8. Hail #2
“Absolutely. Hiding is about fear. Creating is about hope.” She gestured around the barn, taking in the shelves of finished pottery, the tourists who’d returned and gotten back to work, the general atmosphere of joy.
“Look at what you’ve built here. You’re sharing something amazing and unique with the world. ”
Before I could respond to her wisdom, a tourist called for help with a collapsing bowl, and the moment was lost. But her words stayed with me as we worked.
Creating was about hope.
Maybe she was right. All these years I’d thought I was hiding from the world, but instead, I may have been building something real.
Creating a space where beauty could exist, where people could come together and make something with their hands.
A place where someone like Allie could walk in and immediately feel safe.
I watched her show a male how to smooth out cracks in his clay. She laughed at something he said, and the sound made my lungs ache.
Even if I didn’t know she was my fated mate, watching her work with the tourists, seeing how naturally she fit into my world, would have been enough to convince me she belonged here.
The way she remembered everyone’s names after one introduction, how she praised effort over results, the patience she showed when someone made the same mistake multiple times.
She belonged here. With me. In this barn and in this life I was building.
The demonstration wound down and the tourists carefully carried their creations to the drying shelves, chattering about when they could pick them up and whether they’d survive the firing process.
“When will our art be ready?” asked a young mother whose toddler had helped create what might generously be called a bowl.
“Late tomorrow,” I said. “We’ll kiln dry your cre-cre-creations all say.”
“So five-ish?” she asked.
“Yes, before dinner.”
“Perfect.” She took her child’s hand. “We’ll be here. Thank you very much. I think it’s time to take this little one back to the hotel for a bath.”
“Yay, bath,” the youngling chirped.
“Will there be another class tomorrow?” asked the elderly woman who’d struggled with her clay. “I want to make a mug.”
“We’ll be here,” Allie said before I could answer, and I felt another surge of satisfaction at her casual use of “we”.
When the last tourist left, we began the familiar routine of cleaning up. Wiping down workstations, organizing tools, making sure everything was ready for tomorrow. Working beside her felt natural, like we’d been doing this for years instead of only a short time.
“This is nice.” Allie rinsed clay off her hands at the sink. “The routine. Having something to do that matters.” She dried her hands on a towel and turned to face me. “Having people to work with who see value in what I do.”
There was something wistful in her voice that made me look at her more closely. “You haven’t had that for a while?”
“Not for a long time.” Her expression remained distant, but I didn’t sense she was shutting me out, more like taking time to process what she’d like to say.
“I’ve had jobs before, obviously. But they were ways to survive.
Clock in, do the work, clock out, get paid.
This feels different. Like I’m building something instead of only getting by. ”
The words sent a jolt of understanding through me. That’s exactly what this was. Building something. Together.
“Hail?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for giving me this job, for being patient with my weirdness. For making me feel welcome. I appreciate that you’re not pushing for answers I’m not ready to give.”
“You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“I do, though. You didn’t have to hire me. You didn’t have to be understanding about the rodeo lies. You could’ve told Dungar you didn’t know me well enough to vouch for me.”
“But I do-do-do know you well enough.”
“How can you say that? We’ve only known each other three days.”
I set down the clay tool I was cleaning and gave her my full attention. This wasn’t about the mate bond. This was about what I’d observed, what I’d learned by watching her.
“I know you’re kind to people who are strug-strug-struggling.
You notice when someone needs help, and you don’t…
wait to be asked. You see beauty in imperfect things.
” I paused, searching for the right words.
“I know you’re running from something that scares you, but you’re brave. You can…handle anything.”
She stared at me with an expression I couldn’t read. Surprise, maybe. Or fear. Or something that might be hope.
“You see all that?” she whispered.
“I do.”
“What if you’re wrong, and I’m not as decent a person as you think I am?”
The vulnerability in her voice made my heart spasm. “I’ll deal-deal with that if it happens. I don’t think I’m wrong.”
She was quiet for a long time, and I wondered if I’d said too much. But then she smiled, and it was different from her others. Less guarded. More like the Allie I was coming to… Not love but like a lot.
“You’re either very wise or very naive,” she said.
“Probably naive. But I’m alright with th-that.”
We finished cleaning. The barn felt peaceful in the late afternoon light.
Outside, the sky had been getting darker, heavy clouds building on the horizon.
The air held the charged feeling that came before a storm.
In the orc kingdom, we had ways to predict disasters.
Subtle changes in air pressure would make the deep caverns groan, and certain fungi would close hours before cave-ins.
This felt similar. This wasn’t an ordinary storm, but something that carried change with it. The hairs on my arms stood on end.
“Looks like we might get some rain,” I said, glancing out the barn doors.
Allie followed my gaze and frowned. “Looks ominous. Should we check the kiln before it arrives?”
“Good idea.”
We hurried to the back shed, finding the kiln finished with the cool-down process, and loaded the creations on trays, bringing them back into the main part of the barn.
People arrived not long after, exclaiming about what they’d made, a few peering out the barn doors, watching the storm come closer.
When they’d left, we finished cleaning up, hurrying to get it done before the weather let loose outside.
A low rumble of thunder rolled across the valley, still distant but definitely heading our way. The sound made Tressa lift her head from her bed in the corner, her ears pricking forward.
“We should close up.” I rushed toward the barn doors. “Prairie storms can be intense, and I don’t want anything getting wet.”
That’s when I noticed that the door to one of the smaller sheds near the sorhox pasture had been left open.
“I’ve got to go close that,” I yelled over the growing storm, pointing.
She rushed over to me. “I’ll come with you.”
With Tressa galloping at our side, we raced across the open area, reaching the shed.
As I reached for the door, thunder boomed overhead, followed by a bolt of lightning hitting the ground nearby.