Chapter 16
Threshold
Darcy
It had been a few weeks since she’d embraced the quiet charm of Sylva, North Carolina, and today she was headed to Emma’s for lunch. She wanted to stop by the bakery first and pick up a box of treats—something sweet and thoughtful to set on Emma’s kitchen table.
Digging through her purse for her keys, her fingers brushed a slip of paper—the speeding ticket she’d forgotten.
“Great,” she muttered. On the back, bold black print read: To pay your fine, go to the Main Courthouse.
A ripple of unease slid through her. She’d admired the courthouse from a distance—its dome and sweep of steps—but walking inside felt risky. What if they ran my name—and Jason’s shadow somehow reached across those marble floors?
Tucking the ticket back, she promised herself she’d take care of it later.
Darcy stepped out of the camper, purse over her shoulder, and started down the narrow path toward the market. Morning air was cool and sharp, damp earth clinging to every breath.
Halfway down, movement in the brush made her freeze—a quick shadow darting across the path. She startled—until a burst of wings erupted, a covey of doves scattering into the branches. She exhaled, laughing softly at herself.
By the time the trees thinned and the market’s porch came into view, she’d steadied. The smell of coffee drifted down the path, warm and inviting. Mary Lou sat in one rocking chair, a bright crocheted shawl draped over her shoulders, mug held just so in both hands.
“Well, if it isn’t our newest neighbor,” Mary Lou called, her grin as easy as the morning itself. She set down her mug and reached for a tin of muffins on the porch railing, ever the town’s unofficial feeder.
Ned cocked his battered ball cap a little farther back and whittled at a bit of wood with his trusty pocketknife, boots planted wide on the porch floor.
Darcy smiled, climbing the porch steps. “Didn’t expect to see you two holding court out here.”
Mary Lou chuckled. “Someone has to check up on this guy every once in a while. He hardly ever comes into town.”
Ned smirked. “Why would I, when the town keeps bringing itself to me?” He gave Darcy a wink.
Darcy laughed, easing into an empty chair. The easy banter between them wrapped around her like comfort.
After a lull, she admitted, “I like it here more every day, but that little camper of mine—Bambi—is starting to feel cramped.”
Mary Lou nodded knowingly. “Then you need to get out more. Sylva’s got more to offer than four walls and a camper roof.”
Ned tipped his chair back. “You ever been to Catch My Draft?”
Darcy shook her head.
“You should,” Ned said. “Live music Friday and Saturday nights. Good way to meet people. Loosen up a little.”
Color rose to her cheeks. “Maybe I will.”
With a wave, she headed toward town, the promise of warm bread and sweet pastries tugging her forward—along with the thought that maybe, just maybe, she was ready to start stepping into life again.
By late morning, she parked near the base of the courthouse hill, and the sight of it stole her breath.
The Jackson County Courthouse rose high above Main Street—white columns gleaming against a bright sweep of blue sky.
A stately line of stone steps led up the hill, bordered by railings and flowerbeds bursting with color.
The building was beautiful.
Still, she paused before climbing. The long staircase felt symbolic somehow—each step a test. By the top, she was breathless, both from the incline and from nerves she couldn’t shake.
Inside, cool air wrapped around her, carrying the faint scent of polish and paper. Sunlight spilled through high arched windows, glinting off marble floors. Her heels clicked softly across the marble, the sound swallowed by the vast, echoing hall. Voices carried faintly down the corridor.
She followed a sign toward the Clerk of Court, but something colorful caught her eye through an open doorway.
The Rotunda Gallery opened before her—light streaming down from the skylight above, the walls lined with framed paintings and photographs.
A placard beneath a sepia-toned image read: Built 1914.
Architect: Smith & Carrier. Builder: C. J.
Harris, whose efforts brought the county seat from Webster to Sylva.
Darcy smiled faintly. She remembered reading about Harris—the man who’d helped shape this town. Her fingertips brushed the edge of a display case, her earlier tension easing.
She’d once worked in a museum back in Denver. Loved it—the quiet rhythm of cataloging art. It had been her sanctuary before Jason insisted she quit, saying, West Custom Homes needs you more. She’d told herself she was helping him, but the truth was she’d given up a part of herself.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a gentle voice said.
Darcy turned. Behind the desk sat a woman with warm eyes and gray-streaked hair pulled into a twist.
“It really is,” Darcy said. “I’m sorry—I was just—”
“Don’t apologize. Always good to see someone appreciate it,” the woman replied, smiling. “I’m Joann Palmer. We rotate exhibits every few weeks. Stop by again sometime.”
“I’d love that,” Darcy said, meaning it.
With one last look at the sunlit gallery, she moved on toward the metal detector.
The older deputy manning it gave her a friendly nod as she set her purse on the belt. “Afternoon, ma’am. You must be new around here,” he said, voice warm but teasing.
