Thorne
Two Weeks Later...
The Annual Timber Festival transforms Silver Ridge. Strings of lights crisscross Main Street, wooden booths line the town square, and the scent of pine mixes with funnel cake and barbecue. It's been this way every summer for as long as I can remember.
But this year, everything is different. This year, she's here.
I stand at the edge of the square, watching Dahlia arrange wildflowers in a hollowed piece of cedar I found for her last week.
Her booth has drawn a crowd all day—tourists and locals alike captivated by her unique designs that combine Silver Ridge's timber with seasonal blooms she's harvested from the surrounding meadows.
Sustainable, she calls it. Beautiful, I call it.
She looks up, somehow sensing my gaze, and smiles. Two weeks. That's all it's been since she went back to Vancouver to settle her affairs. Two weeks that felt like years. But now she's here. For good.
I've always been a solitary man. Content with the rhythm of my days—working the timber, meals alone, sleep, repeat. I never knew how empty that existence was until she filled it with color and laughter and warmth.
"You're staring again," my brother Wade says, appearing beside me with two beers. He hands me one. "It's getting embarrassing."
I accept the beer without taking my eyes off Dahlia. "Don't care."
"Clearly." He follows my gaze, shaking his head. "Still can't believe you convinced a city girl like that to move to Silver Ridge."
"Didn't have to convince her of much," I say, remembering the wildflower meadow and her whispered confessions. "She belongs here."
Wade smirks. "With you, you mean."
I don't bother responding. Wade knows me well enough to read the answer in my silence.
Across the square, Dahlia demonstrates to a group of women how she weaves thin strips of bark through her arrangements.
Her hands move with confidence, her smile bright as sunshine as she explains her technique.
Several of the women scribble notes. Already she's building a clientele, teaching workshops alongside her custom pieces.
"Speaking of city folk," Wade says, his tone darkening as he gestures toward the competition area, "they're everywhere this year."
I follow his gaze to where the axe-throwing contest is being set up. Several tourists in brand-new flannel shirts are examining the equipment, cameras dangling around their necks.
"Festival brings revenue," I remind him, though I understand his irritation. Wade's the five-time axe-throwing champion of Silver Ridge, and he takes the competition seriously. "Tourists spend money."
"They get in the way," he grumbles, taking a long pull of his beer. "Half of them are just here to get Instagram photos of authentic lumberjacks." The disgust in his voice is palpable.
I hide my smile behind my bottle. Wade's always been the more sociable of us Harrington brothers, but he's fiercely protective of Silver Ridge's traditions.
"That one hasn't stopped taking pictures since she arrived," he says, nodding toward a blonde woman with a professional-looking camera. She's photographing the setup for the log-rolling contest.
I study my brother's face, noting how his eyes track the photographer's movements. There's annoyance there, certainly, but something else too. Something that looks suspiciously like interest.
His eyes drift back to the photographer. She's adjusted her position now, capturing the late afternoon light as it slants across the competition area. Her face is intent with concentration, professional and focused.
"She's in my way," Wade mutters unconvincingly.
"Sure she is." I finish my beer just as Dahlia waves me over to her booth. "You should introduce yourself. Maybe she wants to photograph the reigning champion."
I leave him sputtering denials and cross the square to Dahlia. She's just finished wrapping an arrangement for a customer when I reach her.
"What did you say to your brother?" she asks, nodding toward Wade who's now staring openly at the blonde photographer. "He looks like he's about to spontaneously combust."
"Just pointed out some wildlife he was pretending not to notice," I say, circling behind her booth to wrap my arms around her waist. "How's business?"
"Amazing," she says, leaning back against my chest. "I've sold almost everything. And three women from Prince Rupert want me to teach a workshop next month."
Pride swells in my chest. I never doubted she'd succeed here, but watching her bloom in Silver Ridge.
"I saved this one," she says, reaching for a small arrangement nestled in a piece of maple burl I've had for years. The hollow is filled with delicate white blossoms and fragrant herbs. "For our table. Our first festival together should be commemorated."
Before Dahlia, words rarely seemed necessary. Now, I find myself wishing I had more of them, better ones, to tell her what she means to me. How in the space of a month, she's transformed a life I thought was complete into something richer and fuller than I ever imagined possible.
Instead, I kiss her, there in the middle of the festival with half the town looking on. Let them look. Let them see that Thorne Harrington is no longer a solitary figure in this community. Let them see that the man they've known all these years has been remade by love.
When we part, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright. "What was that for?"
"For staying," I say simply. "For seeing something worth keeping in a gruff old lumberjack."
She reaches up to touch my face, her fingers tracing my beard with tenderness. "Not old. Just seasoned. Like the best timber."
I laugh, a sound that's become more common since she entered my life. "Ready to close up? Wade's competing in thirty minutes."
She nods, beginning to pack away her remaining supplies. "I want a good spot to watch. Your brother is quite the celebrity around here, from what I hear."
Across the square, Wade is still watching the photographer, his expression a complicated mix of annoyance and fascination. I recognize that look. I wore it myself not so long ago, standing in a rain-soaked clearing, staring at a woman in a yellow raincoat who would change everything.
I take Dahlia's hand and lead her toward the competition area. Around us, Silver Ridge buzzes with activity, the same festival it's always been, yet entirely new through her eyes—through the eyes of the man I've become with her beside me.
Two weeks ago, in a meadow full of wildflowers, I told her I'd never let her go. Tonight, with her hand in mine and our future stretching before us as vast and promising as the forests surrounding Silver Ridge, I silently renew that vow.
Some men search their whole lives for purpose. I found mine in a storm, in a flash of yellow raincoat and flame-red hair. In a woman who saw past my gruff exterior to the heart beneath. And I intend to spend every day making sure she never regrets choosing me.