Chapter 17 Abilene
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Abilene
Wednesday
If the cabin were alive, it’d be groaning.
The walls creak with every footstep. The floors complain under boots, kids, and general insanity. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I’m standing barefoot in the tiny living room, clutching my bee pendant like it might give me courage.
Because today?
Today, the cabin fever has officially set in.
Eliza and Caleb have turned into small, determined hurricanes. They sprint across the rug chasing each other, dive off the couch cushions like tiny acrobats, and shriek with laughter that ricochets through the space.
“Daddy, look! I’m a shark!” Eliza leaps onto a pillow with an impressive growl.
Her brother counters immediately. “Well, I’m a bear!”
He claws at the air, sending his coloring book flying.
Jesse catches the book, flipping it closed with the reflexes of a man who’s stopped many airborne objects in his life. “Alright, alright, no animals that can break something or eat one of your family members.”
“But bears are nice,” Caleb argues. “Sometimes.”
“That,” Jesse says, setting the book down on a side table, “is scientifically questionable.”
His kids pounce on him in response, and the three of them tumble into a heap of limbs and giggles on the rug.
Their noise is oddly comforting. A reminder that even when the world is burning, children find a way to live loudly.
I take a deep breath and retreat into the kitchen for a moment of quiet.
Except…
Someone else is already in there.
Wyatt is standing at the counter, glasses slipping down his nose, hair sticking up in half a dozen directions because he’s been running his hands through it.
In one hand, he holds his leather-bound notebook, the one he treats as a combination of scientific journal and diary. The other hand is rifling through cabinets with increasingly frantic energy.
“Have you seen it?” he mutters. “It has a blue rim. Ceramic. Not the chipped one, the chipped one is the emergency mug, not the real one…”
I blink. “Uh… seen what?”
He whirls around, notebook pressed to his chest. “My mug.”
I wait. He continues.
“My favorite one.”
Still waiting.
He sighs, exasperated with himself. “My morning tea mug.”
I smile a little. “You have a special mug?”
“Haven’t we talked about this?” he asks, already turning back to the cabinet. “I swear I’ve mentioned it. If I don’t start the day with tea in that mug, everything goes wrong. It’s like… a talisman. Except practical. And ceramic.”
“You definitely didn’t mention it,” I say gently. “But I believe you.”
He freezes, hangs his head, and mutters, “I’ve already checked this cupboard. Twice.”
I bite my lip so I don’t laugh. Wyatt Tucker—noted calm, collected, unshakeable vet—is having a small meltdown over crockery.
It’s… adorable.
“Okay,” I say, stepping into the room, “let’s find it.”
He looks up at me, hopeful and frazzled. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“I haven’t found anything yet.”
“Still counts.”
We start turning the cabin upside down, me checking under couch cushions, Wyatt rummaging under the sink, both of us dodging Jesse and his wrestling children as they skitter through the room.
“Could it be outside?” I suggest.
“I didn’t take it outside,” Wyatt says with the solemn certainty of a man who absolutely did take it outside.
“Not even once?”
His shoulders sag. “Okay. Maybe.”
We check the porch.
We check beneath the rocking chair.
We check by the firewood stack.
I even check the rafters, because the kids have a habit of relocating objects to unholy locations.
Nothing.
I lean against the porch railing. Unable to help it, I laugh.
Wyatt throws his hands up. “This is tragic. I’m losing my mind.”
“You’re not,” I say, smiling. “You’re stressed. We all are.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. You’re right. I just… need my mug.”
“Why is it special?” I ask.
He huffs a small laugh. “Sentimental reasons. My mom mailed it to me during my first semester of vet school. She said if I was going to study all night, I needed a mug bigger than my stress.”
“That’s sweet.”
“She still does it, ever since her and dad moved out of town,” he says. “Sends me random tea blends. Care packages. Apparently, I’m incapable of feeding myself.”
“And are you?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “I would die without my mother.”
I laugh again.
And then, something catches my eye.
Under the porch steps, barely visible behind a piece of firewood, is a faint blue rim.
“Wyatt,” I whisper, pointing.
He bolts forward on instinct, notebook and dignity forgotten, and drops to his knees.
“My mug!” he exclaims, dragging it out triumphantly. “Oh, thank goodness.”
“Tragedy averted.”
He stands, dust-covered, mug in hand. He’s a knight retrieving a sacred relic.
“It must’ve rolled off the porch last night,” he says.
“Good thing it didn’t break.”
“Yes,” he says gravely. “Because then I would’ve broken.”
I smile softly, and before I can stop myself, I say, “Want tea?”
He glances at me as if I’ve offered him salvation. “Chamomile?”
“Chamomile,” I confirm.
He nods solemnly. “Lead the way.”
We make tea in relative peace.
Jesse has the kids calm again. They’ve settled into some game involving crayons and extremely strict rules about where one can and cannot sit. From the sound of it, it might be a courtroom for stuffed animals.
Wyatt stands next to me at the stove as the kettle heats, leaning back on the counter, notebook resting on his thigh. His shoulder brushes mine, feather light, but enough to send a quiet buzz down my nerves.
“This tea,” he says softly, “my mom made it every night when I was a kid. When I couldn’t sleep. When I had a cold. When my dad was grading papers too late and forgot he promised to read to me.”
