Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Ryker
FIVE YEARS LATER
The Smokehouse smells like oak and fried onions, the kind of scent that clings to your jacket long after you leave.
The woodstove in the corner crackles under a new log Mick tossed in a while back, and the hum of Friday chatter fills every inch of the place.
Holiday garlands hang halfheartedly from the rafters even though Halloween is still days away. Mick’s been saying he’s getting ahead for the season, but I know it’s because he loves an excuse to hang twinkle lights before the snow hits.
Jude sits across from me, peeling the label off his beer, his shirt still smudged with drywall dust. We’ve spent the last three weeks renovating the old Fernbridge cabins, trying to turn them into something families might actually want to rent by Christmas.
He keeps talking about adding cedar beams and custom bunk beds, says the place deserves a second life. I’m half-listening, half-watching the foam settle in my glass. My body aches from the work, but there’s satisfaction in it. Building something back up always feels better than letting it rot.
We tore down the old porch today and replaced it with planks from local pine. The smell of resin and sawdust still sits under my fingernails.
Jude joked about my obsession with straight lines, said I measure twice, then measure again. Maybe he’s right. Precision keeps my hands busy and my mind from wandering where it shouldn’t.
Mick brings another round to our table without asking. “You two look like you’ve been wrestling a bear.” His beard twitches with a grin.
“Cabin two,” Jude mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Floorboards were practically mulch.”
Mick laughs, wipes the counter with his rag. “Guess Fernbridge owes you a beer or two, then.”
I grunt something close to thanks and take a long sip. The amber hits warm, spreading through my chest like slow fire.
The crowd around us is the usual mix. Locals shaking off the week, and a couple of tourists who think this is some hidden gem. The pool table clicks near the back, and Wren’s voice rises from somewhere behind me, light and teasing. I’d know that sound anywhere.
Then I see her.
Norah Knightly sits at one of the corner tables, under the fairy lights that Mick has strung up. She’s laughing at something Wren said, her head tipped back, curls bouncing with the movement. Auburn and gold in the low light.
A green scarf is draped around her neck like she walked straight out of one of those postcards they sell downtown, the ones of Fox Hollow in winter, all warm colors and soft edges.
The sight hits harder than I’d like to admit.
Jude follows my gaze and smirks when he spots her. “Didn’t know Norah would be out and about. I thought she stays late to work at her shop.”
“Probably here to meet someone,” I say, a little too fast.
He leans back, that knowing glint in his eyes. “You could just go say hi.”
I shake my head. “Not my place. Besides, she’s your friend too. You go say hey.”
He lets it drop, though the grin lingers. That’s Jude—reads more than he ever says. We’ve worked together long enough that silence feels like conversation.
I drain half my beer, trying to focus on the scoreboard over the bar, but it’s useless. My attention drifts back to her.
Norah looks good. Happier than the last time I saw her. There’s something lighter in her face now.
She gestures as she talks, that same spark she’s always had when she’s passionate about something. Her best friend Wren says something, and they both laugh, the sound carrying across the tavern.
We worked on renovating the café for Wren a few months ago, and it seems to be taking off now. Jude was hesitant about taking up a second project with all the work we were putting in for the cabins, but Norah asked me to help out her friend, and I just couldn’t help it.
My chest tightens. I shouldn’t watch Norah, but I do. The way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the way her mouth curves when she listens.
I tell myself it’s harmless, that it’s just observation. But it’s not. It’s longing.
Jude keeps talking about supply deliveries for next week. I nod at the right times, my eyes still drawn to the table across the room.
When Norah glances up, our gazes almost meet. Almost. She looks past me, out the window, and the air leaves my lungs anyway.
It’s ridiculous how fast the past can reach across a room and pull you back under.
I look down at my hands, callused and nicked from the day. Claire used to tease me about that, saying she could tell how hard I’d worked by the state of my knuckles. I rub my thumb over the ring I still wear on my chain, the one I never take off.
Falling for anyone else would be a betrayal. It’s as simple as that. Claire deserves better than that kind of forgetting.
Jude’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You good?”
“Fine.”
He studies me for a beat before picking up his drink again. “You know, you can honor her and still live, Ryker.”
I don’t answer. There’s nothing to say that would make sense.
