13. Gracie
Chapter 13
Gracie
M y parents called as I was leaving the bathroom the next morning. I was so tempted to ignore their call, but they weren’t above sending the police to check on my “welfare”.
The first time they’d done it, I’d chewed them out and told them never to do it again. They’d scolded me for not answering my phone, for not letting them know I was alright, and they made me promise to always answer.
That lasted all of about three months. After another whining, torturous call where they wouldn’t let up about the reunion show, I’d ignored their next call. They’d sent what looked like a private S.W.A.T. team, complete with weapons and grim-faced wannabe soldiers.
Since I wasn’t keen on them sending the military to make sure I was alive, I grabbed a clump of tissues from the box and slouched on the bed, answering their call.
As I tore the first tissue in hold, their voices chimed in tandem, a synchronized performance they’d perfected over years of reality TV.
“There’s our star.” Dad’s upbeat pitch was as forced as ever, filled with fake energy he couldn’t possibly be feeling at this time of day.
“Our sweetie,” Mom lilted.
“How’s our favorite girl today?” Dad asked.
I sighed and carefully set one half of the tissue on my lap, bracing myself for whatever they were about to unveil. They always had a reason and a plan before they called. “Good morning to you too.”
“We were really hoping you might’ve thought things over.” Mom tone came out carefully coated with honey but faintly edged with disappointment. “After all, we’re only trying to help you, darling.”
Help me. Right. The way they had “helped” me by turning my childhood into one long episode of emotional exploitation after another. But you couldn’t say that to Freda and Jimmy Weeks. Not without an argument that would last hours. I'd give them ten minutes and then I was ending the call whether they liked it or not.
Bits of shredded tissue floated down to land on the bed around me, and I grabbed the other half of the first.
“I don’t need help,” I said as evenly as I could, trying to focus on the faint scent of pine wafting in through the open window instead of the weight pressing against my chest. “I’ve told you. I’m working, and I’m happy with what I’m doing now.”
“But are you really happy, Gracie?” There was Dad, his voice the picture of fatherly concern. “Living paycheck to paycheck? We know you're proud, but this can’t be easy for you. We only want what’s best. We always have.”
“And we sacrificed a lot to give you that,” Mom added quickly. “So many sleepless nights, so much effort building a future for you.”
It always circled back to this. The Sacrifices. Capital S. As if their decision to put me on TV, to parade me around like a prized pony, and to lock away my financial independence had been a selfless act of love rather than a relentless pursuit of fame and money.
“Yeah, well, some of us didn’t really get a choice in those sacrifices, did we?”
Mom ignored my jab, rushing ahead as if I hadn’t spoken. “And the trust fund, Gracie. Let’s not forget how much we set aside for your future. We’ve always prioritized your wellbeing.”
And yet, here they were with me well into adulthood, still teasing me with a meager stipend they controlled like it was charity instead of the earnings I’d worked nearly my entire life for. My throat tightened around the ball of frustration lodged there.
“You stole all the interest.” Leaving only the principle behind. I’d read there were laws about that. They’d only invested the money because they were forced to. If they’d had a choice, they would’ve squandered it like they had all their own earnings.
Which was why they were so determined to drag me back to the show. They needed more.
“Our investments. Our money.” Dad’s low chuckle rang out. “You could call it room and board.”
“I was your child, not your employee.” The words tasted like chalk.
Dad jumped in, his tone razor-sharp. “How long do you really think this influencer thing is going to last? It’s not reliable, and you know that.”
“And the brands you work with,” Mom cut in. “Sweetie, some of them seem a little... I don’t know, silly for you.”
I nearly laughed at the irony. My brand, the one I’d spent years building from scratch, made me more myself than anything I’d done on their show. But of course, they couldn’t see that. They didn’t want to see it.
I lifted another tissue and started shredding it, adding bits to my growing pile. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“No one’s saying you aren’t capable,” Dad said. “You’re strong. We raised you that way. Resourceful. I’ll take credit for that one myself, Freda.” He laughed again, but it came out a touch shrill.
