Chapter 4 Emma #2
"She was warm," he said slowly, carefully choosing each word. "Pure, genuine warmth. The kind of person who made everyone feel like the most important person in the room just by paying attention to them." He almost smiled at a memory. "I'm more..."
"Pragmatic?"
"I was going to say 'emotionally constipated,' but pragmatic works too. Sounds more dignified."
I laughed again, and he seemed pleased by the sound.
"Foster care doesn't exactly teach tenderness," he continued, more serious now. "You learn to read rooms for danger, not for comfort. You learn to need nothing so disappointment can't touch you."
"That sounds incredibly lonely."
"It was efficient." He shrugged like it didn't matter, but his eyes said otherwise.
"Kept us alive. When they handed me Sarah, she was a tiny redfaced new born, I knew how to keep something alive.
I'd kept Rebecca alive through all those homes.
But the warmth part, the emotional part.
.." He shook his head slowly. "Still figuring that out. Probably always will be."
"You're doing better than you think, Cole."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true. And because you keep not believing me.
" I leaned forward earnestly. "You showed up to that craft event absolutely terrified but you showed up anyway.
You threw her a birthday party with decorations, cake, and guests.
You're here, on my porch at eight in the morning with wildflowers that you picked yourself because you wanted to say thank you.
" I held his gaze firmly. "That's not pragmatic, Cole.
That's warm. That's exactly what she needs. "
He stared at me for a long, searching moment, something shifting in his expression. Then, quietly: "What about you, Emma?"
"What about me?"
"The sadness." His gaze was too perceptive, seeing too much. "I see it sometimes, underneath everything else. When you think no one's watching."
The question should have felt invasive, too personal. Instead, it felt like relief, of being truly seen by someone who recognized the weight because they carried their own.
"My sister," I heard myself say. "Lily."
"Tell me about her."
So I did. The words came easier than they had in over a year, spilling out like water finally finding cracks in a dam.
"Our mom died when I was sixteen. Cancer, in the beginning it was slow but rushed us all near the end. Lily was only eleven." I wrapped both hands around my mug, needing its warmth. "I basically became her parent overnight. Poorly, probably, but I tried my best."
"That's an enormous burden for a teenager."
"I managed. We managed together." I smiled despite the familiar ache. "Lily was wild, though. Fearless in ways I never was. She loved the mountains the way some people love the ocean. Completely, recklessly, absolutely in love with her whole heart."
"These mountains?"
"Mountains everywhere. But especially here, actually. She'd visited once and fell in love." My voice softened. "She'd drag me on hikes, and I'd complain the entire time about my feet and the bugs and the altitude. But I always went."
"To keep an eye on her."
"Someone had to. She never looked before she leaped." The old wound opened as I reached this part, familiar and sharp. "The last time, I told her not to go alone. The weather was shifting. I'd checked the forecast obsessively. I had this terrible feeling I couldn't shake."
He waited, patient and present.
"But Lily never listened to warnings. She said the mountain was her church. That she needed it like breathing." My voice dropped to barely a whisper. "They found her two days later."
Silence settled between us. Heavy, but not oppressive. Shared weight.
Then Cole reached across the table. His warm, calloused hand covered mine completely.
"Sometimes love isn't enough to keep people safe."
I looked up, meeting his eyes. No judgment there. Just recognition, the kind that comes from carrying the same impossible weight, knowing the same corrosive guilt.
"You couldn't have stopped her," he said quietly, firmly. "Any more than I could have stopped Rebecca from dying in that hospital bed. We do everything right and people still leave. That's not failure, Emma. That's just life being cruel."
A tear escaped, tracing down my cheek. I didn't wipe it away. He saw it, didn't flinch, just squeezed my hand gently before slowly letting go.
"Sorry," I managed, embarrassed. "I don't usually fall apart on people."
"Don't apologize. Not for grief. Never for that."
We sat with it for a moment—the shared sorrow, the mutual understanding, the strange comfort of being broken in similar ways.
Then he cleared his throat softly. "So what brought you to Pine Ridge specifically? Of all the places you could have run to?"
"Honestly? I threw a dart at a map." I laughed weakly at the memory. "That's not entirely true. But close. I needed somewhere small, somewhere anonymous. Somewhere no one knew me, where I could just be Ms. Reed, competent teacher, functional adult. And, I wanted to still feel connected to Lily."
"Is it working?"
"Some days are better than others." I met his eyes honestly. "Today's a good day."
Something warm and unspoken passed between us. Acknowledgment. Connection. Promise.
The morning sun had climbed higher while we talked, painting bright golden stripes across my kitchen.
We shifted to lighter topics, like Sarah's current obsession with finding frogs, the black bear spotted near the elementary school that had caused minor panic, and the bees' inexplicable weekly mood patterns.
"They're definitely more aggressive on Tuesdays," he insisted with complete seriousness. "I've been tracking it for two years now. The data is consistent."
"You've tracked your bees' weekly mood patterns? For two years?"
"I have a lot of time alone on that mountain. The bees are interesting. Tuesdays are statistically their angriest day."
"Maybe they have tiny bee calendars and they hate the beginning of the work week like everyone else."
He almost smiled. "That's the current working theory."
As our coffee cups emptied, an idea occurred to me. Professional, I told myself firmly. Entirely professional and appropriate.
"You know," I said carefully, tracing a finger around my mug's rim, "Sarah's reading is coming along beautifully. Really impressive progress. But some concepts are getting more complex now, and she might benefit from extra one-on-one attention."
His eyes sharpened with immediate interest, his whole body orienting toward me. "What kind of attention?"
"Light tutoring. Saturday mornings, maybe. Just an hour or so." I paused, keeping my voice carefully casual. "Here, if that works for you. I could include a few other students so Sarah doesn't feel singled out or self-conscious."
"Yes." His answer came out fast and eager. He caught himself visibly, clearing his throat and trying again with more composure. "I mean, that would be great. Really great. She'd love that. If you're absolutely sure it's not too much trouble for you."
"It's no trouble at all." The small lie tasted surprisingly sweet. "Shall we say ten o'clock next Saturday?"
"Ten o'clock. I'll have her here. Ready to learn." He stood up, the chair groaning with obvious relief at being unburdened. "Thank you, Emma. For the coffee, for listening, for..." He gestured vaguely, encompassing everything. Our conversation, the understanding, the morning, the week.
"For the blackberry-eating services?" I offered with a small smile.
His mouth quirked. "For all of it."
I walked him to the door, acutely aware of his presence beside me in my small space. He paused on the threshold, the cool morning air rushing in, carrying pine and possibility.
"I'll see you at school on Monday," he said. "For pickup."
"Inside the classroom? Not lurking in the parking lot?"
"Inside the classroom." He held my gaze, something warm flickering in those blue depths. "Wouldn't want to miss the chance to say hello properly."
Then he was gone, those long, purposeful strides carrying him to his truck, taillights disappearing around the bend in my dirt road.
I closed the door slowly and leaned against it, the cabin suddenly feeling too quiet, too empty. The wildflowers blazed triumphantly on my table, filling the room with their sweet scent. The smooth river stone, the golden honey, the delicate carved sparrow. They lined my windowsill like promises.
I had just given Cole Brennan a recurring, legitimate reason to come to my home. Every single Saturday. Involving his niece, yes, absolutely. Educational and appropriate.
But also involving coffee. And conversation. And this terrifying, wonderful, completely reckless feeling was growing within me every time he looked at me.
The most surprising part wasn't that I'd done it.
It was how desperately I wanted him to stay.