Chapter 12 Derek #2
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mayor Hagan bellows, voice amplified through a crusty old speaker that immediately squeals, “welcome to Lords Valley’s Annual May Day Festival!”
Cheers erupt. Kids scream. Someone blows a party horn.
Emma groans beside the pie booth, hands braced against her lower back like she’s holding up the sun.
I make my way over as the mayor rattles off events like a circus barker—Survivor Game, beer garden, fireworks, and tomorrow night’s opening race.
“You good?” I ask Emma, nodding to her belly.
She waves me off with a grimace. “Braxton-Hicks. Probably. Might just be the baby doing celebratory flips.”
Eric’s standing behind her, one hand on her back, the other holding a pie plate like he’s defending a football.
“You steal that from Annabelle?” I ask.
“She made me promise to guard the only pecan one. Everything else is apple. I’m under strict orders.”
Emma rubs her belly again, wincing. “He’s nesting. Let him.”
Nearby, Annabelle’s laughing with the Briggses—old-timers from down the orchard road—while they fumble through their wallet for change and congratulate her on our nuptials.
She’s in her element, tossing her hair, teasing the mayor about the weight of his apple bag, fitting back into this town as if no time had passed.
Someone calls her name, and she turns, glowing in that damn apron she insisted on wearing, even though it barely survived this morning’s flour fight.
God, she’s beautiful.
Every laugh she gives and every pie she sells… She does it with love. And yeah, I’m selfish enough to want to hoard every damn second of it.
But something’s off.
She smiles, but her fingers twitch when they’re not busy. Her eyes keep flicking to the road. She’s not just thinking about the race. She’s thinking about him.
The crowd keeps swarming her booth, cheering, calling her name, shouting congratulations. And every time someone says “Mrs. Fields,” something in me roots deeper. Like I’ve finally landed. Like this is the soil I was always meant to grow in.
Then the mayor raises his hands for quiet, his voice ringing through the speakers.
“Before we begin the evening’s big event,” he says with the flare of someone who loves a captive audience, “let’s give a warm, heartfelt congratulations to Lords Valley’s newest newlyweds, Derek and Annabelle Fields!”
Cheers erupt.
Annabelle’s head jerks up, eyes wide, then sheepish. A blush crawls up her cheeks as someone starts a chant—“Kiss her! Kiss her!”—and Emma groans, clutching her lower back like she’s ten minutes from going into labor.
“You better go”—I hear her—“before the baby thinks you’re ignoring tradition.”
I’m already walking.
Annabelle meets me halfway, braid slipping over one shoulder, pie knife still in hand. Her smile’s a little embarrassed, a little proud. She wipes her hands on her apron.
“You’re a celebrity now,” I say, catching her around the waist.
“I didn’t authorize this level of attention.” She laughs.
“Too late.” I pull her in and kiss her—quick, warm, claiming. She melts into it for a beat, her body soft against mine. And for just one second, I let myself believe this moment is ours. Untouched. Safe.
She laughs as I spin her once, the pie knife still in her hand.
“You’re going to get us arrested,” she whispers.
I glance at the blade. “You planning to carve your initials in my back?”
“Only if you dip me again without warning.”
So, of course, I dip her.
Her braid brushes the back of her knee, and her grin stretches wide. She clutches my shoulder like she’s falling for real—and maybe she is. Maybe we both are.
“Show-off,” she murmurs as I lift her.
“You married a man who tunes carburetors for fun. Of course, I’m a show-off.”
She leans in, whispering just loud enough for me to hear, “You’re lucky I like a little grease with my romance.”
God, I love this woman.
The music swells, then fades. Annabelle pulls back and glances across the lawn. “I should check on Emma. She looked a little off earlier.”
I let her go, reluctantly.
She weaves through the crowd toward the cider tent, where Emma’s pacing with one hand braced against her belly like she’s daring gravity to win.
I watch as she reaches for Annabelle, whispering something close to her ear.
Annabelle stiffens—just a flicker—but I catch it.