Mom grunted but said nothing.
“We worry about you,” Dad added. “About your future. What happens if things don’t work out? What will you do then?”
“I’ll figure it out. I always do.”
“But why should you have to?” Mom asked. “This reunion is a golden opportunity. You know it is. You could walk away set for life. Start any business you want, launch any dream. The world would be yours.”
“There it is,” I muttered under my breath, glaring at the phone lying on the bed beside me, now partly covered with tissue shreds.
“There what is?” The confusion in Dad's voice was infuriatingly unconvincing.
“Like I said the last time you called, it’s always about the money with you two. Always.”
“How dare you—” Venom crept into Mom's voice, showing me who she truly was inside.
“I've got to go.” I dug the phone out from under the tissue fragments. “Someone's knocking on my door.”
“But—”
I ended the call.
Sighing, I picked up all the tissue bits and stuffed them into the trash.
When I went downstairs, Tark was sitting at a table in the main part of the saloon with his aunt and an elderly lady I hadn't met before across from him.
“Gracie.” He stood so fast at seeing me that his chair shot backward. It would've toppled to the floor if the gray-haired woman hadn't latched onto it and straightened it.
“Excited, Tark?” Her gaze homed in on me as I reached the ground floor and started toward them. Rising, she met up with me, holding out her hand. “Welcome, little lady. I'm Grannie Lil. Technically I'm only Jessi's grandmother, but it has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? I always wanted a big family. You'll call me Grannie too, won't you?”
“Sure.”
She urged me to join them, nudging me down into the seat next to Tark. He'd dropped back into his own and was staring at me, not saying a word.
“Cat got your tongue, Tark?” Grannie Lil cackled, and Aunt Inla joined in, her chest bouncing with her laugh.
I would’ve rushed to his defense, but she looked at him as if she adored him, so I bit my tongue.
“Tark made coffee cake,” Aunt Inla said, waving to the thick slices mounded on a platter in the center of the table.
“It doesn’t have coffee in it,” Tark said with a frown, staring at the cream-colored cake topped with brown sugar and cinnamon. I was going to balloon with all this amazing food, and oh, how fun that would be. “I don’t know why it’s called coffee cake if it doesn’t have coffee. Grannie Lil told me how to make it.”
“It looks wonderful. I can’t wait to try it,” I said.
On the set, they’d watched everything I put into my mouth and chided me all the time for eating. I understood why. The camera always adds at least ten pounds, Mom used to say. And they wanted me to look good on film.
Good, meaning not fat.
I’d let myself go since then, per Mom, but I was me, and I liked my body in every shape and form.
I was so glad those days were finished. Pray I never had to return to them again.
Grannie Lil beamed as she looked from Tark to me before she nudged Inla with her elbow. “Let’s let these two have a nice breakfast alone, shall we?”
“Be nice, Tark,” Inla said sternly, standing. “Don’t fart and don’t monopolize the conversation.” She glanced down at Lil who’d also gotten up and was beaming at Tark.
“Wise advice, Inla. Wise advice.” Grannie Lil took Tark's aunt by the arm. “We’re outta here, Inla. We’ll let Tark practice being sweet and adorable. We’ve got more exciting things to do than watch them.”
He was adorable. It was exciting being with him. No denying that.
As they shuffled out through the saloon doors, Grannie Lil glanced back and whispered loud enough for me to hear, “And don’t forget to tell her about the sugar crumble trick, Tark. Every baker’s secret weapon.” With a final flourish, they were gone, leaving me alone with Tark.
For a moment, the saloon felt bigger and quieter than it had before. Tark cleared his throat and reached awkwardly for the plate, carefully maneuvering a slice of coffee cake onto a porcelain dish. His hands were surprisingly steady for someone who couldn’t quite meet my eye.
