Chapter 8 #2
“Next stop, Carl’s Hardware,” Milly sang when we got to the truck.
Carl was behind the counter, ringing up Mr. Johnson, who was picking up barbed wire.
Mason leaned casually against the wall. He greeted Milly with a bear hug that made her squeak, then clapped my shoulder with ease.
One of the good ones. The kind you’d want beside you in a foxhole.
“Town’s been a bit jumpy,” Mason said when Milly wandered down an aisle for garden gloves. “Locks left open. Tools gone. You see anything off?” His look sharpened.
I hesitated just long enough to signal that I had. “A couple of things. Toolbox left open in the barn. Grain scattered, gates open, boot prints.” I glanced down the aisle Milly had disappeared into. “And this.” I pulled out my phone and scrolled to the photo of the note left under the wiper.
Mason’s jaw flexed. “Same up my way. Minus the letter. Feed bins emptied like someone scooped them with buckets. Tire tracks in the back field where no one should be driving. Folks are writing it off as kids, but I don’t buy it.” He nodded at my phone. “What are you going to do about that?”
“I filed it with the sheriff. Now I wait.”
He studied me. “You’ve got that look, always counting, always scanning. Thought I left that back overseas, but it feels different here. Closer. Someone’s testing fences before they make a real move.”
“Yep. And are we ready if they do?” I shook my head and glanced at Carl, who was pretending he wasn’t listening. “You trust your gut?” I asked.
“Always do. Kept me alive more than once.”
I nodded. “You should, too.”
That wasn’t advice. It was an offer. If I needed backup, Mason would show.
“Appreciate it,” I said, and meant it.
He gave one sharp nod. “Call if you need anything. Doesn’t matter when.”
“Same goes,” I told him as Milly reappeared holding gloves like a trophy. For us, it was enough said.
The stationery store was like Milly’s mothership: planners, Bibles, paper, pens, highlighters, printing, shipping.
A one-stop shop for everything Milly. She took a deep breath and did a little shimmy.
I made a mental note that she does that when she’s excited.
She made a beeline for the planners, flipped through them, chose one, then grabbed a few more items on her way out, smiling like she’d found treasure. Fifteen minutes later, she was beaming.
Our final stop was the Everwood Grocery, a squat brick building with a tinkling door chime. Milly worked fast, starting at one end, following the perimeter, then cutting through pantry staples. She paused at the tiny stationery section and made a strained, uncertain face at the sticky notes.
“Didn’t we just leave the stationery store?” I asked, already knowing she’d glare at me. She did.
“What if I need to organize?” she murmured, holding two up and comparing colors. “This teal feels hopeful, don’t you think?”
“They both look like paper,” I said.
Next, she grabbed a few frozen lasagnas and what she called “cardboard pizzas” because of the cardboard underneath. “Don’t judge.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I lifted my hands in mock surrender.
She shot me another mock glare, shook her head, and we headed for the register.
“Ooh, let’s hit Ethel’s next. I’m starving.”
When we left the grocery store, we stepped into the sunlight. She tilted her face toward the sky as if light itself were a blessing.
That’s when I saw it again: a dusty SUV idling across the street, engine low, windows tinted too dark for Everwood. It pulled away slowly when I glanced over. Milly didn’t notice. She was humming and loading groceries.
I tightened my grip on a bag and made another mental note.
By afternoon, we were finally back home.
Milly moved in an easy loop: unpacking groceries, jotting notes, humming as she played music.
Every time her phone buzzed, she lit up.
Quick exchanges with Cassie about tutoring disasters.
A text from Sue about Founders’ Day. Sarah inviting her to help with next week’s library event.
Meanwhile, my phone buzzed too, but the theme was different.
Mason: Feed bin emptied again.
Levi: Shed was open when I got home last night. Seeing this at your place?
Carl: Lumber out back has been rifled through. Missing a few boards. Keep eyes open.
Ace, an old buddy from West Point and one of the few I still trusted, texted: Don’t ignore the small stuff. It’s always the small stuff that trips you.
I slid the phone into my pocket and headed out.
The motion sensor at the back gate had tripped twice this week.
Today, the ground told the same story: prints angled along the shed wall, and one of the horse stalls was open.
I didn’t have to look far for the horse.
She was more interested in hay than running free.
I put her back in her stall and opened my notebook.
Under the GET list, I wrote: carabiners. Horses can’t open those.
I crouched, snapped two photos—one close and one wide—and logged the details. The tally in my notebook was no longer a neat column. It was starting to feel like a countdown.
When I stepped back inside, kitchen heat wrapped around me.
Milly stood at the counter, pulling a tray from the oven, her braid slipping loose.
She hummed as she took the steak and baked potatoes out of the oven.
“Yay, not burned.” She smiled and made plates for both of us.
I set the table and got us drinks while Milly added a small dessert plate with a triumphant smile. “Pie.”
Her voice lifted, light, almost musical. I paused in the doorway for a moment, caught between the weight of what I’d seen outside and the way she laughed at her own commentary inside.
The contrast landed hard. She was finding roots—anchoring herself here.
And I was in the shadows, hands full of evidence, wondering how long I could keep the unease from touching her world.
After dinner, gold light spilled over the porch, postcard-perfect.
The swing creaked under our combined weight as we rocked gently.
Milly sprawled sideways across it, back resting against my side, legs dangling over the armrest. Her planner balanced on her knees, sticky notes fluttering in the breeze.
I sat quietly, notebook shut for once, a muffin and tea on the little table.
“I made these for you,” she said, tearing her muffin in half. “The Thomas Muffin Curse has officially been lifted.”
I took my half. Chocolate cut clean through vanilla. I bit in. Light, bright, actually good.
“Yum,” I said, smiling. “Lemon and blueberry was good, but there’s nothing like a good old-fashioned chocolate chip muffin.”
She squealed and did a quick shimmy that jolted the swing. I huffed a laugh. She angled her face toward me, grinning like my laugh was its own victory.
Dangerous. Want and duty tangled in my chest, refusing to let go.
My phone buzzed. Mason’s name lit the screen. Tracks by the west field. Keep sharp.
I thumbed back a short reply: Noted. Then locked the phone and slipped it away. Milly didn’t ask. She was too busy drawing LIVE SIMPLY across her planner like it was a mission statement.
The swing creaked as she leaned into me, humming softly.
I looked down at her—barefoot, laughing at her own joke, planning a future in a place she already loved—and thought how easily she was rooting here.
And how much harder my job was getting, keeping the shadows from reaching her porch, and keeping a distance I knew I couldn’t keep.