Chapter 14 Marshall
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Marshall
Tuesday
The cabin looks smaller than I remember.
Maybe because I haven’t been up here in a while.
Maybe because my nerves are shot to hell.
Or maybe because I never imagined pulling up to it with half my world burning behind me.
Smoke still clings to the truck when I kill the engine. The headlights cut twin paths through the dark, catching the edges of the pine trees, the wooden porch, the fishing poles leaning where we left them last spring.
This place is supposed to be quiet, peaceful. A getaway.
Tonight, it’s a lifeboat.
I step out first, boots hitting the ground harder than I mean them to. My jaw is tight. My hands won’t stop trembling, so I shove them deep into my pockets before anyone sees.
Behind me, Jesse’s truck rolls to a stop. I hear the twins chattering, half asleep, half excited, blissfully unaware of how close things came tonight.
Good. They don’t need to know.
Wyatt climbs out next, then circles around to help Abilene. She moves carefully now, that stiff, brittle way people get when the adrenaline drains away and leaves nothing but exhaustion behind.
The second her boots hit the ground, her knees wobble.
I’m already moving.
“Easy,” I say, stepping in without thinking. My hand closes around her elbow. “Got you.”
She startles, then blinks up at me, eyes red-rimmed from smoke and stress.
She’s clutching that silver bee necklace like it’s the only thing anchoring her here.
“I’m okay,” she says quickly. “Just a little dizzy.”
I look her over, a quick, automatic assessment, the same way I do with a skittish horse after a bad storm.
“You’re done being brave for today,” I say. “Let’s get you inside.”
I don’t give her room to argue. I grab her duffel from the seat and hoist it over my shoulder. My muscles are screaming, but she doesn’t need to see that either.
I tip my chin at Wyatt. “Grab Abilene’s stuff and our bags from the trunk. Jesse, get the twins inside before they conk out on the steps.”
“Yes, boss,” Jesse says, herding his kids toward the porch.
I guide Abilene ahead of me, one hand hovering at the small of her back, close enough to catch her if she stumbles, not quite touching unless she needs it. She walks slowly, head tilted toward the cabin like she’s not entirely convinced it’s real.
“Watch the step,” I murmur as we reach the porch.
She lifts her foot a little higher than she needs to, trusting the warning. That hits me under the ribs.
Inside, the cabin smells of cedar and dust and old coffee grounds. Five bedrooms, a loft, a small living room, and a kitchen that’s seen better days.
I keep it stocked out of habit. Canned food, blankets, and first aid. My dad drilled that into us when we were kids.
You always keep a place ready. Someday, it might save your life.
“Abilene,” I say, shifting her bag on my shoulder, “the guest room, your room, is this way.”
She follows me down the short hall. I flick on the light. Warm, golden glow spills over the space. A simple bed, a dresser, a lamp, a window looking out over dark trees.
“It’s not much,” I say, suddenly self-conscious about the plainness of it. “Sheets are clean, blankets too. There’s extra in the closet if you get cold. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall. You, uh…” I clear my throat. “You can unpack if that makes it easier.”
She steps into the room slowly, fingers brushing the top of the dresser, then the bedspread, making sure they’re solid. For a heartbeat, the hard line of anxiety in her shoulders loosens.
“It’s perfect,” she whispers.
A ball of emotion lodges in my throat.
“Sit,” I say, more gruffly than I intend, setting her bag down by the dresser. “Just for a minute.”
Her brows pinch. “I should help—”
“You already did,” I cut in gently. “You moved those hives like a champ. Let us take it from here.”
She bites her lip, clearly warring with the instinct to keep doing instead of feeling. I recognize that too well.
Then, Wyatt steps in beside me with the rest of her things, sets them quietly against the wall, and pauses long enough to look at her, then at me, before slipping back out of the room.
“Water,” I say. “You’ve been breathing smoke all day.”
I don’t wait for her to argue. I step back out, grab a bottled water from the stash in the kitchen, and return before she can stand up again. She’s still perched on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, eyes a little glassy.
“Here.” I twist the cap off and press it into her hand.
“Thank you.”
“Drink,” I insist.
She takes a long swallow, then another. Some color creeps back into her cheeks.
“You need anything else?” I ask. “Tylenol? Extra blanket?”
Her eyes widen a little. “No, I’m good.”
