Chapter 26 Hunter
Hunter
The ridge is only a few yards higher, but it feels like we’re crossing a line I don’t let anyone cross.
The grass thins as we climb, trading soft green for stubborn scrub and exposed rock. The wind up here has teeth, cooler, sharper, carrying the scent of damp earth from last night’s storm.
Beneath us, Rose Hills sits in the valley like a postcard. From a distance, it looks gentle, harmless.
Up close, I know better.
Adaline walks beside me, careful on the uneven ground, her steps steady despite the way her hair keeps lifting in the breeze. She’s quiet, but not withdrawn. Quiet like she’s taking in everything, like she’s letting herself be here.
I don’t bring people up here.
I didn’t even bring Mark when he asked. This ridge belongs to a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore. A kid with scraped knees and grease under his nails. A kid who believed a place could love you back if you loved it hard enough.
My mother loved it here.
Aunt Jane brought her up when she needed air, when she needed to feel like she wasn’t trapped inside someone else’s life. Mr. Reeves came once in a while, too, with Aunt Jane. He and Aunt Jane would set up the picnic while I ran around carefree.
I keep my hands in my pockets as we reach the ridge, fingers curling around nothing, like I can squeeze control back into my bloodstream. My chest feels too open, too exposed.
Adaline steps to the edge and looks down at the town again, her expression soft. Not judging. Not analyzing. Just… seeing.
“Not bad,” she says, voice quiet.
I huff, half a laugh, half a breath. “You’re easy to impress.”
She glances at me, lips tilting. “I grew up with fire escapes and sirens. This is… different.”
I angle my chin toward the far side of the ridge, where a lone oak stands with its roots gripping the earth like it refuses to let go.
“That’s the spot,” I say, as if it’s no big deal.
The tree is older than everything that happened to me.
Older than the version of Hunter Rexon the town likes to spit out like a bitter seed.
Its branches stretch wide, crooked in places, strong in others.
It looks like it’s survived a hundred storms and still decided to keep reaching toward the sky.
Adaline’s gaze follows mine. “A tree?”
“A good tree,” I correct.
She laughs under her breath, and it vibrates through me, because I brought her somewhere that matters, and she understands.
We walk toward it. The ground dips slightly, then rises again, and the tree’s shadow falls across us like a quiet shelter.
I stop a few feet from the trunk and look up, letting my eyes trace the old grooves in the bark.
There’s a branch about seven feet up that’s thick enough to sit on.
Above that, another that angles out over the ridge, giving you a view that makes the whole world look smaller, like your problems could fit in your palm.
I’ve sat there in silence alone and tried to convince myself I’m not the kind of man who wants things—someone to love me for who I am, to choose me, and to step fully into a life beside me.
I’ve failed every time.
Adaline stops beside me and tilts her head back. I glance at her. “Ever climbed a tree?”
Her mouth opens, then closes like she’s caught off guard by the question. “No.”
“No?” I repeat, because the idea is so foreign, it almost makes me forget everything else.
“I grew up in Brooklyn,” she says, like it explains everything. “The closest I got, was climbing stairs when the elevator was broken.”
Something in me eases. Not because it’s funny, though it is a little, but because it’s honest. She doesn’t try to pretend she knows this world. She doesn’t put on a mask to match mine.
I nod toward the trunk. “It’s easier than it looks.”
She eyes the bark like it might bite.
“That’s what people say right before someone breaks an ankle.”
My gaze flicks down, involuntarily, to her foot. The one she twisted in my rose garden. The one I still picture in my hands sometimes, small and warm. Her voice is firm, but not defensive.
“It’s healed.”
“I didn’t ask,” I mutter.
Her eyebrow lifts. “Your face did.”
I should snap back, make a joke. Instead, I step closer to the tree and place my hands on the bark. “Watch,” I say.
I climb like I’ve done it a thousand times, because I have. One foot finding a notch, hands gripping rough wood, body pulling up with practiced ease. I swing my leg onto the branch and straighten, balanced without thinking.
Then I turn and look down.
Adaline stands below, arms crossed loosely over her chest, looking up at me like she’s trying to decide if I’m insane.
I bend down and hold out my hand. Her eyes drop to it. Then back to my face.
The wind lifts a strand of her hair, and she tucks it behind her ear. The same gesture she made before she climbed into my truck.
“You can do it,” I say, because I can hear the hesitation in her silence.
She doesn’t move.
I keep my hand extended, palm open. A steady offer. Not force. Not control. Just… here.
Her gaze narrows slightly, like she’s reading me. And the worst part is—she might be better at that than I am.
