Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Henrietta (Blythe)
Things I learned yesterday: there’s a postcard-perfect hotel in Birchwood Springs and a ridiculously charming bed-and-breakfast, both oozing with that curated small-town warmth.
These are the sort of places I’d love to visit if I were here on vacation.
I’d sip overpriced tea and pretend I was the kind of person who knew what “notes of bergamot” actually meant.
But I’m not on vacation, and this isn’t a social visit.
When I said I needed something cheap, I didn’t mean boutique charm with handmade quilts and locally sourced honey for your afternoon tea.
I meant a room with a clean mattress and no bed bugs.
Also, a lock that actually worked.
Maybe running to the northeast wasn’t my most brilliant idea.
I’m over four hours away from my parents, which isn’t nearly far enough.
Just like Winston, they’re probably looking for me—well, for the version of me they expect to find.
Unsurprisingly, I didn’t sleep much.
Every time I closed my eyes, my brain turned into an over-caffeinated accountant, crunching numbers and recalculating how long I could stretch what little money I have left.
The answer is definitely not seven months.
If I have to stay in this place, the money will be gone in a couple of weeks.
How am I supposed to survive until the baby is here—and after?
I should start by going to the doctor.
The over-the-counter test was positive, the morning sickness is obvious and .
. . well, I need a professional to confirm that this is really happening.
Wouldn’t it be better if it’s some kind of bug that I caught and I only need some antibiotics?
Stop, Henrietta, you’re delusional if you believe you’re not pregnant.
I mean, Winston was trying hard to get me to do at least one thing right.
Yep, that’s how he called it every time he .
. . I let out a long breath because I shouldn’t be remembering what he did to me.
It’s over. He’s gone.
I have to focus on the now and my future.
Delilah gave me the number for the free clinic.
They have free services and medications.
Once I feel good enough, I can start working with her.
Of course, I didn’t tell her that according to my frantic late-night internet search, morning sickness could last another four weeks—at least. How would she take the news that I’m not only homeless but a pregnant runaway?
The town will be kicking me out before I’m halfway through my first shift at the coffee shop.
And after yesterday’s little public humiliation at the coffee shop, I can probably cross Atlas Whatever-His-Last-Name-Is off the list of potential employers.
Not that I wanted the job, but still.
He didn’t trust me. I didn’t trust him.
We have a mutual understanding, I suppose.
By six a.m., I’m knocking on the back door of The Honey Drop.
Delilah has been here since four in the morning, which makes me question everything I know about human endurance.
She opens the door, wiping her hands on her apron, her hair already wearing at least half a cup of flour.
“This is a little too early, don’t you think?”
“Baker hours,” she says with a knowing grin.
“You get used to it.”
I doubt it.
“How are you feeling?”
I flash a smile so bright it could power the town square’s fairy lights.
“Fantastic. I’m sure it was something related to motion sickness—delayed motion sickness?”
Showing that I’m totally fine when I’m not is an art, really—showing people exactly what they want to see.
I learned at a young age.
Mom might’ve not taught me how to look after myself, but she taught me things that have been useful during my adulthood.
And, of course, my dear husband made sure I mastered it.
By nine, the café is quieter than I expected.
The early crowd has disappeared, leaving behind a handful of regulars who sip their coffee and thumb through newspapers like Birchwood Springs is the only world that matters.
I envy them.
For me, the outside world feels uncomfortably close.
The thought of being found lurks at the edges of my mind, keeping me alert.
Even here, in this cozy, sunlit café that smells of cinnamon and fresh bread, I can’t shake the feeling that someone might walk through that door and drag me back to the life I left behind.
“Relax, Blythe,” Delilah had said earlier, tossing me an apron just before she flipped the sign to Open.
“You don’t need to look over your shoulder.”
I scoffed, forcing a laugh.
“Of course not. Why would I be worried about someone finding me? No one’s looking for me.”
The lie came too easily, effortless as breathing.
And just as involuntary.
Maybe it’s too soon to start planning my next move—find an even smaller town, something impossible to pin on a map.
But the thought lingers, curling around the edges of my mind like smoke, impossible to ignore.
The bell above the door jingles, snapping me back into the present.
I glance up just as a woman with dark hair and a kind smile steps inside, followed closely by a man whose gaze sweeps the café like he’s taking inventory of every detail.
The woman moves with confidence, heading straight for the counter.
Her attention lands on me, her curiosity obvious.
“Morning, Del. I’ll take my usual, please.”
Delilah nudges me with a grin.
“Blythe, meet Galeana—my best friend. Her usual is a lavender latte and the pastry of the day.”
“Any pastry, really,” Galeana adds with a laugh, her voice warm, effortless.
“I’m Gale. Nice to meet you . . . what did you say her name was?”
“This is Blythe,” Delilah says, turning back to her.
“She’s working with us temporarily.” Then, her gaze shifts to the man beside Gale.
“And this is Malerick Timberbridge. The sheriff.”
My attention snaps to him, surprised.
Sheriff?
He doesn’t look like the ones I’ve encountered over the last couple of years.
They’ve always been older, pushing sixty, sporting Santa Claus beards and tired eyes that don’t miss much—mostly because there isn’t much to miss in small towns.