She glances past me, toward the window where I’m sure she’s imagining the faintest orange glow still flickering through the trees even though we’re miles away now. Her hand tightens around the bottle.
“You’re safe here,” I say quietly.
Her gaze snaps back to mine. The whole world narrows to just that look.
“You sure?” she whispers.
I square my shoulders, feeling that old, heavy vow settle into place. The same one I made over my parents’ graves.
The same one I failed to keep with Luke.
“I am,” I say. “I’ll make sure of it.”
She exhales at that.
“Thank you,” she says. “For everything you did today. For… coming for me.”
My chest tightens. “You’re our neighbor. We take care of our own.”
Her lips twitch in the faintest ghost of a smile. “I’m not sure I’ve ever really been somebody’s ‘our own’ before.”
I don’t have words for the way that hits me. So I do what I know.
“You are now,” I say simply.
She blinks fast, and I pretend not to notice the shine in her eyes.
“You okay here?” I ask, stepping back toward the doorway.
If I stay in this room much longer, I’m going to do something stupid, like tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Yes,” she says. “Really. Thank you, Marshall.”
“Get some rest,” I say, and leave before the warmth in my chest gives me away.
The moment I step back into the main room, responsibility hits hard as a saddlebag full of rocks.
Jesse is up in the loft, tucking his kids into the bunk beds in their room, which was once mine. He whispers something silly that makes them snort-laugh even through their yawns.
Wyatt stands near the front window with his phone raised, the faint glow of an emergency map painting his features tired and tense. Every time the screen refreshes, my gut tightens.
I shouldn’t be here.
I should be at the ranch line, watching for embers, reinforcing fences, checking the wind. I should be doing something instead of hiding out in a fishing cabin while other people fight my fire.
But the mayor’s order was clear: Get the hell out of the danger zone. Don’t play hero.
And I have people depending on me.
My men. The twins. Abilene.
I can’t risk dying on some stupid, stubborn impulse.
Not again.
Not after Luke.
His name flickers through me like a match strike, too fast, too hot, and too bright. I shove it down before the memories can follow.
Wyatt steps away from the window, lowering his phone.
“They’ve got crews on the north side,” he says quietly. “Wind’s still in our favor. For now.”
“For now,” I echo.
“You should sleep,” he adds, giving me a look that says he knows damn well I haven’t even tried. “You look like you’re about to fight the storm with your bare hands.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
He snorts softly. “You’re vibrating.”
I realize my leg is bouncing, foot tapping an agitated rhythm into the floor. I force it still.
“We need you functional,” he goes on. “If this gets worse. Or better. Or sideways. Whatever direction it goes, we’re going to need your brain online.”
He’s right. Doesn’t mean I like it.
“I’ll try,” I say.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
I nod once and head for the second bedroom.
Sleep doesn’t come.
I lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening.
Listening for the wind.
For sirens that won’t reach out this far.
For the low roar of the fire catching another ridge.
For the nightmare that always shows up when I’m this tired.
In between, I hear the creak of floorboards as Jesse paces once more to check his kids.
The distant murmur of the radio on low.
The almost-silent rustle of sheets in the next room—Abilene shifting in her bed.
Everything is too close.
Too quiet.
Too dangerous.
My jaw locks. I drag a hand over my face and sit up, legs sliding over the edge of the bed. Every muscle aches, tight and restless.
I need air.
The floorboard outside my door creaks.
I’m on my feet before I think, habit and worry pushing me toward the hallway.
When I open the door, Abilene is there, half in shadow, leaning against the wall, trying to be invisible. She’s changed into a soft sweater and leggings, hair loose around her shoulders, feet bare on the cool wooden floor.
She looks smaller without her boots and jacket. Smaller and fragile in a way that makes every protective instinct in me stand up and snarl.
Her eyes go wide when she sees me. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake anyone.”
“You didn’t,” I say quietly. “I thought the twins might have Jesse up. Or Wyatt hadn’t gone to bed yet…”
She fiddles with her necklace, thumb stroking the little silver bee back and forth. A tell. She has a whole hive’s worth of little tells.
“I, um…” She swallows. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me neither.”
We just stand there, facing each other across the narrow hallway. The cabin lights are dim, shadows pooling in the corners.
Outside, the wind gusts, carrying smoke even out here.
