Chapter 4 Emma
An overly protective mountain man has been leaving little gifts on my porch for the last week.
It started the Tuesday after Sarah's birthday party, three days after I'd talked his niece out of a bathroom stall and watched something shift in his blue eyes.
I'd nearly stepped on the first one: a mason jar of wild blackberries and a smooth river stone, sitting on my porch like they'd always belonged there.
No note. No explanation. But I knew exactly who had left them.
I'm a second-grade teacher in a small mountain town.
I grade spelling tests, referee playground disputes, and convince seven-year-olds that reading is actually fun.
My life is small, quiet, carefully contained within the safe walls I've built around myself.
I don't get mysterious gifts from mountain men.
Except, apparently, I do now.
The day after that, a jar of honey with a note. Three words in blocky, careful handwriting:
From the hive. Thank you
I spent an embarrassing amount of time getting that sticky note off the lid without tearing it. Fifteen minutes, if we're being honest. Then I tucked it into my mirror frame like a teenager saving a concert ticket from her first crush.
Very professional behavior. Extremely mature. Definitely not the actions of a woman losing her grip.
Friday brought a carved sparrow, pale wood polished smooth, feathers suggested by delicate grooves that must have taken hours to create.
The level of detail stole my breath completely.
Had he made this himself? The thought of him in his quiet cabin, knife in hand, brow furrowed in concentration as he carved something beautiful just for me, did dangerous things to my heart.
Things I wasn't prepared to examine too closely.
By Saturday morning, I was waiting like a dog by the door. I made coffee. I tried to read my book, but reread the same paragraph four times without absorbing a single word. I finally gave up entirely and just sat there, watching the morning light creep across my floor.
Last week, our class had a Mother's Day craft event where every student was supposed to bring their mom. But one of my students didn't have a mom to bring, and showed up holding her uncle's hand.
He was so tall he barely fit through the door. He looked like he'd rather fight a bear than face a room full of paper hearts. I remember thinking he seemed carved from the mountain itself, completely and utterly out of place among the alphabet posters and tiny chairs and cheerful chaos.
All the other kids had their moms to help, and she sat beside him, watching him try to cut out a paper flower with hands twice the size of the scissors.
The glue stuck to his fingers, and every time something tore, he whispered "sorry" like it might break her heart.
That moment had torn something within me. The tenderness beneath his rough exterior. The way he tried so hard despite being so clearly out of his depth.
So I knelt beside her desk and said softly, "Hey, Sarah, would you like me to help you? I'd really love to."
She looked up at her uncle like she was asking permission. He nodded and smiled for the first time.
That smile had undone something in me. I hadn't fully understood it then, but I was starting to understand it now, sitting in my quiet cabin, waiting for him like my morning depended on it.
The crunch of gravel outside snapped me back to the present moment. Boots on my porch steps. Heavy, deliberate, unmistakable. My heart promptly forgot how to do its one job.
I set down my cold coffee. Smoothed my sweater. Took a breath that didn't help at all.
Then I opened the door before he could knock.
This morning, I finally caught him, and his hands were full of wildflowers.
Cole stood there on my porch, clutching an unruly bouquet colorful with purple lupine, white yarrow, red paintbrush, and blue columbine. Not a neat florist arrangement wrapped in cellophane. A mountain offering, slightly wilted from the warmth of his grip, absolutely perfect in its wildness.
He looked different today. Clean flannel shirt, actually ironed—I could see the crisp creases. Damp hair, neatly combed back from his face. The formidable mountain man who'd looked ready to fight bears looked genuinely, endearingly nervous.
He looked at me and spoke so softly it was almost a whisper, "You made her feel like she had a mother that day."
It felt like he was defending his act of kindness, trying not to look weird, and this action melted my heart even further.
He paused, the silence stretching between us, full of wildflower scent and cool morning air and something I couldn't quite name.
"My sister would have loved you," he added, softer now, almost hesitant.
The air left my lungs completely. An ache to tear up welled in my eyes.
"Cole." I had to clear my throat twice before words would come. "You didn't have to do any of this."