This guy? He’s something else entirely.
Mid-to-late thirties, tall, with an athletic build that makes his plain black T-shirt look almost criminally good.
Dark hair, thick and just tousled enough to seem effortless.
A close-trimmed beard frames his strong jawline, giving him a rugged edge.
And his eyes—piercing, almost unnervingly focused—seem to register everything at once.
Anyone can tell that this guy doesn’t just observe a room.
He assesses it.
He looks like he belongs on a movie poster—one where there’s a motorcycle, a revenge plot, and just enough brooding to make the audience swoon.
But he isn’t wearing a badge.
He reminds me of Atlas, but not in a way I can easily explain.
They could be related, but probably not.
“So, I heard you need a place to stay,” Gale says, her tone light but her eyes sharp.
Talk about small-town gossip.
This is the last thing I expected her to say.
“No. I’m at the hotel,” I reply, casual as anything.
That year I spent in high school thespian club is finally paying off.
My mother always said it was a waste of time, but she clearly underestimated my acting skills.
“Listen, I’m here to help you,” she says, lowering her voice just enough to force me to lean in to hear her.
She tells me a story—one that sounds too familiar for comfort.
How her mother ran from this very town years ago, living under a new identity until the day she died.
“I didn’t even know who she really was,” she admits, her voice laced with something I can’t quite name.
“But if it hadn’t been for the people who helped her, I don’t know what kind of life we would’ve had.”
I swallow hard, my pulse stuttering.
Do they know I’m running away?
But how do they know?
Did someone tip them off?
My gaze flicks to Malerick, his expression unreadable.
Does law enforcement have my face plastered on a bulletin board somewhere?
Winston claiming I’m unwell and need to be escorted back home?
Lost Heiress or something equally intense.
Reward Offered.
People will do a lot for money.
I should leave. Now.
“Sorry about your mom,” I mumble.
“Thank you,” Gale says gently, pulling me back.
“My point is, I want to be there for women who have to run, like my mom did. If you need a safe place, we’ve got a guest room at our house. It’s not fancy, but it’s comfortable. You’d be welcome to stay while you figure things out. My husband and his brothers can even look into getting you a job with their timber company. Might pay better than what Delilah can offer.”
The kindness in her voice is truly unexpected.
I blink at her, unsure what to say.
“That’s . . . really generous of you, but I don’t want to impose. If it’s easier, I can leave tomorrow.”
“Please,” Delilah says firmly.
“Stay as long as you need.”
“You wouldn’t be imposing,” Gale insists, steady but soft.
“We’ve got the space, and I know how hard it can be to start over.”
Malerick, who’s been silent until now, shifts in his seat.
His dark eyes meet mine, unreadable but locked in.
“Are you in trouble?”
The question strikes like a blade, slicing through my breath and leaving my lungs empty.
My grip hardens on the edge of the counter.
“No,” I say, the lie slipping out so fast I barely register it.
“I just don’t like to stay in one place.”
He nods as if he understands.
But I don’t think he does, or maybe he doesn’t believe me.
“We all have our reasons for starting over,” Gale says, her voice gentle but never pitying.
“If you ever want to talk about yours, I’m here. No judgment.”
Something in my throat tightens.
I force a nod. “Thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“You do that. Our house is open to you,” she says before they leave.
Once they’re gone, Delilah leans against the espresso machine, arms crossed, watching me.
“They seem nice,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
“They are,” she replies easily.
“Gale’s one of those people who’d give you the shirt off her back if she thought you needed it.”
“And Malerick?”
Delilah chuckles.
“Mal? He’s got a soft spot under all that seriousness. Don’t let him intimidate you.”
I hesitate.
“I appreciate the offer, but?—”
“You need help and staying at the hotel is going to cost you more than what we will pay you,” she cuts me off.
“I’d offer you my place, but trust me, my mother is not the best roommate in the world. And yes, you guessed it, I live with my mother. Don’t judge.”
“I wouldn’t judge,” I say with a shrug.
“Oh, good,” Delilah says with mock relief.
“But just so you know, I didn’t move in with her—she moved in with me. I left town for college, worked in a bunch of places, and when I finally came back and bought my house . . . Guess who suddenly decided hers needed a complete renovation?”
“Your mom?”
“Bingo.” She groans.
“It’s been almost two years, and the place is still under construction. Meanwhile, my kitchen is bright yellow, and she’s swapped out the curtains about eight times because, apparently, they need to change with the season.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“It’s funny until it’s your life,” she mutters, but there’s a grin behind it.
“Anyway, keep Gale’s offer in mind. You can only make so much here or with Atlas—the guy’s just getting started. And the hotels? They’re so expensive because they cater to tourists who buy maple syrup by the gallon or show up for the festivals.”
I don’t reply.
Just focus on refilling the pastry display.
Because the truth is, I don’t know what to think of any of them—Delilah, Gale, even Atlas.
Accepting help feels dangerous.
Like stepping onto unstable ground.
What if they ask too many questions?
What if they figure out what I’m running from?
What if the money Winston offers is good enough to make them turn me in?