“Here,” he said, sliding the plate toward me. “I, uh... It probably isn’t as good as Grannie Lil’s, but it’s edible. I think. I hope.”
“What’s the sugar crumble trick?” I asked, looking from the plate to him.
“Butter. Lots of butter. I love butter.”
“I do too.”
With complete seriousness because I didn't want to embarrass him, I picked up my fork. Tark crossed his arms on his chest and leaned back in his chair. I could tell he was trying to look nonchalant, but he was failing miserably. His eyes tracked every movement I made as I cut into the coffee cake with my fork and brought the bite to my mouth.
The flavors hit me immediately—the sweet, buttery-ness of the cinnamon sugar topping and the tender cake that melted on my tongue. My eyes widened in surprise.
“Oh, Tark,” I said, shaking my head. “This is incredible. You’re, like, secretly a baking genius or something, aren’t you?”
His shoulders twitched. “It’s a recipe,” he mumbled, though the corners of his mouth tilted up with a hint of a smile. “I did what it said. Nothing more.”
“If you keep feeding me like this, though,” I said, taking another forkful, “I’m going to gain fifty pounds before I leave.”
He stiffened, his face turning a shade darker. “I didn’t—uh, I didn’t mean to, like, make you feel like I’m… like I’m… forcing you to carry fifty pounds. Never,” he stammered, his hands gesturing wildly as if he were trying to haul the words back out of the air. “I will carry all your burdens. I?—”
“Tark,” I said. “It was a joke. I'm not worried about gaining or carrying anything, let alone fifty pounds. I'm sorry. I should remember that human humor is new to you.”
“Oh, I… I accept your apology.” He leaned over the table, his face completely sincere. “But I will carry all your burdens. You don't even have to ask.”
How could such a simple statement turn me into a puddle? Yet, here I was, trying not to gobble up the cake because it was so amazing, then ask for another slice, all while my knees trembled and my belly overheated.
Tark fidgeted, an endearing mix of nervous and earnest as he sat across from me, his eyes soft and unguarded in ways that made my chest tighten. With each bite I took of his coffee cake, his expression shifted from shy anticipation to barely concealed pride. I wanted to smooth the furrow of worry on his brow, but instead, I busied myself with the cake, savoring it while keeping my emotions in check. At least, I tried to.
“You really shouldn’t downplay your baking skills,” I said, setting my fork down with a satisfied sigh once I’d finished. “If you keep this up, I might end up bribing you to teach me how to make this myself.”
He blinked at me. “You don’t need to bribe me. I’d teach you anything. Whatever you want to know.”
The words dangled in the space between us before settling deep in my belly. His gaze was no longer darting nervously around the room but fixed on me, steady and intense. The kind of look that made it impossible to pretend I didn’t notice how the air between us felt a little thicker.
Before I could figure out what to do with that realization, the saloon doors creaked, and I instinctively turned, half expecting to see Grannie Lil and Aunt Inla coming back to check on us. Instead, a blur of dark feathers caught my eye, and a moment later, Sharga flew across the room in a wobbly pattern.
He landed on my shoulder and plucked his way around before settling. I pivoted my head, gaping at him while he studied me up close.
“There you are, Sharga.” Tark exhaled, his entire face lighting up in a way that made my heart stumble. “He went to the barn like usual last night but this morning, he didn't come out for his breakfast. I was worried. You hear that, Sharga? You worried me. Don't do that again.” The tenderness in his voice was something I’d only heard before in the way he talked about his family or his hopes for the new business. Reaching out, he gently stroking the raven’s glossy black feathers with his fingertips. The bird hooted like an owl and flapped his wings, smacking my head.
“Gentle, Sharga. Gentle.” Tark slid some of the cake onto a plate and put it on a nearby table. “For you, my friend.”
Sharga hooted again and left my shoulder, wobbling over to his breakfast. He began pecking.
“You’re getting stronger, aren’t you?” Tark said, his voice low and soothing as if he was talking to a child. Sharga made another small sound, and Tark chuckled. “Good boy. Keep practicing flight, little guy.”