Her smile falters. She squeezes Emma’s hand, then pastes that sunny expression right back on.
I narrow my eyes.
Something’s wrong.
When she returns, her voice is breezy, her eyes anything but.
“Everything okay?” I ask gently.
She forces a smile. “Just girl stuff. Baby nerves. Pie cravings. You know.”
I study her closely, the tension tight in her shoulders. “You sure? You seem nervous.”
She hesitates, eyes briefly slipping from mine. “I’m fine,” she whispers, though her voice trembles just enough for me to notice.
She’s scared. And if she won’t tell me why, then I’ve got to be ready for anything.
I rub the back of my neck, the edge of my bank letter pressing in my back pocket like a brand, burning straight through the denim.
She doesn’t need more stress. I can carry it. I’ll handle it. I’ll start the trust transfer tomorrow.
Annabelle’ laughs with Mrs. Denton and the group of middle schoolers who pooled their allowance for a single cherry pie. She’s good at playing calm, but I know what her real smile looks like, and that’s not it
She’s searching for someone.
Him .
Blake’s a few tents down, pretending to care about cider samples. But I know the stance. He’s locked in. Watching. Eric’s near the main thoroughfare, shadowing Emma like a bodyguard who’s two contractions away from catching a baby.
Good. At least, they’ve got her covered.
I head for the racer’s lot, heart thudding harder with every step.
The path near the gristmill is quieter, the buzz of the festival fading behind me. Trees cast long, slanted shadows across the gravel. Most of the racers are still gorging on burgers and beer at the fairgrounds, which makes it easy to spot what doesn’t belong.
Twenty or so cars are lined up, polished and tuned to hell, but one stands out.
The red Chevy. Hood popped, and no one in sight.
I check over my shoulder. Not a soul.
My boots crunch over the gravel, loud in the hush as I step up to the front of the car. One glance under the hood, and my gut seizes.
That engine is brand new.
I know the build. The crisp red valve covers, the performance headers, and the high-flow air intake. This isn’t patched together or salvaged. It’s a full, high-performance rebuild.
Mike didn’t do this alone.
Someone dropped serious cash into this thing. And if I’m right, that someone’s name is Rick.
I stare for a second longer, then lower the hood with a quiet click and circle the car.
A few spaces down, under a flickering floodlight, I spot it—the emerald-green 1968 Shelby GT350. Sleek. Cocky. Familiar.
Rick Bishop’s car.
I glance back at town square towards the ribbon-strung trees. The music and laughter spill like honey through the festival grounds.
It all feels like someone else’s life.
But mine’s up there too.
Annabelle, behind her booth, apron dusted in flour. That ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The way she keeps checking her phone like she’s bracing for an earthquake.
She’s scared.
And she won’t tell me why.
But I know.
It’s him.
And that bakery sign I just hung? The one with her name swinging above the door like a promise? The future I handed her, wrapped in brown paper and vows, will vanish if I lose.
I didn’t come here to win a race. I came here to make damn sure she never has to look over her shoulder again.
So, if I’ve got to get a little dirty to do it? So be it.
I pop the Chevy’s hood again. My instincts are screaming, but my hands know what to do.
One braces against the chassis. The other moves, quick and sure.
I disconnect the secondary ignition coil.
Loosen the wiring harness to the fuel pressure regulator—just enough.
Just enough to stall after a few laps. Not a crash.
Not a fire. Just a sudden, humiliating stallout.
Enough to shatter his pride.
It’s not sabotage. It’s insurance.
It’s love in the language I know best—wrenches, wires, and untraceable failsafes.
I don’t want to be this man. But I’ve watched good men lose to worse ones for doing the right thing. I’m not here to be noble. I’m here to win her peace, our shot, and this damn valley.
I shut the hood, my palms slick with sweat. I wipe them on my jeans.
Then I walk two stalls over. And do the same thing to Rick’s Shelby.
This isn’t about winning anymore. It’s about making damn sure they lose.