarm, not the neighbor’s dog. A goat. His bleat carries across the ranch like reveille, followed by the lighter thud of paws on wood. Inspector has taken the windowsill above my bed, his tail flicking against the glass as if marking time.
I lie still for another moment, assessing. No traffic hum. No buzzing refrigerator from the apartment next door. Just a creak in the rafters, the distant knock of a breeze on shutters, and the tick of the wall clock I reset last night.
This house is alive. Alive with a lived-in comfort, but less impersonal than I expected.
I rise before dawn out of habit, stretching in the small downstairs bedroom I claimed. My duffel’s contents are squared on the dresser. The crates—already delivered—stand lined against the wall, still sealed. They look unremarkable in the half-light. Only I know what waits inside.
The quiet is familiar, but there’s something layered under it—feminine energy already creeping in. Milly’s fairy lights twinkled upstairs long past midnight. I heard the muffled footsteps, her low laugh at some private joke, the faint shuffle of a hedgehog wheel.
Not silence, then. A different rhythm.
By the time the sun edges over the ridgeline, Milly is outside, scattering grain from a coffee tin. The chickens hustle after her in a flurry of feathers, some so tame they squat when she bends to touch them. Inspector follows her from the porch rail, tail twitching.
I told myself it was practical to watch her routines. My heart disagreed wholeheartedly, but agreed that it felt suspiciously like, dare I say, fond?
She doesn’t look like a stranger here. She looks like she’d been here all along.
A knock interrupts my thoughts. Three precise raps at the front door.
Browne.
He’s in the same gray suit as yesterday, though dust from the drive clings to his shoes. “Just checking in before I head back to Missoula,” he says. “May I borrow a moment of your time?”
I step into the study with him. The house still smells faintly of peppermint tea and vanilla. On the desk lie the papers he handed me in Denver—contracts, ledgers, will extracts. I’d scanned the financials last night, leaving the rest sealed.
“Before I go,” Browne says, placing a hand on the stack, “there’s one item you may want to read sooner rather than later.”
I break the wax seal. Inside: Penny’s unmistakable scrawl.
Austin, this job is more heart than muscle.
Milly’s lost almost everyone—her mother, even me, in a way. She won’t admit how much it still haunts her. Watch for what’s not said.
You’ll need to mind finances, but mostly, mind her hope. Don’t fix everything unless she asks. Let her prove she belongs—for both of you.
P.S.: Keep the sheet music safe.
The paper creases under my thumb as I fold it. Orders, but more than that. A hand reaching past the grave.
“She doesn’t know,” I say quietly.
Browne shakes his head. “Nor should she. Penny wanted her to grow her own roots, not feel shadowed.”
He leaves soon after, footsteps fading down the porch. Through the window, I catch a last glimpse of his truck pulling onto the road, dust trailing behind.
Out in the yard, Milly kneels among the chickens, laughing when one flaps onto her boot.
Penny’s words press heavier.
Watch for what’s not said? So cryptic and yet not helpful.
The ranch reveals itself in circuits.
I start with the house—locks, windows, doors. Penny favored charm over efficiency, but charm won’t stop someone determined. I swap out the weak deadbolt on the back porch, oil the hinges on the pantry door, and mark a note about the sash window that doesn’t seal tight.
Next, the barn. The latch is loose. I fix it with a screwdriver from my back pocket, filing away the need for sturdier hardware.
Sherlock appears as if summoned by the sound of my boots. He plants himself squarely in my path, chewing hay with all the authority of a king holding court. His eyes narrow. He bleats.
“I’m not your subject,” I tell him.
He doesn’t move. Just keeps watching, chewing his breakfast.
The absurdity draws something close to a smile. For all his arrogance, he’s a decent patrol partner.
I finish the barn circuit and head for the fence line. The earth is damp from last night’s drizzle, soft enough to show impressions. Near the road, I find tire tracks—rougher tread than Browne’s city tread on his truck. Wrong direction for the feed delivery listed in Penny’s accounts.
I crouch, trace the edges with my hand, commit the pattern to memory.
Then I take out my phone and snap two photos—one close enough to catch the tread pattern, another wide shot showing its place near the fence line.
Documentation. If it’s nothing, it’s filed away. If it’s something, I’ll have proof.
By the time I return, the sun is high enough to throw long bars of light across the yard.