I sat there, mesmerized by the scene. The hard angles of Tark’s face softened into something almost achingly tender as he doted on the bird. Rising, he went to the table, and his fingers moved with a gentleness I rarely saw in anyone, brushing over the raven’s feathers as if each one was precious. It hit me like a freight train—how capable of care this man was. Not only for his injured raven but for those around him.
For me, even.
The realization sent my pulse racing in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I tried to tell myself it was the rising warmth of the day or the sugar rush from the cake, but deep down, I wasn’t fooling anyone.
“You’re good with him,” I said, my voice shining with admiration.
Tark glanced up, his lips quirking into a crooked smile that made my stomach flip. “Sharga’s been through a lot. He deserves patience.”
Something in the way he said it made me wonder if he was talking about more than the bird. Himself, maybe? My heart twisted at the thought.
“You have a way with second chances, don’t you?” I asked.
He blinked, his hand pausing mid-stroke on Sharga’s head. “I don’t know about that. I try to do what feels right.” His gaze flicked back to me, and there it was again—that intensity that made it impossible to look away. His next words came so hushed I almost didn’t catch them. “Sometimes second chances are all we’ve got.”
I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of what he wasn’t saying. The moment stretched between us, heavy with something that felt too big to name. Sharga hooted again, breaking the silence, and Tark chuckled, the sound low and warm.
“He’s not subtle, is he?” Tark scratched under the bird’s chin. “Always has to be the center of attention.”
I smiled. “I think he earns it. He’s pretty charming for a raven.”
“Oh, he knows it.” Leaving the bird to eat, Tark settled next to me again. He turned his head, catching my gaze, and I realized I was staring. Heat crawled up my neck, and I reached for my phone as a distraction.
“I, uh, wanted to show you something,” I said, fumbling with the screen as I pulled up the social media account. “I’ve been working on the saloon’s pages. Look at this—your dartling muffin post went viral overnight. People are commenting almost every minute, asking if you plan to cater wedding events or host baking classes once the town opens to tourists.”
Tark reached out, hesitant at first, before his hand brushed my wrist as he angled the phone to see better.
A searing feeling spread across my skin, but I didn’t take time to look.
He was touching me, and it was amazing. Even something this simple sent an electric jolt through me. I fought to maintain a light tone of voice.
“See?” I pointed to the screen, desperate to focus on anything other than the warmth that lingered where his fingers had been. “This one says, ‘I’d travel from three countries away just to taste this.’ And this one. ‘When is the first bake sale? I’ll bring my wallet and my appetite.’” I smiled up at him. “You’ve got a fan club growing already.”
Tark studied the screen for a moment, his expression somewhere between awed and uncertain. “I didn’t think people cared that much about muffins.”
“It’s not just the muffins. It’s the story we’re telling through what you’re building here. People feel that. They want to be part of it.”
His gaze shifted to mine, and for once, there was no barrier between us. No fumbling or shyness. Only a raw, unfiltered warmth that made my breath catch. He held my gaze for a beat longer than was safe for my heart.
“You’re part of it too, Gracie,” he said, his voice a low rumble that wrapped around my name like a caress. “More than you know.”
I swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of how close he was, of the way his broad shoulders seemed to take up all the space in the room. Of the way his kindness wasn’t only a passing trait, but something deeply rooted in who he was as a person. And that thought—oh, that thought—sent my mind spiraling.
Get it together, I scolded myself. People don’t fall in love in a matter of days. It doesn’t happen that fast.
Tark’s eyes flickered between the phone screen and me, as if he couldn’t quite process what I’d said. He didn’t seem to understand how talented he was. Instead of basking in the attention, his expression shifted to something close to embarrassment. He rubbed the back of his neck without meeting my gaze.
“I didn’t think anyone would actually care about this stuff,” he said, his words barely audible.
