8. Cade
Cade
I've been holed up in my cabin for six days, splitting more firewood than I’ll need for the next two winters.
My hands are blistered, my shoulders burn with every swing of the axe, and I still can't get her face out of my mind.
The hurt in Embeth's eyes when I walked away haunts me worse than any nightmare.
Maybe I was wrong to accuse her, maybe I wasn’t.
That asshole from the radio station never actually took the video down from what I can tell. It’s been viewed over a hundred thousand times according to Melody, who's called daily despite my attempts to ignore everyone.
I haven't watched it. Can't bring myself to.
A vehicle rumbles up my driveway, and I know without looking it's Melody's car. She’s the only one persistent enough to come all the way out here. What I don't expect is to see Walter Jenkins climbing out of the passenger side, his Vietnam veteran cap perched on his gray head.
"Go away, Mel," I call, embedding the axe in the chopping block.
"Not happening," she replies, crossing the yard with Walt in tow. "You've had your tantrum. Time to rejoin civilization."
"It wasn't a tantrum."
Walt snorts. "Sure looks like one from where I'm standing, son."
I glare at him, but the old veteran just stares back, unimpressed. "Your sister tells me you're hiding because someone recorded you the other night playing your guitar."
"It's not about the recording."
"No?" Walt crosses his arms. "Then what's it about?"
I wipe sweat from my forehead, irritated at being cornered. "It's about trust. About control."
"About fear," Melody counters softly.
"What do you know about it?" I snap.
"I know Embeth is devastated," she says. "And I know she had nothing to do with that video. You act like it was some big plan she orchestrated just to screw you over. She made it clear to everyone there that no one was to be recording."
Walt settles onto my porch steps, clearly planning to stay awhile. "When I came back from 'Nam, I didn't let anyone take my picture for two years. Thought the camera would steal what was left of my soul." He shrugs. "Turns out I was just scared of seeing myself. The man I'd become over there."
His words hit uncomfortably close to home.
"That's different," I mutter.
"Is it?" Walt asks. "You're not the first broken soldier to find healing in music, son. Or to run from it when it starts working."
Melody pulls out her phone. "There's something you should see."
"I don't want to watch the video."
"Not the video. The comments."
Reluctantly, I take her phone and scroll through the comments section.
Is this the guy from the Passion Peak? My nephew served with him. True hero.
Haven't felt anything this real in music for years.
Does he do private events? My daughter's getting married next spring.
As a fellow vet with hearing loss, seeing someone like me making music again gives me hope.
I swallow hard at that last one.
"People connect with your music, Cade, with you," Melody says gently. "Maybe because it comes from a real place. From real pain."
"And that girl of yours, she understands that. She stood up for you after you left. Told everyone about respecting artists' boundaries. Then she refunded every ticket price, even though that place is clearly struggling."
Guilt twists in my stomach. "She refunded everything?"
Melody nods. "She said some things are more important than money. Like trust."
My phone buzzes in my pocket. An area code I don't recognize. I silence it.
Walt stands, brushing off his pants. "You know what your problem is, son? You think you're the only one who's ever been afraid of something good. That purple-haired gal is just as scared as you are, but at least she's brave enough to try."
He walks back to the car, leaving me alone with Melody.
"Is she okay?" I ask finally, the question I've been afraid to voice all week.
Melody's expression softens. "No. She's about to list the café. Has a meeting tomorrow with the realtor."
The news hits me like a physical blow. "What?"
"She thinks she failed." Melody studies me carefully. "And maybe that she's not worth fighting for."
After they leave, I sit on my porch for hours, replaying every moment with Embeth in my mind. The way she looked at me when I played for her. How she created signals to help me stay in rhythm without making me feel broken. The warmth of her body against mine that night we spent together.
When my phone rings again from the same number, I finally answer.
"Cadence Clark? This is Marcus Donovan from Blue Ridge Records. I saw your performance online and?—"
"I didn't authorize that recording," I interrupt.
"I understand that," he says smoothly. "But I'm glad I saw it. You've got something special, Mr. Clark. Raw, authentic. We'd like to discuss recording opportunities."
"I'm not interested in being a circus act."
"Not asking you to be. But music like yours deserves to be heard. On your terms." He pauses. "Think about it. Call me when you're ready."
