Wild for You (Falling, For You #2)

Chapter 1 Emma

Ihad a system for surviving days like this. Smile. Breathe. Don't look at the mountains.

The scent of construction paper and Elmer's glue usually smelled like possibility. Today, it smelled like a minefield.

"Ms. Reed! You remembered the sparkly glue!" Madison Peters skipped past me, her blonde pigtails bouncing.

"I told you I would, Maddie." I caught her mother’s eye, Linda, as she followed with a tray of Rice Krispies treats. "Sparkly glue is essential for Mother's Day. It's practically a law."

Linda laughed, shifting the tray to one hip. "You're a saint, Emma. I barely remembered to brush my hair this morning."

"Your hair looks great. And those treats look dangerous." I gave her arm a warm squeeze. "Thank you for bringing them."

"It's the least I could do." Her gaze swept across my classroom, tables were pushed together under cheap plastic tablecloths, bowls of pre-cut paper hearts and pipe cleaners at intervals, the hand-colored banner reading ‘We Love Moms!’ stretched above the whiteboard. "You've done all the hard work."

The room filled quickly. Pine Ridge Elementary was a charming single-story building with wide windows that looked out onto the playground and, beyond that, the dense evergreen slopes that gave the town its name. The mountains were always there. I'd learned not to look at them directly.

"Oliver, the safety scissors are for paper, not your hair," I said, gently prying bright green plastic from curious fingers.

His mother, Jenna, shot me a look of exhausted gratitude. "I swear, this child has a death wish."

"He's creative. We're channeling it." I handed Oliver a stack of construction paper. "Show me what you've got, buddy. I want to see something spectacular."

"Ms. Reed, look!" Isabella tugged my sleeve, pointing proudly at her pink headband. "My mom and I match!"

"You're twins! I love it." I bent down to her level. "Did you plan that, or is it twin telepathy?"

"Telepathy," Isabella said seriously. "Mom says we have it."

Her mother rolled her eyes behind her, mouthing, “she insisted,” and I bit back a laugh.

This was the part I was good at. The warmth, the patience, the small negotiations of childhood. Tommy needed help tying his apron. Chloe wanted to know if she could use all the purple sequins.

"All of them?" I raised an eyebrow.

"It's for my mom," Chloe said, as if this explained everything.

"Yes, Chloe. But remember what we learned about sharing.” I said, giving the child a knowing look. “Save some for Sofia, okay? Her mom likes purple too."

"Fine," Chloe sighed, with the wounded dignity of a tiny monarch forced to share her treasury.

I moved through the cheerful chaos, a conductor keeping everything humming along.

The children's uncomplicated affection was a lifeline.

Their hugs, their endless questions, and their absolute certainty that I could fix anything.

In these small moments, the hollow space inside me didn't feel quite so vast.

My gaze drifted to the one quiet desk by the window.

Sarah Brennan's desk. It was neat, her pencil box perfectly aligned with the edge.

She was one of my sweetest students, had thoughtful brown eyes, and a quiet demeanor that sometimes tipped into sadness.

Her ‘All About Me’ poster at the beginning of the year had featured a drawing of herself, a tall stick-figure man, and a buzzing bee. Under ‘Family,’ she'd written:

Uncle C. and my bees

No mother. I'd noted it, filed it away with the gentle caution I reserved for children carrying invisible weight.

"Emma?" Jenna appeared at my elbow. "Do you have extra googly eyes? Oliver has already lost three."

"Bottom drawer of my desk. Help yourself."

She squeezed my arm. "You're a lifesaver. Seriously."

I watched her cross to my desk, her hand brushing past the framed photo there; it was the only personal item I allowed myself in this room. Even a small glance made me reminisce about a sweet past that turned sour.

It was of Lily and me. Arms thrown around each other on a crowded city street, laughing at something I couldn't remember anymore. Her dark hair was a wild cloud around her face. Her smile could have powered a city block. We looked invincible.

We weren't.

"Ms. Reed?" A small voice. "Are you okay?"

I blinked. Sofia was staring up at me, a purple sequin pinched between her fingers.