“Of course they care. They see the love you put into everything you and your brothers are doing here. But in the post about the muffins, they see you .” I leaned over, narrowing the space between us in an effort to pull him out of the cocoon he’d retreated into. “I’m only helping people notice what’s already there.”
He struggled to meet my gaze, then exhaled heavily. “I didn’t think I had anything anyone would want to see, you know? Not too long ago…” He shook his head. “Never mind. That’s in the past.”
The hint of vulnerability in his voice felt like a gut punch. I didn’t like seeing him uncomfortable, not when he’d gone through so much effort. For me, for this place. All to create something beautiful for others to enjoy.
“Well,” I said, brightening my tone. “If this sudden internet stardom is too overwhelming, I know a way we can escape for a little while.”
He blinked at me, confused but curious. “Escape?”
I grinned. “How about a trail ride? You can show me an example of what you’ll be offering tourists, and I’ll take some videos for tonight’s posts. Along the way, I'll explain how I use hashtags and comments to engage readers.”
His brow furrowed, but the tension in his shoulders eased. That shy smile played on his lips again, and the effect was immediate. My stomach somersaulted, my heart along with it. “You’d want to do something like that with me?”
“For the cake.” I grinned to show I was teasing. “I think the cake deserves it.” I pushed back my chair and stood. “What do you say?”
Tark’s smile pulled wider, bringing out the faintest hint of dimples that made my legs feel unreliable. “Alright. But don’t blame me if the trail gets a little rough. We're still working on that part of the business.”
“Rough works for me,” I said.
After carefully packing up what was left of the coffee cake, Tark turned to me, seemingly emboldened by the fact that I hadn’t run for the hills at his awkwardness. Without a word, he reached out, his calloused fingers curling gently around mine. The warmth of his touch spread through me like wildfire, and I couldn’t stop my gaze from darting down to where our hands met. He didn’t let go right away, instead holding on as if he needed the connection as much as I did.
Even Sharga gave a soft hoot of approval, flying over to settle on Tark’s broad shoulder.
“Let’s go,” he said, his voice a low rasp that sent a shiver across my skin. With my hand in his, he led the way out of the saloon and into the bright morning light.
We ran into Ruugar outside.
“There you are, Tark,” Ruugar said, dipping his head my way. “Ma’am.”
“Nice day today, isn’t it my fine sir?” No, wait. That would fit better in the Regency era, not the Wild West. “Life is getting up one more time than you've been knocked down, right?”
A frown rose on his face.
“Um…” I really wasn’t coming up with stuff fast enough here. And I was an influencer. I should be quick on my feet and even faster with my tongue. “Don't squat with your spurs on.”
He blinked at me before his eyes flew to his spurs. I tried not to snicker when he squatted, curling his body around to see where his spurs might land. His eyes widened and flew to meet mine before his low laugh rang out. Straightening, he nudged his knuckles into my shoulder. “Aw, shucks, ma’am. That’s great advice.”
Tark glared at Ruugar’s hand. “What did you want?” he pretty much snarled.
“Oh, yes. I met someone, and I was looking for advice.”
Tark’s gaze narrowed on his brother’s face. These guys were universally gorgeous. Ruugar wasn’t quite as big as Tark, but he was big enough in his own right. All orcs appeared to be, however.
“What kind of advice?” Tark asked. “And who did you meet?”
Ruugar hung his head. “A woman.”
Tark’s head jerked around as if he thought he’d see her sauntering down the street. Returning his gaze to Ruugar, he scowled again. “What woman?”
“She was here a bit ago. I…can’t stop thinking about her.”
“Then go look for her instead of standing here, talking to us.”
“I would if I knew where she was, but I don’t.” Ruugar’s eyes flicked to mine. “How do you find a woman when you only know her first name?”
“That’s a tough one,” I said, thinking but not coming up with any solutions. “How did you meet her?”
“She was here to tour the town. I only saw her from a distance.” His voice dropped. “But our fingers touched and?—”
“Did you observe the proper rituals?” Tark barked, leaning toward Ruugar.
