Chapter 15
GIDEON
The morning settled into work the way mornings should—quiet purpose, clean lines, the satisfaction of wood yielding to measurement and blade.
I'd grabbed coffee from Maude in the kitchen, where she'd been pulling a batch of blueberry muffins from the oven, the smell alone enough to make a man believe in divine providence.
She'd promised to bring me two when they cooled, her eyes twinkling with the kind of knowing that came from watching people fall in love under her roof.
"You look happy," she'd said, handing me the mug.
"I am," I'd admitted, because lying to Maude felt impossible.
She'd patted my arm. "Good. That girl needs someone who shows up."
The words had landed heavier than she probably meant them to. Someone who shows up. I was good at showing up for missions, for orders, for the brief and brutal work of eliminating threats. Showing up for a person, day after day, with no end date and no extraction plan—that was different territory.
But I wanted to learn it.
I'd taken my coffee and the first muffin—still warm, bursting with berries—out to the back of the property where the trim along the lower porch railing had rotted through in spots.
The kind of damage that happened slow, season by season, until one day the whole thing gave up and took someone's ankle with it.
Thirty minutes in, I was on my knees with a tape measure and a pencil tucked behind my ear, marking cuts on a fresh piece of pine, when I heard the crunch of tires on gravel.
A cab. Yellow and salt-weathered, pulling up the drive like it had done this route a thousand times.
I stood, brushing sawdust off my jeans, and watched a man climb out of the back seat.
He moved careful, like his body hurt or the world had taught him to expect pain.
Mid-forties, maybe. Thin in a way that looked recent—cheekbones too sharp, clothes hanging loose on a frame that had probably carried more weight once.
His jeans were worn at the knees, his flannel shirt faded from too many washes.
But the backpack slung over one shoulder was new.
Cheap, but new. The kind you bought at a big-box store when you needed something functional and couldn't afford to care about quality.
His eyes swept the property—tired, wary, the look of someone who'd been moving too long and didn't trust the ground to stay solid under his feet.
I should have felt it then. The wrongness. The instinct that had kept me alive in a dozen countries where a misplaced glance could mean an ambush. But my senses had been dulled by this place, by Hazel's laugh and Maude's muffins and the quiet work of fixing instead of breaking.
I sensed nothing amiss. Just a weary traveler who needed a bed.
"Morning," I called, moving toward him with the easy confidence of someone who belonged here. Which I didn't, not really. But proximity to Hazel had given me borrowed authority.
He startled slightly, then nodded. "Morning." His voice was rough, underused. He clutched a crumpled piece of paper in one hand—an address, maybe, or directions.
"Checking in?" I asked.
He hesitated, eyes flicking to the house, then back to me. "Yeah. If you've got room."
"We do." I gestured toward the porch. "Come on."
He followed, but there was reluctance in it. Like walking toward shelter still felt dangerous somehow.
We climbed the steps together, and he stopped suddenly, staring at the white plate I'd left on the porch railing. The second muffin sat there, still waiting for me, golden and perfect in the morning light.
"That a blueberry muffin?" he asked.
The question was so strange, so specific, that I blinked. "Yeah. Why?"
His jaw worked. He looked at the muffin like it was a test he wasn't sure how to pass. "Just—been a while since I've seen one."
Something about the way he said it made my chest tighten. How long had this man been on the road? How many meals had he skipped?
"You're welcome to it," I said. "If you're checking in, I mean. Consider it part of the service."
He nodded, almost absently, and reached for the muffin with a kind of careful hunger that made me look away.
He grabbed it and immediately tucked it close to his chest, like he was afraid I might change my mind and take it back.
The gesture was so instinctive, so practiced, that it told a story I didn't need words for.
This man had known real hunger. Recently.
I led him inside, the screen door slapping softly behind us. The foyer was quiet, sunlight slanting through the old glass in clean bars across the worn floorboards. I poked my head into the kitchen, expecting to find Maude with her apron and her knowing smile.
Empty.
She'd probably stepped back to her apartment for something. She did that sometimes—quick trips that took five minutes or thirty depending on whether she got distracted by a phone call or a cup of tea.
I thought about waiting. Hazel would be back soon, or Maude would reappear. But the man was standing in the foyer looking lost and small, and making him wait felt cruel.
I gave him another once-over, habit more than suspicion. Checking for the telltale bulges that meant weapons, the posture that meant training, the eyes that meant threat.
Nothing.
Just a tired man with a new cheap backpack and a muffin he was protecting like it was currency.
"I can check you in," I said, moving behind the desk and opening the guest ledger. The pages were yellowed and sparse, Hazel's neat handwriting marking my entry from two days ago. It felt like longer. It felt like I'd been here years.
"Name?" I asked, pen poised.
"Sam." He shifted the backpack on his shoulder. "Sam Jarrow."
He pulled out a driver's license and slid it across the desk. Brand new. Connecticut. The photo looked like him, but younger somehow. Less haunted.
I copied the information into the ledger, noting the address in Hartford. "Long way from home," I said conversationally.
"Yeah." He didn't elaborate.
"What brought you down to South Carolina?"
His eyes flicked to mine, then away. "Needed a change. Connecticut winters—" He shook his head. "Hate the cold."
It wasn't much of an answer, but I didn't press. People came to places like this to escape things. Questions weren't always welcome.
I found the key to the smallest room—number six, tucked at the back of the second floor with a window that looked out over the marsh. It was clean and simple, nothing fancy, but the bed was good and the view was better.
"How long are you staying?" I asked.