"It's nothing special." He shifted his weight awkwardly, his eyes dropping to the flowers in his hands like they'd betrayed him somehow. "The mountain provides."
"The mountain provides hand-carved sparrows?" I raised an eyebrow. "That's a very talented mountain you've got there."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "That part was me. The mountain takes credit for the berries and the wildflowers. I'm just the delivery service."
I gestured behind me to the windowsill where his gifts sat arranged in a neat row, catching the morning light like treasures. "Well, I've thoroughly enjoyed the blackberries. The honey's almost gone too. I've been putting it in everything."
"I can bring more honey. Got plenty at the cabin. The bees have been productive this season."
"You're going to spoil me, Cole."
"Maybe that's the point."
His words hung between us in the cool morning air, heavier than he'd probably intended. His ears went slightly pink at the tips. I decided to rescue us both before this got any more charged.
"Would you like coffee?" I asked, stepping back to hold the door wider. "As a thank you for the week of wonderful gifts?"
His head came up sharply, surprise flashing across his rugged features. Then his face brightened remarkably, the severe lines softening into something almost boyish and eager. "I'd like that," he said, his voice still gruff but warmer now. "If you're sure I'm not intruding."
"I'm sure." I smiled. "Though I should warn you, my chairs are regular-sized. You might actually fit in them comfortably."
He ducked through my doorway, clearly a habit from a lifetime of being too tall for standard architecture. He stood somewhat awkwardly in my small living room, the wildflowers looking even more massive and gloriously untamed indoors against my modest furniture.
"Here." I reached for the bouquet. Our fingers brushed in the exchange. It was brief, electric, and impossible to ignore. "Let me find something worthy of these. They're beautiful."
"They're just wildflowers," he said, but he looked pleased.
I busied myself finding a tall mason jar and filling it with water, arranging the blooms as artfully as I could manage while he stood there with his hands empty, looking unsure of what to do with them.
"Sit," I said, nodding toward my small kitchen table. "I promise the chair can handle you. It's sturdier than it looks."
"That's exactly what they said about the school chairs." But he moved toward the table and sat carefully, the wood creaking in mild protest beneath his weight. "Those mostly held up."
"Mostly?"
"There was one concerning moment during the craft event. I tried not to breathe too deeply."
I laughed, the sound surprising me with its genuineness. "Coffee's fresh. Just made it. Cream? Sugar?"
"Black is fine."
"A purist. I should have guessed."
"I like things… simple," he said. "Uncomplicated. Simple is good."
I brought two steaming mugs over and settled into the chair across from him. The wildflowers sat between us on the worn wooden table, a riot of color against the plain surface. For a long moment, we just sipped our coffee in a strangely comfortable silence. It was charged but not awkward.
"How's Sarah doing?" I asked finally, finding the safest thread to pull.
He relaxed visibly at the question, the tension in his broad shoulders easing. "Good. Really good, actually. She painted a bee with her new watercolors. It's... abstract."
"Abstract good or abstract concerning?"
"Abstract 'I'm hanging it on the fridge and hoping it's not a cry for help.'" A faint, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. "I told her it was beautiful. She said I was lying but she appreciated the effort."
"Smart kid."
"Too smart. She gets that from Rebecca." His smile faded slightly. "She hasn't mentioned the incident from the party again. Whatever you said to her in that bathroom really stuck."
"I'm glad it helped. What did she tell you about our conversation?"
"Just that you said her mom would be proud of her bee cake. And that her feelings aren't wrong, just feelings." He met my eyes, genuinely curious. "What else did you say? How did you calm her down so fast?"
"Just a few things to validate her emotions and let her know that I understand how she feels." I traced the rim of my mug absently.
"Simple as that?"
"Kids don't need complicated explanations, Cole. They just need permission to feel what they're already feeling. Adults make everything harder than it needs to be."
He was quiet for a moment, turning his mug slowly in those massive, capable hands. "I don't always know how to give her that permission. Rebecca would have known instinctively. She was all warmth and light and intuition."
"Tell me about her," I said softly. "Rebecca."
The words came out before I could second-guess the intimacy of the request. He looked up, something flickering in his blue eyes—surprise, then gratitude for the invitation.