Chapter 36 | Heather | Three Months Later
Heather
Three Months Later
T he morning air bit at my exposed skin like tiny needles, each breath forming small clouds that dissipated before I could accurately observe their shape.
Mist clung to the mansion's grounds in gossamer threads that softened the edges of everything.
The garden where we'd honored Mom and planted her ashes beneath a beautiful weeping willow tree, the oak trees that had witnessed our family's expansion, the security gates that Angus had installed just in case.
My hands felt clammy inside my running gloves, palms slick with nervous moisture that had nothing to do with the cool temperature and everything to do with the butterflies performing acrobatics in my stomach.
The streets beyond our gates stretched clean and debris-free in ways that would have seemed impossible just months ago.
Bennett had hired entire construction crews to hasten Shaker City's recovery.
Broken concrete had been hauled away and replaced with smooth asphalt; fallen power lines had been buried underground.
Damaged storefronts now showed fresh paint and intact windows that caught the early light, like the promise of better days.
I flexed my fingers inside the gloves, trying to work feeling back into digits that seemed determined to remain numb with anticipation.
My heart performed its own marathon inside my chest, rhythm stuttering between excitement and apprehension in ways that made my breath catch unexpectedly.
This was it... the marathon I'd been preparing for since before our world had burned down and been rebuilt stronger.
Dante appeared beside me, his marshmallow scent carrying undertones of pride and worry in equal measure.
His large hands settled on my shoulders with a gentle touch, calming my scattered thoughts and grounding me in the present moment rather than the anxious projections of what might happen once the starting gun fired.
"You can do this," he said. "For her. For your mom, and all the moms out there who were lost before they should have been."
The words hit something deep in my chest, transforming my nervous energy into something more purposeful and determined.
His hands tightened slightly on my shoulders, but before I could respond, Angus appeared with characteristic Highland enthusiasm, his massive arms scooping me off the ground and spinning me in circles that made the misty morning blur into streaks of gray and gold.
Laughter erupted from my chest despite the nerves, his chocolate scent wrapping around me like comfort food as his centrifugal force temporarily banished anxiety in favor of pure joy.
"Angus!" Cole's voice carried a sharp disapproval. "You'll make her dizzy before the race!"
I found my footing as Angus set me down, grinning at Cole with satisfaction that came with making me laugh. "It's a marathon, not a race," I corrected automatically, though my smile took any sting out of the clarification.
Cole rolled his eyes but the smirk that accompanied the gesture revealed fondness that had grown considerably over the months we'd been together. The clinical reserve that had initially characterized his interactions with me had dissolved into something warmer, more openly affectionate.
"Do you have your protein bars?" he asked, hands already moving to check my gear with methodical thoroughness. "Water bottle? Electrolyte supplements?"
I patted the pocket in my running shorts, feeling the reassuring bulk of energy bars that he'd personally selected based on nutritional analysis and digestibility studies.
"All here," I assured him, touched by care that extended to every detail of my race preparation.
"Don't worry about me, I've got this handled. "
"Make sure you're properly warmed up," he continued, ignoring my reassurance in favor of completing his mental checklist of potential medical complications. "Your muscles need adequate preparation to prevent injury, especially in this cool weather."
"Cole," I said gently, reaching out to touch his arm in ways that conveyed affection alongside mild exasperation. "I know how to prepare for a run. I promise my muscles will be ready." He smiled and nodded, kissing me on my forehead.
Bennett's voice cut through our exchange.
"Yes, you bloody well do have this handled!
" His peppermint scent carried conviction that made arguing impossible, pride radiating from him in waves I could feel warming my chest. "I've been running with you for months now, and every single time, you push harder and faster than the time before. If anyone can win this, it's you."
The absolute certainty in his voice sent a different kind of flutter through my stomach, this one warm and strengthening rather than anxious.
Our training runs had become more than physical preparation; they'd been opportunities for connection, for testing each other's limits and discovering reserves of strength that neither of us had known existed.
Susie appeared from somewhere behind the group, her wild red hair tamed into a practical braid. "What are you going to do with the money if you win?" she asked directly, cutting straight to questions that adults preferred to approach slowly.
The question made me pause, hands stilling in their nervous adjustments of my gear.
Months ago, the prize money had represented salvation, resources that could keep the orphanage running and provide security for children who'd already lost too much.
But our circumstances had changed dramatically, abundance replacing scarcity in ways that still felt surreal.
"I joined because we needed the money originally," I said slowly, working through thoughts that hadn't fully crystallized until spoken aloud.
"But we don't need it anymore. So, I'll give it to the people who helped us survive these past few years.
Bobby, the shopkeeper who brought us food when we had nothing, the neighbors who bought cupcakes from our table, all the people who saw children in need and chose to help rather than look away. "
Susie's face brightened with approval, her smile carrying a sense of satisfaction. "That's a good idea," she said simply, but her tone conveyed pride that made my chest warm with affection.
The mist began to lift as dawn strengthened, revealing a city that bore scars of earthquake and fire, but also signs of determined recovery.
I had to win this marathon... not just for personal achievement, but for everyone who'd believed in our family's ability to survive and thrive despite everything that had tried to destroy us.
Taking a breath, I assessed the environment, watching the other runners getting ready with their families and packs beside them.
Every one of us was running for more than ourselves; we were running in remembrance for someone we loved, for the money that could help feed our families or those in dire need.
No matter who won today, every step was worthwhile.
My fingers worked the laces of my running shoes, pulling them tight and double-knotting them, though they trembled at the task. The cold morning air made each exhale visible in small puffs that reminded me of the mist that had clung to our mansion grounds just an hour earlier.
In front of me, the starting line stretched before me, marked by banners that snapped in the light breeze and timing equipment that would measure our efforts in precise digital increments.
Runners of every age and fitness level surrounded me, some bouncing on their toes with nervous energy while others stretched with a focus that spoke of experience.
The collective scent of anticipation mixed with warming muscles and morning coffee created an atmosphere thick with potential energy waiting to be released.
The butterflies from earlier had multiplied into what felt like an entire ecosystem of winged creatures testing the limits of my internal organs.
I pressed a hand against my abdomen, trying to will the nervous energy into something more manageable, more useful, but it was no use; it wouldn’t ease until I started running and applied focus to every step rather than what this marathon meant to me.
Even though we no longer needed the money, the need to win burned just as fiercely, perhaps more so, because now it carried meaning that transcended necessity.
This was for Mom, whose ashes rested beneath the weeping willow in our garden but whose influence continued shaping every decision I made about love, family, and the courage required to keep moving forward when everything familiar had been stripped away.
Movement in the crowd caught my attention, and I turned to see familiar faces that made my heart swell with emotion.
All the children, the orphanage kids and lost girls alike, had positioned themselves behind barriers with handmade signs that must have been created in secret collaboration during the days leading up to this moment.
"Run for Mama" read one poster, the letters carefully formed in Denson's precise handwriting but decorated with Dylan's artistic nature.
Another proclaimed, "You Can Do It" in Tomas's somewhat uneven script.
Even Loubie Lou had contributed, her small handprint pressed in purple paint, my mom's favorite color, alongside a drawing that looked to be me running, though it looked more like a stick figure with long legs.