Milly is crouched among the chickens, notebook in one hand, scattering grain with the other.
The birds crowd her feet, clucking and fluttering, and she laughs, quick and bright, at something only she would know.
The sound echoes in my chest. I wasn’t supposed to catalog things like that.
I wasn’t supposed to want. I was on a mission.
But even as I watched, her guarded veneer had lifted in a matter of hours, though a stillness still peeked through.
She strokes one hen’s back, hair slipping loose from her knot. She tucks it behind her ear absently. My gaze lingers before I can remind myself this is duty.
Back at the porch, I mentally log the creaks in the boards, adjust the placement of the spare key Browne left under a flowerpot, and change the default code on the back door. Small tasks, invisible but necessary.
As I head inside, Penny’s instructions echo in my mind: Keep the sheet music safe. I go to the music room, a thrumming in my chest as I turn the knob and walk inside. The room has been closed for a while; the smell of old paper and well-loved music fills the air.
The piano lid creaks as I open it, the keys vibrating slightly.
A folder rests there, edges frayed from years of use.
Inside: sheet music annotated in Penny’s dramatic scrawl.
Tucked into the folder is a photograph, Milly, no more than six, perched on the bench beside Penny.
Both grinning, hands on the keys. Beneath the photo lies a separate sheet of lyrics, written like a confession:
Not just a niece, but a piece of my soul.
Lost to silence, lost to pride.
If I could trade years for one more song, I would.
My grip tightens. Regret laces every word. It’s not a professional composition, just raw emotion.
I glance through the window. Milly’s still outside, sunlight catching the copper in her hair as she leans on the porch rail, smiling again when Sherlock bleats by the barn.
She doesn’t know this is here. Doesn’t know her aunt left behind a melody meant for her, unfinished.
The photo slips back into the folder, but the words burn in my head.
Penny’s charge wasn’t just to guard the estate. It was to guard what’s left of Milly’s hope. And maybe help her find the rest of the song.
Dinner is the same as last night: leftover pizza reheated on mismatched plates in the kitchen.
Milly jokes about adding oregano and parmesan to dress it up a little.
I eat in silence, but the corner of her mouth lifts when I take a second slice.
We clean up, she heads upstairs with Pumpernickel, and I settle into the downstairs room with my ledger.
By the time Milly goes to bed, I’ve already balanced the books and made a new file labeled Observations.
The next morning, the smell of scorched coffee hits me before I even cross the threshold.
In the kitchen, Milly is elbow-deep in a battle with the coffeemaker. Water dribbles across the counter. The machine groans like it’s dying. She mutters under her breath, hair slipping out of its knot as she wrestles with the filter basket.
“I read somewhere ranch coffee is supposed to be strong enough to stand on its own,” she says, not looking up. “This one prefers to drown.”
I step beside her, nudge the filter into place, and flick the switch. The coffeemaker starts to drip.
She stares at the machine, then at me. “Show-off.”
I don’t answer, but the corner of her mouth curls, and the kitchen feels warmer for it.
We sit across from each other at the old wooden table, waiting for the coffee to brew.
Our mugs wait beside us like empty promises.
Hers says “Careful, I’m a Vet” in bold paint; mine is plain white porcelain, a faint chip along the rim.
The machine gurgles in the background, steam rising.
When it’s finally ready, she pours with theatrical reverence, sliding my mug across to me as though this is a sacred ritual.
She cradles hers with both hands after her first sip, sighing like the world has finally tilted back into place. “What’s it like,” she asks, “handling a place this size? All those numbers. Don’t they blur together after a while?”
Numbers don’t blur. They slide into place, neat and tidy. “Not if you know what to look for,” I say.
She squints at me over the rim of her mug. “That’s cryptic.”
I don’t elaborate. She rolls her eyes, but her smile lingers.
Silence stretches, broken only by the steady drip of the coffeemaker finishing its work. She sets her mug down, her fingers trailing the rim as if stalling for time.
“I hardly remember Aunt Penny,” she says finally.
“Mom and she… had a falling out before I could remember. After that, it was birthday cards in purple ink once a year. Glitter everywhere. Like she was trying to make up for—” She stops.
Shrugs. Forces a brightness back into her voice.
“I guess she didn’t want me either, for a long while. ”
She said the words lightly, but there was more between the lines. She tries to hide it well, but not fast enough.