Darcy smiled. “Guess it’s that obvious.”
Before he could answer, the front doors opened behind her.
“Darcy—hold up a second,” came a familiar voice.
She turned. Sheriff Burke Scott stood in the doorway, sunlight haloing him as he crossed the marble floor. The deputy’s grin widened at the sight of Burke.
“How’s it going, boss?” he called, shooting Burke a knowing look that made Darcy’s cheeks warm.
Burke chuckled. “Thanks for the warm welcome, Carl.”
He stopped beside her, tipping his head. “What brings you up here?”
“Oh—just paying a fine,” she said, holding up the paper sheepishly. “Speeding ticket.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture saying what words couldn’t. “Yeah, I heard. Sorry about that. My deputy’s a stickler.”
“Don’t be. I was in the wrong.” Her voice softened. “Can you point me to the clerk’s office?”
“Down the hall, second door on the right.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.”
“Burke,” he corrected gently.
She smiled, nodded, then walked down the hall, the faint click of her boots fading into silence.
About thirty minutes later, when she reappeared, he was still outside—leaning against his patrol truck, one boot braced on the step rail. He straightened as she approached.
“Got lunch plans?” he asked casually.
She hesitated, smiling. “Actually, I do—lunch with Emma Thompson.”
For a second, his expression shifted—surprise, maybe—but then he smiled. “Well, can’t argue with that. I’ll take a rain check, then.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal,” she said, heading toward her Jeep. With a playful glance over her shoulder: “Goodbye, Burke.”
He watched her drive away, sunlight flaring off her rearview mirror as his brow furrowed.
“Emma Thompson,” he muttered. “Why would she be having lunch with my great-aunt Emma?”
He wasn’t sure what that meant yet, but he planned to find out. Burke pushed off the truck, the question turning as he headed back down Main Street.
By early afternoon, Darcy followed the winding road out past the old church and into the hills, sunlight flickering through the trees. The nerves from the courthouse had faded by the time she turned onto Emma Thompson’s drive.
Sunlight streamed through lace curtains, casting soft patterns across the table. Darcy sat while Emma poured sweet tea, the gentle clink of ice breaking the quiet.
Their talk started light—gardens, recipes, the way the mountain fog rolled through the valley—but as the laughter faded, Emma set down her glass and folded her hands.
“Darcy,” she said softly, “are you running from something?”
Darcy’s smile faltered. “Why do you ask?”
“I see it in your eyes,” Emma said. “In the way you scan a room before sitting down. I’ve lived long enough to recognize fear when I see it.”
Darcy tried to hold it together. A single tear escaped before she could stop it.
Emma reached across the table and covered her hand. “You can tell me, child. You can trust me. I like to think Rose would want you to.”
At her grandmother’s name, Darcy broke. Tears came fast and hot.
“I thought I had a fairy-tale marriage. For six years, things were great—or at least I thought so. Then one night I saw him with another woman, and I was shattered. I confronted him, and—” she drew a breath “—he beat me. I thought he was going to kill me.”
Emma’s expression hardened, something fierce and protective behind her eyes.
“When it was over, I ran to my best friend’s house,” Darcy whispered. “He sent flowers and cards and jewelry, begging for forgiveness. I went back. It happened again. Every time I thought it was the last. It was like the man I married was gone.”
Her voice cracked. “He said if I ever left him—if I tried to divorce him—he’d kill me. He told me he’d bury me where no one would ever find me.”
Emma squeezed her hand, firm and sure. “You did what you had to do, child—to survive.”
Darcy nodded weakly. “I changed my name. It used to be Caitlin West. My husband is Jason West—he owns West Custom Homes in Denver. He’s powerful, connected, the kind of man people don’t cross.
His parents… they’re just as dangerous in their own way.
If he finds me—” she broke off, voice trembling “—I don’t know what he’d do. ”
Emma’s tone was quiet but fierce. “He won’t find you here. You’re safe now, and you’re not alone anymore.”
Darcy looked down at their joined hands, overwhelmed. “You don’t know what that means to hear.”
“I think I do,” Emma said gently. “Strength isn’t loud—it’s the quiet choice to keep going when you’re sure you can’t. You came here because you were meant to. I like to think Rose had a hand in that.”
Silence filled the kitchen, soft and healing.
When Darcy stood to leave, Emma walked her to the door. “You’re stronger than you think, Darcy Nolan—or Caitlin West, whichever name you choose. You keep moving forward. You hear?”
Darcy nodded, words lost behind the knot in her chest.
That night, as she settled into her camper, the silence of the forest surrounded her.
Darcy sat on her bed, knees drawn up, staring out at the moonlit creek.
“Thank you, Grandma,” she whispered into the dark. “For sending me here. For sending me her.”
Somewhere beyond the trees, a dove cooed—a soft, lingering sound that felt almost like an answer.