Her gaze flicks toward the front window, toward the direction of home. Her worry is written all over her face.
“Thinking about your bees?”
She blinks, then nods, surprised I guessed it so fast.
“I keep picturing the hives. Wondering if they’re listening to the fire the way they listened to the storm. Bees can’t just…” She gestures helplessly. “Run. If something happens, they’re stuck.”
Her voice thins near the end.
I step closer, careful.
“You did everything you could,” I say. “Moved them to the safest ground. Secured the hives. Chose a spot with less brush, closer to water. That’s more than most folks would have thought to do.”
“They’re my responsibility,” she says softly. “If something happens and they die… that’s on me.”
I exhale, long and low. “I know the feeling.”
Her eyes lift slowly to mine. “Do you?”
“Every damn day,” I admit. “About the ranch. About the horses. About the people who work for me.”
I don’t say “about Luke.” There’s a limit to how much I can spill without cracking open.
She wraps her arms around herself, the sweater bunching around her small frame.
“I’ve always handled everything alone,” she says, barely above a whisper. “After my mom died… after my dad left… it was just me and Grandma. And then just… me.” Her throat works. “I got used to the idea that no one was coming. So I stopped expecting it. But you guys came for me.”
I stare at her.
I’m so busy focusing on what I screw up, what I can’t fix, that it never occurs to me people might see anything else.
“You ever feel like doing your best is still… not enough?” she asks, echoing what she said earlier, but now it feels different.
Less hypothetical. More of a confession.
“All the time,” I say. “But you know what?”
“What?”
“You still have to do it.”
She huffs a quiet, humorless laugh. “Very comforting.”
“It’s meant to be,” I say wryly. “That’s how I sleep at night.”
“You’re not sleeping,” she points out.
“Technicality,” I say.
The corner of her mouth lifts.
She leans her head back against the wall, staring at the wood grain on the ceiling.
“It’s strange,” she says. “Having people help. I keep waiting to wake up and realize I imagined all of it. The fire. The evacuation.” Her fingers close tightly around the bee charm. “Feels like the kind of thing you only get in dreams.”
I don’t know what makes me do it—fatigue, instinct, plain old stubbornness—but I reach out and rest my hand on her shoulder.
She goes very still.
“You didn’t dream us,” I say quietly. “We’re here. You’re not alone in this.”
She exhales, a small, broken sound caught between a sigh and a laugh.
“Why?” she asks, turning her head slightly to look at me. “Why are you doing so much? I’m just… your neighbor.”
I see her how she sees herself: small farmhouse on the edge of things, one woman with her bees and her ghosts, watching the town from a distance, not sure she’s allowed to come in.
“Because you’re not just anything,” I say. “You’re part of this valley. You help keep it alive. You feed people. You care for things most folks don’t even notice. Flowers, hives, tiny lives that matter more than we think.”
Her eyes glisten in the dim light.
“And because I was raised,” I add, “to take care of people who don’t have anyone else looking out for them.”
She swallows. “And who looks out for you?”
I look away, jaw working. No good answer to that one.
“I manage,” I say finally.
She hears the truth in that and, to my surprise, doesn’t let it go.
“I’m here too,” she says softly.
I look back at her.
She’s standing there barefoot in my hallway, smelling faintly of smoke and honey, eyes tired, and somehow those three words hit harder than anything I’ve heard in a long time.
I clear my throat.
“Come on,” I say gently. “At least lie down for a while. You don’t have to sleep. But your body needs to think you might.”
“You?” she asks.
“I’ll sit up a little longer,” I say. “Keep an eye on things. Then I’ll try.”
She hesitates. “Promise?”
“Promise,” I say. “I’ll be right here.”
She studies my face for a long second, as if weighing whether she can believe me.
Apparently, she decides she can.
“Okay,” she whispers.
I squeeze her shoulder once, a solid pressure, then let go before I talk myself into holding on longer.
“Goodnight, Abilene.”
“Goodnight, Marshall,” she says, and slips back into her room.
The door clicks softly shut.
I stand there in the half dark, listening to the wind in the trees and the faint sound of her moving around. Drawer open, drawer shut, bed creak, then stillness.
The fire still burns out there.
The ranch is still in danger.
The weight on my shoulders hasn’t gone anywhere.
But under all that, threading through the smoke and fear, is the echo of her words:
I’m here too.