Chapter 5
Chapter Five
SHELBY
Two weeks of good. That's what we get.
Two weeks of Cade at my door in the mornings with coffee from his stove because it's better than my instant.
Two weeks of dinners that alternate between his kitchen and mine, him teaching me to bank a fire so it lasts through the night, me teaching him that garlic goes in everything.
Two weeks of falling asleep in his bed, walking home across the dewy grass at dawn to shower and pretend I didn't just spend the night with a man I've known for less than a month.
My cabin has heat now. A working generator. A fence that could stop a truck. A porch step that holds.
And every time Cade puts his hands on me, every time he pulls me close in the dark with his mouth at my ear, my name in his low voice, the fear gets quieter.
Not gone. Quieter.
The email arrives on a Tuesday.
Service is spotty at the cabin, but I drive into town for groceries twice a week now. The parking lot outside the hardware store gets one solid bar. Sometimes two. Enough to load my inbox.
Kevin.Arndt@: Shelby, my attorney has advised me that the property purchased in Bear Creek Valley, CO was acquired during our legal separation using funds from our joint savings account prior to final disbursement.
As such, it may be subject to equitable distribution.
Please have your attorney contact Ellen Marsh at her earliest convenience to discuss. Kevin
I read it three times. Sitting in my car with the engine off, groceries in the back, hands steady because they've had years of practice at not shaking when Kevin makes the floor tilt.
Joint savings. Our joint savings that was supposed to be split fifty-fifty, which it was, which I have the paperwork to prove. He got his half. I got mine. The cabin was bought with my half. My money. My decision. My name on the deed.
But Kevin doesn't lose. Kevin takes. That's what he does. When I left him, he got the house, both cars, the furniture, the dog. When I asked for the savings to be split, he dragged it out for months. Now that I've used my share to build a life he didn't approve, he wants that too.
My hands are shaking. Damn it.
The phone buzzes again.
Kevin Arndt:
Also, I hope you're doing well. It doesn't have to be contentious.
I want to throw the phone out the window. It doesn't have to be contentious. His favorite line. The one that means: agree with me, or watch me make your life hell while I smile and call it reasonable.
My lawyer is a woman named Dana in Denver who charges two hundred an hour and doesn't flinch. I text her.
Me:
Kevin's claiming the cabin. Joint savings argument. I have all the disbursement paperwork. Is this real?
Dana:
It's posturing. He has no claim. I'll handle Ellen Marsh. Don't respond to him directly.
Me:
Wasn't planning on it.
Dana:
Good. Sit tight. This is noise, not substance.
Noise. Okay. Just noise. My lawyer says it's noise.
So why can't I breathe?
Because Kevin knows where I am now. The address is on the property filing. Public record. He didn't have to search hard. And knowing Kevin, he didn't. He had his lawyer do it while he sat in his office feeling righteous about reclaiming what's his.
The drive back up the mountain is a blur. Gravel road, switchbacks, the trees closing in on both sides. By the time I pull into my yard, my chest is so tight I can barely turn the steering wheel.
Cade's truck is in my driveway.
He's on my porch. Sitting on the step he fixed, elbows on his knees. When he sees me pull in, he stands. Reads my face in two seconds.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Shelby."
"I said nothing." The groceries come out of the back. Bags gripped too hard. A can of tomatoes rolls across the gravel. He picks it up.
"You've been crying."
"I haven't." But my eyes are swollen and we both know it.
He follows me inside. Sets the can on the counter. Stands in the doorway while I slam groceries into cabinets with more force than soup cans require.
"Talk to me."
"Not everything requires a conversation, Cade." The peanut butter hits the shelf hard enough to rattle the dishes.
"Something's wrong."
"Something's always wrong. That's life." I shove the last bag into the recycling bin under the sink. My hands are shaking again. My whole body is shaking. And I can't stop it because Kevin found me. He found this place. The one place that was supposed to be just mine.
"Is it the ex?"
My head snaps up. "How do you know about my ex?"
"You told me. Two weeks ago, at the fence."
Right. The afternoon with the sandwiches when my mouth decided to stop guarding the door. I told him about Kevin's opinions, about the laughing, about the silence.
"Was he just controlling or was he dangerous?" Cade asks, quiet. Steady. That same patience that usually calms me now making me want to scream because I don't want to be calmed. I want to be furious. Fury is simpler.
"He's not gonna show up here with a gun, if that's what you're asking."
"That's not what I'm asking."
"Then what are you asking?"
"Whether you're safe."
The word cracks me open. Safe. The same word I whispered in his bed. The same word I can't seem to stop reaching for and can't seem to keep.
"I'm fine. It's a legal thing. My lawyer's handling it."
"Okay."
"It's not your problem."
"Didn't say it was."
"But you're standing in my kitchen with that look on your face."
"What look?"
"The one where you're deciding what to fix." My voice breaks. Shatters, really, right down the middle. "You can't fix this, Cade. This isn't a fence or a porch step. This is my life. My mess. And I don't need you showing up every time something goes wrong so you can be useful."
The word lands. Useful. I see it hit because his jaw tightens. His hands go still at his sides.
"That's what you think I'm doing?"
"I think you're a man who fixes things because that's what makes you feel needed. And I think I'm just the closest broken thing to your property line."
Silence. The cabin settles around us. The fire pops. Wind against the windows.
His face is unreadable. He's good at that. Five years of solitude teaches a man how to keep his expression locked while everything behind it burns.
"I've never once thought you were broken." His voice is low. Controlled. "But if you need space, I know how to give it."
He walks out. Doesn't slam the door. Doesn't argue. Just pulls it closed behind him with a quiet click that's worse than any slam.
His truck starts. Gravel crunches. The sound fades up the road toward his property.
The cabin is silent.
I stand in my kitchen with my hands flat on the counter, breathing. The shaking stops eventually. The tightness in my chest eases from unbearable to just heavy.
The groceries are put away. The fire needs another log. The dishes from breakfast are still in the sink.
I wash them. Because that's what I do. I handle things.
My phone sits on the counter. Kevin's email. Dana's texts. Cade's name in my recent calls, a number I added last week after he texted me a photo of a sunset from his pasture with no caption. Just the image. Because he doesn't waste words.
I called him the closest broken thing to his property line.
The dish I'm holding slips. Catches the edge of the sink. Doesn't break, but my hands are shaking again. Not from Kevin this time.
From the look on Cade's face when the word useful left my mouth. His whole body going still. I know that look. I grew up giving people that look. Someone who just had their worst fear confirmed by the person they trusted not to do it.
He thinks he's only good for fixing things. I've known that since the second week, since the morning he stacked firewood at dawn because he didn't know how else to say I'm thinking about you. And I just weaponized it. Took the best thing about him and made it a weakness.
Kevin would be proud of me. Using someone's vulnerability against them in an argument. That's his move. And I just ran it perfectly.
Outside, the sun is setting behind the ridge. Gold light on the aspens. Cade's property is dark. No porch light. No truck in the driveway I can see from the kitchen window.
I dry the dishes. Stack them. Close the cabinet.
Tomorrow. I'll fix this tomorrow. He'll be there. He's always there.
Except tonight, for the first time since he brought me firewood, the mountain is quiet. And I put it there.