He hesitated. "Not sure yet. A few days, maybe. Depends."
"On?"
"Things." He pulled a crumpled hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and set it on the desk. "This enough for now?"
"Sure." Hazel could deal with the details later.
I handed him the key. "Room six. Top of the stairs, last door on the left. Bathroom's across the hall—you'll be sharing with room five, but it's empty right now, so you'll have it to yourself."
He nodded, fingers closing around the key.
"Lunch is usually around noon," I added. "Dinner at six. Maude—she's the cook—makes enough to feed an army. You're welcome to join us."
"I'd rather sleep," he said quickly. Too quickly.
"Sure. No problem." I gestured toward the stairs. "Rest up."
He moved toward them, then stopped at the base, looking up like it was the longest climb he'd ever seen. His hand gripped the railing, knuckles white.
"The owner," he said without turning around. "She around?"
"She ran to the hardware store. Should be back soon."
"I'd like to talk to her. About—" He paused. "About how long I'm staying. Work out a rate, maybe."
"I'll let her know you're here. She'll probably catch you at dinner."
He grunted, then started up the stairs. Slow. Each step deliberate, like he was rationing energy. I watched him go, something nagging at the back of my mind.
There was something about him.
Or maybe I was just paranoid. Old habits surfacing. Seeing threats where there were only ghosts and exhaustion.
He disappeared down the hallway. A moment later, I heard the soft click of a door closing.
I stood there for another beat, staring at the stairs, then shook my head and went back outside.
The trim wasn't going to cut itself.
But as I picked up the saw and lined up the next piece, I made myself a promise: I'd keep an eye on Sam Jarrow. Just in case.
The morning stretched long and productive.
I fell into the rhythm of measuring, cutting, fitting.
The new trim slid into place clean, the gaps filling, the structure tightening.
There was something deeply satisfying about repair work—taking something broken and making it whole again.
No explosions. No blood. Just wood and screws and patience.
Maude brought me a third muffin around eleven, along with a glass of sweet tea that sweated condensation in the humid air.
"We’ve got another guest," I said.
Her eyebrows rose. "Do we?"
"Room six. Guy named Sam. Checked himself in about an hour ago."
"Well." She looked pleased. "That's good news. Hazel will be happy."
"He seems—" I searched for the right word. "Tired."
"Aren't we all?" She patted my shoulder and headed back inside, humming something that sounded like a hymn.
I finished the tea, the muffin, and another section of trim before I heard Hazel's rental car coming up the drive. The engine cut, the door slammed, and then she was rounding the corner with a bag from Burl's in one hand and excitement lighting up her face.
"Gideon!" She set the bag down and came straight to me, and I caught her around the waist without thinking, pulling her in for a kiss.
"Hi," she said against my mouth.
"Hi, yourself."
She pulled back, grinning. "Burl says hello. You have to meet him. Also, he gave me a ten-percent discount because apparently word's gotten around that I'm 'fixing up the old Bradford place' and people are rooting for me."
"People are smart."
She laughed, then noticed the new trim. "Oh, my God, you did all this already?"
"Most of it. Still got the back corner to finish."
"You're amazing." She kissed me again, quick and grateful, then picked up the bag. "I got three kinds of sandpaper, wood filler, and paint samples for the guest rooms. I'm thinking a soft gray for most of them, but maybe a pale yellow for the one that faces east—catch the morning light."
I loved watching her like this. Animated. Planning. The control that usually kept her so tight loosening into something that looked almost like joy.
"Oh!" She turned back to me, eyes bright. "Maude texted and said we have a new guest?"
"Yeah. Guy named Sam. Checked in this morning. Quiet. Tired. Paid a cash deposit. Figured you’d work out the rest."
"That's great." She was already moving toward the house. "Things are looking up. Two guests in my first week. Maybe the inn's not as doomed as I thought."
I followed her inside, watching as she set the bag on the kitchen counter and immediately started organizing her purchases by project priority. Lists within lists. It made me smile.
"I'll talk to him at dinner," she said. "Make sure he has everything he needs. Maybe he'll stay a while. Word of mouth, you know? If he likes it here, he might tell people."
"Maybe."
She turned, catching something in my voice. "What?"
"Nothing." I shook my head. "Just—he seemed a little off. Probably nothing."
"Off how?"
"Jumpy. Worn down. Could just be travel." I shrugged, trying to shake the unease that had no solid shape to it. "I'm probably being paranoid."
She came to me, rising on her toes to kiss my cheek. "You're being protective. It's sweet."
"It's annoying."
"It's both," she agreed, smiling. Then she grabbed a paint sample card and held it up to the light. "What do you think? Dove gray or silver sage?"
I looked at the nearly identical shades and made a show of studying them seriously. "Dove gray."
"Why?"
"Because you want me to say dove gray."
She laughed, swatting my arm. "You're learning."
I pulled her back against me, resting my chin on top of her head, and watched the light move across the kitchen walls. Outside, the marsh hummed. The ocean whispered. Everything felt right in a way I didn't trust but couldn't resist.
"I'm happy," I said quietly.
She went still in my arms, then tilted her head back to look at me. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." The word felt strange in my mouth. Foreign. True.
She smiled, slow and soft, and something in my chest cracked open wider.
I had no clue about the storm coming over the horizon.
No idea that the man upstairs with his new backpack and his cheap Connecticut license was the leading edge of something dark.
No warning that the calm I'd found here—the peace I'd started to believe in—was about to shatter.
I just held Hazel in the sunlit kitchen and let myself be happy.
For now, that was enough.