Mick calls out from the bar, something about closing early if the storm rolls in tonight. The place hums with easy laughter, chairs scraping, boots thudding against old wood floors.
I’ve spent half my life in places like this—taverns that feel like second homes, built from years of shared exhaustion and stubborn pride.
Norah stands to leave, pulling on her coat. Wren waves to Mick, then slings her bag over her shoulder.
They pass close to our table, and for a heartbeat, the scent hits—warm spice and clean cedar, an undertone of something floral. My Alpha instincts recognize it before my mind does.
Norah hesitates. “Hey guys,” she says, voice light but warm.
Jude grins, adjusting his glasses. “Look who’s out past nine. You finally taking a night off from the flower shop?”
She laughs softly. “Trying to. Wren said I needed a night out before the holiday chaos starts.”
Wren nudges her, smirking. “And before the town ropes her into organizing the Christmas market again.”
Norah rolls her eyes, then her gaze flicks toward me. Her smile falters. Not out of discomfort—or at least I don’t think so. It’s more like surprise. “Hi, Ryker.”
“Hey, Norah.”
Simple, but it feels heavier than it should.
She shifts the strap of her bag, the edge of her scarf brushing her chin. “How’s the renovation coming along?”
“Good. Cabins are shaping up. Should have heat running by next week.”
“That’s great.” Her eyes soften, just slightly. “Those old cabins have stories in their walls. It’s nice to see someone bringing them back.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say more.
She lingers like she might add something else, then just smiles. “Well. I’ll let you two finish your beers.”
“See you around,” Jude calls as they head for the door.
Norah gives a small wave, and the tavern light catches on her hair as the door swings shut behind them. The wind rushes in, cold and sharp, carrying the first hint of snow.
I stare at the empty spot she left behind, and for a breath, the tavern feels too warm.
Jude finishes his drink and sets it down with a soft clink. “You’re gonna have to stop pretending you don’t care, man.”
I huff out something that isn’t quite laughter. “You’re reading too much into things.”
He leans back, arms crossed. “You’re staring like she hung the moon. That’s not nothing.”
“She deserves someone who isn’t stuck in the past.”
“And maybe you deserve someone who reminds you there’s still a future.”
The words hang there.
I glance toward the window again. Outside, snow has started falling, flakes melting against the glass. Fox Hollow always looks different under the first dusting. Softer. Quieter. Like the whole town exhales.
Mick dims the lights, and the glow from the stove deepens the shadows. Jude pushes his chair back. “C’mon. Early start tomorrow. Those beams won’t hang themselves.”
I follow him out, pulling on my jacket. The cold hits fast, biting at my skin. The truck’s parked under the streetlamp, dusted in white already.
Across the lot, the taillights of Wren’s car disappear down Main Street. I stand there longer than I should, watching them fade.
Then I climb into the driver’s seat, start the engine, and sit in the hum of the heater. The town’s holiday lights flicker on along the street, strings of gold and red wrapping the lampposts. I can still smell Norah’s scent clinging faintly to the air.
I grip the wheel tighter, forcing the thought away.
Jude stares at me but says nothing.
Claire’s memory lives in every corner of my life, in every promise I keep. Loving again, wanting again, would mean letting some of that go.
And I’m not sure I can.
The snow falls thicker now, blanketing the road, soft against the windshield. I drive us home through the glow, the tavern lights fading in the rearview mirror, and tell myself the same lie I’ve been telling for years.
That I’m fine. That I’m done. That I don’t miss what I never had.
But Fox Hollow never lets you forget the things you bury.
I wake in a cold sweat, lungs heaving like I’ve run a mile uphill. The dream clings to me, thick and heavy.
Claire’s laughter echoes faintly somewhere in my head, that soft rasp she had after long nights by the fire. She’s standing on the back porch, hair tangled from the wind, her hand stretched toward me.
Jude’s there too, leaning against the railing with that smile that always made her blush. The three of us belong in that picture.
For a breath, it feels real again. Then she fades, the light bleeds away, and I’m left staring at an empty porch.
I curse under my breath and shove the blanket aside. My shirt sticks to my back. The clock on the nightstand blinks red. 6:58 a.m. The storm outside has grown worse, thick flakes of snow tumbling through the dark.
My phone buzzes beside the bed. A message from Jude lights the screen. Heading to meet Elias at the cabins. See you later.