“Do you trust me?” I ask quietly.
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, and they hang there between us, rawer than I intended. Trust is how you get hurt. Trust is how people break you and smile while they do it.
But the fact that I want her to, makes me feel vulnerable.
Adaline’s expression changes, softens, then sharpens again as if she’s fighting something.
Then she surprises me. She smiles. It’s small, reluctant, but real.
“Against my better judgment,” she says, and steps forward.
Her fingers slide into mine, and my body reacts like I’ve grabbed a live wire. She doesn’t grip like she’s afraid. She grips like she’s choosing.
I tighten my hold, just enough to be sure. Just enough to tell her I won’t let go.
“Okay,” I say, voice rougher than I want. “Foot here. Right. And don’t look down.”
She glances at the trunk like it’s plotting her downfall.
“Too late. I already hate this.”
I almost laugh, but it comes out as a breath instead.
“Just climb,” I say, and guide her hand upward, showing her where to place her fingers. “You’ve got it.”
She starts carefully, shifting her weight onto the bark. Her movements are cautious, controlled, like she’s used to calculating risk. Which makes sense. A girl who grew up in a city, I’m sure she learned early that you don’t step anywhere without looking.
She lifts her foot to find a notch and pulls herself up a few inches. Her grip tightens on my hand.
“You’re doing fine,” I tell her.
“Just trusting the experts,” she says.
She climbs another inch, then another, and her body is closer now, close enough that I smell her faint floral shampoo, layered with a warmth that feels unmistakably hers.
Her foot slips.
It’s fast, one second she’s steady, the next her shoe skids against the bark and her whole body lurches.
My grip snaps tight without thought.
“Adaline,” I bark, and haul upward.
She gasps, sharp, startled, and her other hand scrambles for the trunk, fingers clawing for grip.
I pull again, stronger this time, muscles burning as I lift her weight. Her body rises, and her knee bumps the branch. She manages to hook her leg over it, breath coming fast.
For a second, she’s half draped over the branch, chest heaving, hair falling into her face.
And my hand is still wrapped around hers, and my arm is extended, holding her like a tether.
She looks up at me, eyes wide, cheeks flushed from fear and effort.
My heartbeat is loud in my ears. Not because she almost fell.
Because I caught her.
Because holding her like this, strong grip, close distance, feels reckless but right.
“You okay?” I ask, voice low.
She swallows, nodding quickly. “Yes.”
“Good,” I say, but I don’t let go. Not yet.
She pulls herself up further, shifting until she’s sitting on the branch beside me. Her shoulder brushes mine. And I let it.
She exhales, shaky. “I hate you.”
I blink. “That’s not what people usually say when someone helps them.”
“It’s what I say,” she mutters, smoothing her hair back. “Because you make it look easy.”
I lean slightly closer, voice quieter.
“It’s not easy. I’m just used to falling.”
Her eyes flick to mine, and something in her expression stills, like she heard the truth underneath the joke. Then she looks out over the ridge, as if giving both of us an out.
We sit there for a moment, wind tugging at our clothes, the town spread out below us. Her knee is inches from mine. Her hand still rests on the branch near mine, fingers relaxed.
I should move away.
I don’t.
“Better view,” I say finally.
Adaline’s lips part, like she’s about to agree, but instead she says quietly, “You used to come here a lot.”
It’s not a question. I glance at her, surprised by the certainty.
She shrugs slightly, eyes still on the town. “It feels… like a place you don’t bring just anyone.”
My throat tightens. For a second, I want to lie. I want to say it’s nothing. Just a hill with a tree, and a view. But the air up here doesn’t let lies breathe.
“Yeah,” I admit. “Aunt Jane brought me. When I was a kid.”
Adaline turns her head a little. “When things were hard?”
I let out a slow breath. “Things were always hard. But… different kinds of hard.”
She watches me, patiently. Not pushing. Just there. It makes it harder to keep my walls up.
“I came here with my mom,” I say, the words rough in my mouth like gravel.
“And Aunt Jane. Sometimes Mr. Reeves.”
Adaline’s gaze softens. “Your mom… liked it here.”
The way she says it, past tense, lands heavy.
I nod once. My thumb rubs along the bark. I can feel the old grooves beneath my skin, like the tree remembers too.
Adaline shifts carefully on the branch, then says, “Can I ask you something?”
I already know the answer should be no. Instead, I say, “Depends.”
Her mouth quirks. “Fair.”
She draws a breath, then looks down at her hands like she’s choosing her words with the same care she uses with Aunt Jane.