After hanging up, I stare at my guitar in the corner, untouched since that night.
Then I make a decision.
I find her at Veterans' Memorial Park at the edge of town, sitting alone on a bench by the stone monuments. Her hair is tied back, no makeup on her face, wearing jeans and a simple black T-shirt instead of her usual vintage dresses. She looks exhausted.
"Mind if I sit?" I ask quietly.
She looks up, surprise flickering across her features before she looks away. "Free country. You helped keep it that way."
I settle beside her, leaving space between us. For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
"I heard you're selling the café," I say finally.
She stares at the memorial stones. "Thinking about it. Maybe I'm not cut out for small business ownership. Or small-town life."
"I don't believe that."
"Yeah? What do you believe, Cade?" Her voice holds an edge I haven't heard before. "Because you made it pretty clear what you thought of me last week."
"I was wrong," I say simply. "I was scared, and I lashed out at the easiest target."
She glances at me, wariness in her eyes. "Scared of what?"
"Of being seen." I take a deep breath. "The recording...
It wasn't about privacy. It was about control. After the explosion, I lost so much control, over my body, my future, my hearing... I had intended to re-enlist to try and salvage some part of my life that I could control, but I got axed instead. Medical discharge... That’s why I came home early...
Music was private because it was the one thing I could still control completely. "
Her expression softens slightly. "I understand that. I would never have let Ronnie?—"
"I know that now. I should have known it then."
A cool breeze stirs the leaves around us. In the distance, children play on swings, their laughter carrying across the park.
"The explosion happened during a routine patrol," I say, the words coming easier than I expected.
"We stopped by where some kids were playing.
One minute we were handing out candy, the next.
Chaos. Two of my guys died instantly. I was thrown clear, but not clear enough.
" I touch my right ear. "When I woke up in the field hospital, I could only hear from one side. Like half the world was just... Gone."
She reaches for my hand, hesitant, like I might pull away. I don't.
"The hardest part wasn't the injury," I continue. "It was the recovery. It was trying to fit into a world that suddenly sounded wrong. I couldn't bear the thought of playing wrong notes because I couldn't hear them properly."
"Your playing isn't wrong," she says fiercely. "It's beautiful exactly because it comes from that place of overcoming."
I look at her, really look at her, and see what I've been too blind to recognize. She's never once looked at me with pity. Only with understanding, because she knows what it means to feel like you don't quite fit.
"A producer from Nashville called," I tell her. "About recording my song."
Her eyes widen. "Cade, that's amazing."
"I said I'd think about it." I squeeze her hand. "But not yet.”
"What do you mean?"
I turn to face her fully. "Don't sell the café. Let me help you save it instead."
Hope flickers in her eyes. "How?"
"Regular music nights, maybe weekly. My songs, other local musicians. We'll build something together. I can help you stay afloat financially until things get better." I take a chance and reach up to touch her cheek. "If you still want to."
She leans into my touch, eyes closing briefly. "I want to. But Cade, I need to know this isn't just about the café or the music. Because for me, it's not."
"It's not," I admit, finally allowing myself to say what I've been feeling. "It's about you. About us."
When I kiss her, it's different from our first time. Slower, more deliberate, filled with apology and promise. When we part, there are tears in her eyes.
"Come home with me," I whisper against her lips. "Let me show you how sorry I am."
"Oh, soldier," she says with a smile, tears glistening in her eyes. "You better be prepared to be very, very sorry."
I drive faster to my cabin than I think I ever have before. I’m desperate to get inside her again, to make her believe how truly sorry I am.
Embeth's hand rests on my thigh as I drive, her fingers tracing patterns that send heat coursing through my veins. Every touch is a spark, igniting a fire that's been smoldering since the moment I saw her again.
As soon as we're through the door, I kick it shut behind us, my hands already on her, pulling her close. Her curves press against me, soft and yielding, as I claim her mouth again. She tastes sweet, like the vanilla lattes she serves in her café, and I can't get enough.
Embeth's hands are eager, exploring my body with a hunger that matches my own.
She tugs at my shirt, popping a button in her haste.
I don't care. I just need to feel her skin against mine.
I can see the outline of her bra beneath the thin fabric of her shirt, and I can't help but reach up to trace the edge of it, making her shiver.