Chapter Seventeen
Lonely Bones
Willow
Six months after Willow found the bones, her life had returned to something resembling normal. The memories of prison that had clung to her for so long began to lift. Her overall moods were lighter, though she remained cautious.
Dale had run into Deputy Wallard one afternoon outside the hardware store and told him to stay far away from her.
Willow hadn’t asked what exactly he’d said, but the warning worked, and he didn’t come back to the property.
For a while, she jumped whenever a truck slowed near her driveway, her stomach tightening until she recognized the vehicle.
Eventually, though, the tension ebbed. Wallard had a wife; he didn’t need the trouble that harassing Willow would cause.
Still, she felt that strange hum she associated with danger especially at dusk when the sky turned shades of red and orange while coyotes gave far-off calls. She forced herself to breathe and let life happen.
She hadn’t let go of her dream, even if it had changed shape. The ache of lost purpose, of wanting to help women like herself, still visited her at odd times, but it no longer followed her as closely. The dream had turned into something she refused to let go of.
“I could give Liz your background story,” Dale told her one afternoon while helping her process a large bucket of green beans from the garden. “But I don’t think it would help. The shelter survives off grant money. Your situation is, sadly, a liability.”
The sincerity in his voice and the anguish on his face made her chest tighten.
“It’s not Liz’s fault,” she assured him gently. “Maybe just remind her that if they have someone who doesn’t fit their criteria, we’re here to help.”
“I can absolutely do that,” Dale promised.
Her furniture restoration projects filled half her day now.
The scent of stripped varnish and lemon oil hung in the air of the barn, mingling with sawdust and coffee.
The rhythmic scrape of sandpaper and the soft hum of the rotary sander became her background music.
When she finished her grandmother’s dresser, she showed it to Louisa and Roger.
Louisa ran her palm along the smooth surface, the wood shining under the light. “It’s beautiful, Willow. Would you be willing to work on something for me?”
Willow started to refuse. “I couldn’t take your money.”
“Then I can’t let you do it,” Louisa said, chin lifted stubbornly. “It wouldn’t be right.”
After a brief back-and-forth, Willow gave in, more grateful than she wanted to admit. They settled on a fair price, and just like that, she had her first commissioned job.
Harvest season in the greenhouse had arrived.
Even as the late-summer heat pressed down, the scent of ripe tomatoes and damp soil filled the air.
The buzzing of bees echoed through the open vents while the oscillating fan clicked back and forth.
Her hands were perpetually stained with dirt and the faint bite of vinegar from pickling jars.
She pickled cucumbers, laid out tomatoes on drying racks, and blanched green beans for freezing.
She and Dale trained the dogs, and together they worked on hand signals.
“If a mother with a child ever stays here, the dogs gotta look friendly, not fierce,” Dale reminded her.
Trips to the park in Show Low helped. The dogs became minor celebrities, surrounded by giggling children once their parents began accepting them.
Willow stood nearby, watching as Daisy allowed a toddler to tug gently on her ear and then gave a large, slobbery kiss that made the baby laugh.
Seeing the dogs acceptance filled her with something she hadn’t felt in a long time—peace.
Her days slipped into a rhythm that felt almost like happiness.
Each completed project, each jar sealed tight, each evening walk with the dogs added to her confidence.
The nightmares came less often, fading into distant echoes as refinishing orders came in.
Word spread faster than she expected, and soon Dale was making weekly furniture pickup and delivery runs.
He also took before-and-after photos and muttered curses about the “damn computer” while he built her a simple website.
When it went live, Willow stared at the screen, mesmerized. The photographs showed not just her work but her growth. Dale taught her how to upload new images and how to write short descriptions.
Sometimes, late at night, she thought about the man the bones once belonged to. Did he have a family waiting for answers? Did someone out there still grieve for him? She wanted to believe he’d been kind, but the world had taught her not to assume such things. He deserved a name, at least. A story.
But as the months passed, even that thought slipped further away. And that, in its own strange way, felt like a betrayal.
Her life was better than she’d ever expected, and yet, beneath the calm, there lingered a whisper of unease. She couldn’t quite shake it. Good things never lasted forever. Somewhere, she feared, her bad luck was just waiting for her to forget it existed so it could pounce again.