"I'm perfect, sweetheart." I smoothed my expression into something cheerful. "Just thinking about how beautiful everyone's cards are going to be."

Fourteen months. I still counted.

Fourteen months since I'd packed a single suitcase and fled the city. Fourteen months since the phone call that cleaved my life into before and after. The ranger's voice had been gentle, professional. An accident on the trail. I'm so sorry.

Lily. My baby sister. The fearless, reckless girl I'd practically raised after Mom died. She'd gone hiking alone, and I tried warning her so many times. The very thing she loved ended her life. We never saw her smile again after her body vanished into the mountainside.

"Ms. Reed, can you open this?" Tommy held up a glue stick, his small face scrunched with effort.

"Of course, honey." I twisted off the cap and handed it back. "There you go. Show that card who's boss."

I kept moving. Smile. Breathe. Don't think about it.

But the memories pressed in anyway. Saturday mornings at the Spencer Literacy Foundation, kneeling on bright carpet squares while a circle of children hung on my every word.

I loved that place. It was a haven built by Elena Spencer, a teacher with a gift for making every child feel seen.

Death was cruel and took her too soon, but I was happy that her husband chose to keep the foundation running, and I was very proud of how Anna and Margaret had turned it into something beautiful.

I had volunteered as a storyteller there. I'd brought dragons and pirates and talking animals to life for kids who needed magic. I'd helped organize puppet shows and author visits. The smell of old books and little-kid shampoo. The weight of a child climbing into my lap, trusting me completely.

Anna's last email sat unopened in my inbox. Three weeks now. I couldn't bear to see what they'd built without me—couldn't stand the reminder of the person I used to be.

"Okay, everyone!" I clapped my hands, pulling myself back to the present. "Let's get started! Find your seats with your mothers, and we'll begin our masterpieces!"

Chairs scraped. Voices rose and fell. I circulated, admiring works-in-progress, dispensing compliments and extra glitter.

But my eyes kept returning to Sarah's empty desk.

The clock read 10:15. The event started at 10:00. Maybe she wasn’t coming. Maybe I'd need to—

"Ms. Reed! Ms. Reed!"

A small, warm weight slammed into my legs. Two arms wrapped around my thighs in a fierce hug, and I looked down into Sarah Brennan's upturned face, bright with an excitement I'd never seen from her before.

"Well, hello there." I placed a hand on her soft hair, relief and affection flooding through me. "You made it. I saved the good glitter for you."

"I brought someone!" She was practically vibrating. "Come see, come see!"

She grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the door with surprising strength. I followed, expecting… I don't know what I was expecting. A grandmother, maybe. An aunt.

I was not expecting him.

Beside Sarah stood an overwhelmingly tall, broad-shouldered man who looked like he'd rather fight a bear than face a room full of loud, cheery kids.

My brain, usually so reliable, went completely offline.

He seemed carved from the mountain itself—and I mean that literally.

Rough-hewn, weathered, immovable. He towered over the cheerful chaos of my classroom in faded jeans and a red-and-black flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms that suggested he spent his days wrestling timber into submission.

Dark hair, cut short. A jaw that could have been chiseled from granite. And his eyes, a piercing, glacial blue that scanned the room with the wary alertness of someone expecting an ambush, or fearing any random approach.

He was so utterly out of place that the effect was almost comical.

The alphabet border behind him looked comically small.

The tiny chairs seemed like dollhouse furniture.

He stood with his massive hand on Sarah's small shoulder, protective and slightly desperate, a grizzly bear who'd accidentally wandered into a kindergarten tea party.

"This is my Uncle Cole!" Sarah announced, her chest puffing with pride. "He's the best!"

Uncle Cole looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

"It's—" I started, and my voice sounded strange. I cleared my throat. "It's wonderful to meet you. I'm Emma Reed, Sarah’s teacher."

I extended my hand. He looked at it for a moment, as if he was a deer stuck in headlights, then engulfed it in his.

His palm was rough with calluses, warm and solid. Mine was covered in glitter. We were both, I suspected, out of our depth.