“There wasn’t time! She was getting into the car and then she was gone.” He sounded so forlorn, I wanted to hug him. I only resisted because Tark kept glaring.
Surely he wasn’t jealous.
Or was he? What an interesting notion right there. To be jealous, he’d have to like me. The thought made me want to squeal, a spontaneous thing I’d never done before since it was forbidden.
A decent squeal jerked out of me. While the guys frowned my way, and I swore Tark bristled as he peered around, looking for threats, I slapped my hand over my mouth.
“Excuse me. Burp,” I mumbled around my fingers.
Tark studied my face before turning back to Ruugar.
“Maybe ask Aunt Inla,” he said. “She’s good for advice. Or Dungar. Who’s supposedly lonely.”
“We all are,” Ruugar said with a sigh. “Aren’t you?”
“Um, well. Sometimes.”
Ruugar nodded thoughtfully. “Thanks for the advice.” His shoulders drooped. “I’ll go talk to our aunt.” With that, he strode away.
Tark and I continued down the boardwalk, me glancing over my shoulder long enough to see Ruugar enter the general store. Poor guy. I hoped he found her, though identifying her with only her first name was going to be a challenge.
The air was warming up fast already, and it carried the faint scent of pine and earth. We stopped in front of the saloon, and Tark stepped out into the road, tipped his head back, and released the same whoop, whoop, whoop sound he’d made the other night. It echoed through the quiet street.
Sharga flapped his wings and did a pretty good mimic of the same sound.
The ground trembled, a low, rhythmic thudding growing louder with each passing second. What came barreling toward us from beyond the red barn looked like something out of Jurassic Park . I’d seen it the other night but from a higher level and some distance. Even then, I could tell it was big.
Not this big, though.
The creature thundered down the road, stirring up a plume of dust in its wake, and came to a dramatic halt in front of Tark, sending dirt flying everywhere. My jaw dropped. The beast was easily the size of a minivan, even towering over Tark. Its dark green fur reminded me of moss growing on the side of a tree.
My mouth went so dry my tongue felt like something wilted. Part of me wanted to laugh, the kind you choked on because you knew it didn’t belong but rose anyway.
Instead of hooves, it had massive claws that scratched the dirt, leaving deep grooves behind. Its enormous horns curled back from its skull in a sweeping arc, only to jut forward with tips like spears. As if that wasn’t intimidating enough, forearm-long fangs spiked down from its upper jaws, completing the picture of beastly power.
“That's a sorhox, right?” I asked, my voice a mix of awe and fear as I instinctively stepped closer to the wall behind me. I told myself I was being cautious, but a flicker of old panic darted across my ribs. Fight-or-flight had always been stunted in me. Reality TV taught me that the camera didn’t stop rolling when you screamed. It zoomed in. “They look smaller in pictures. Less green. Less dangerous.”
Tark's chest puffed out, pride flickering in his eyes as he stepped closer to the creature that looked big and mean enough to eat me in one bite. He reached up to pat the beast’s muscular neck. “This is Castree. She’s a sorhox and the best mount an orc could ask for.”
The orcs had brought some of the creatures they’d used in their underground ranching operations to the surface. When I first heard about them, I'd thought… Well, that whatever they brought would be the size of a pony. A horse, maybe. Not something that looked like it could challenge an elephant and come up the victor.
I swallowed, trying to process the sheer size of Castree as the creature turned its head toward me.
Leaving Tark, it stomped up onto the boardwalk while I yelped and huddled against the outer saloon wall.
My legs forgot they belonged to me, and every muscle braced like it expected a director to yell “cut”. At any second I’d be told to do it again, do it better, do it while smiling this time.
I’d frozen like this once before. Bright lights, fake snow, some staged tantrum involving an unruly pony in a tiara. I hadn’t moved, hadn’t breathed.
On the set, they’d called my behavior charming.
Later, behind closed doors, they’d called me useless.