"Ma'am," he said. His voice was low, a quiet rumble that I felt somewhere inside my body.

One word. That was all I got. Ma'am.

"Sarah talks about you all the time," I managed. "The bees, especially. She's very proud of your honey."

Something flickered in those blue eyes. Could’ve been surprise, maybe, or a hint of warmth, but it vanished before I could name it. "She's a good helper."

"The best helper," Sarah corrected, still beaming.

"The best," he agreed, and his voice softened almost imperceptibly.

I realized I was still holding his hand. I dropped it, heat creeping up my neck.

Professional, Emma. You're a professional.

"Well." I clasped my hands together, teacher-mode snapping back into place. "Your seat is right by the window, Sarah. All set up and ready for you two."

"Come on, Uncle C!" Sarah grabbed his hand; her small fingers were barely wrapping around two of his, and she pulled him toward her desk.

He followed with the stiff caution of a man navigating a minefield. Each step was careful, as if he might accidentally crush something underfoot. When they reached the desk, he pulled out Sarah's tiny chair for her with surprising gentleness, then stood behind it, adrift.

He tried his best not to stand out, even going as far as casually hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. It would’ve helped if not for the fact that his broad shoulders blocked the entire window, casting the desk in shadow.

"Mr. Brennan?" I approached, keeping my voice light. "There's a chair for grown-ups against the wall if you'd like to sit."

He glanced at the plastic chair I'd indicated. It was adult-sized, technically, but it still looked comically small next to him. "I'm fine standing."

"You sure? It's going to be a while. Lots of gluing. Some glitter. Possibly tears, but usually the happy kind."

The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "I'll manage."

"Suit yourself. But the offer stands." I turned to Sarah, settling into the familiar rhythm. "Okay, Sarah. What's your vision? Hearts? Flowers? A masterpiece that will make your uncle cry?"

"Uncle C. doesn't cry," Sarah said like she was stating a known fact.

"Everyone cries at Mother's Day crafts. It's science."

Behind me, I heard a low sound that might have been a laugh, quickly suppressed.

I moved away to help another student, but my awareness stayed fixed on that corner of the room.

I watched Cole attempt to fold his large frame into the task at hand, picking up safety scissors that looked absurd in his grip.

He tried to cut a paper flower. The scissors slipped.

He tried again, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Not like that, Uncle C," Sarah said patiently. "You have to hold them right."

"I am holding them right."

"No, look—" She repositioned his fingers, her small hands guiding his. "Like this."

He tried again. The paper tore, and his shoulders tensed up.

"Sorry," he muttered, so quietly I almost missed it.

I thought of Sarah's poster. Uncle C. and my bees. No mother listed. No father. Just an uncle who was trying so hard to cut a paper flower with hands that were built for harder, rougher work.

Where is her mother? The question circled around my head. What happened to Sarah's mother?

"Uncle C." Sarah's voice was patient. "It's okay. I'll do the cutting. You do the gluing."

"I can handle scissors, Sarah."

"The glue is important too."

He sighed, as if he was accepting defeat, and took the glue stick she handed him.

I watched them for another moment. The mountain man and the small, serious girl.

He was trying. That much was painfully clear. Trying and failing and trying again, the way people do when love is bigger than their skill set.

Something in my chest ached.

I turned away, back to the swirl of mothers and children and glitter, but the ache stayed with me, stubborn and strange. It felt familiar. Like looking into a mirror and seeing a reflection I hadn't expected.

We all had our own versions of paper flowers, I supposed. Tasks we weren't built for. Roles we stumbled through because someone needed us to try.

The sunlight caught the glitter on my hands, scattering tiny rainbows across my skin. Behind me, I heard Sarah laugh at something her uncle said. It was a bright, surprised sound that made several mothers turn and smile.

And Cole Brennan, mountain man and reluctant crafter, sat in a chair that was three sizes too small for him, glue stick clutched in his massive fist, looking at his niece like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Who are you? I thought. And what's your story?

These questions revolved around, making me ever more curious about this man so out of his own depth.

I had a feeling I was going to find out.