I soften. “Your parents sound… good.”
“They are,” he says, a small smile forming. “Kind. Predictable in the best way.”
I stare at the steam from the kettle.
“I don’t have… anything like that,” I admit.
He turns his head toward me, listening in that quiet, soft-eyed way he has.
“My mother died in a fire,” I say. “I was twelve. After that, my dad… wasn’t the same. Eventually, he left. Not in a dramatic way, just… stopped being a presence.”
Wyatt doesn’t say he’s sorry. He doesn’t pity me.
He waits. He listens.
“I stayed with my grandmother,” I continue. “She was sweet. Busy. Always smelled of honey and lavender oil. But I think losing her daughter broke something in her too.”
I swallow.
“When she passed, it was just me.”
Wyatt absorbs that with a quiet, anchored understanding that makes my throat tight.
He speaks gently. “Your house feels like a home, Abilene. Even if you built it alone.”
My eyes sting unexpectedly. Before I can answer, the kettle screams.
I blink, step away, and pour water into two mismatched mugs, his blue-rimmed one and a cabin mug with a fish painted on the side.
The scent of chamomile rises warm and soothing between us.
We carry the mugs to the small kitchen table and sit across from each other, knees nearly touching beneath the surface.
Steam curls upward, softening the harsh edges of the morning.
Wyatt cradles his mug between both hands. “Tell me more about your grandmother.”
I trace the rim of mine. “She was… stubborn. Determined. She took care of the bees like they were children. And she taught me that everything, every flower, every shift in the wind, every drop of honey, has a story.”
He smiles. “Sounds like you inherited that.”
“Inherited… what?”
“Seeing stories in things,” he says. “Caring about the small details. Naming your honey jars. Paying attention.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “You think that’s… good?”
“I think it’s rare,” he says softly. “And beautiful.”
Our eyes meet. Longer than they should.
Longer than is safe.
There’s a curious warmth in his gaze that sees me not as the beekeeper next door or the quiet girl at the market, but as someone worth looking at.
My heart flutters fast as a startled wing.
I’m the one who looks away first, fiddling with the handle of my mug. “What about you? What were you like as a kid?”
He chuckles. “Nerdy.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You should. I knew the scientific names of farm animals before I knew multiplication tables.”
I laugh. “Of course you did.”
“And I brought home every injured creature I found,” he adds. “Stray dogs. Limping raccoons. A goat with mange.”
“A goat?”
“My mother drew the line at the goat,” he says. “But only barely.”
I rest my chin on my hand. “I can picture that.”
His gaze flicks down to my lips.
It’s barely noticeable. But enough to make my pulse skip.
Wyatt’s leg brushes mine under the table. He doesn’t move it away.
Neither do I.
I sip my chamomile tea to calm myself. Wyatt mirrors the motion, watching me over the rim of his blue-rimmed mug, studying more than just my expression.
“So,” I say, trying to lighten the tension sparking between us, “what made you want to be a vet? Besides saving every wounded creature in a five-mile radius.”
His mouth curves in a soft smile. “You mean besides my parents begging me to pick a career with significantly less manure?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Besides that.”
He exhales, gaze drifting. “There was an old mare on our neighbor’s property,” he says. “I was ten. She had a hoof infection, bad one. Most people thought she was too old to bother saving.”
My heart twinges. People think the same about hives that stop producing.
“The vet who came…” Wyatt softens. “He was kind. Steady. He talked to her like she mattered. Cleaned the wound, wrapped it, made a plan.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“She healed,” he says simply.
The way he says it makes the hairs on my arms rise.
“That’s when I knew,” he says. “I wanted to be the person who walks into a bad situation and brings… a path out of it.”
My chest warms. “That sounds like you.”
He glances at me, a soft, surprised laugh escaping. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say. “You were the calm one during the evacuation. For all of us.”
His eyes drop for half a second.
“What about you?” he asks. “Was it always bees?”
“Always,” I say. “Even when I wanted to be a photographer, I took pictures of bees.”
He grins. “Of course you did.”
I breathe out, letting memory wash over me.
“When I was little, my grandmother’s apiary felt like the whole world,” I say. “All those hives buzzing with purpose. If I sat still enough, I could hear… patterns.”
Wyatt watches me, listening.
“My mom helped with candles and soap,” I say. “She wasn’t passionate about the bees, but she respected them. She used to sit with me and talk about all the places she’d take me one day. Mostly the coast. She wanted me to see the ocean.”
The words leave my mouth before I can soften them, before I can tuck them back into the safe places where I keep everything that hurts, and I feel like I’ve opened a window in the middle of winter.
Wyatt’s gaze doesn’t flinch.
He just nods slowly, like he’s letting the image settle in his mind. “Did you ever go?”
I shake my head. The motion feels too small for the ache it carries. “No.”
His fingers tighten around the mug, enough to show me he’s hearing what I’m not saying. “Do you want to?”
“Yes,” I admit. The answer is immediate.
Honest. “I always did. I used to tell myself it was silly, because who cares about the ocean when you’ve got mountains and forests and everything you need here, but…
” I swallow. “She talked about it like it was freedom. Like standing at the edge of that much water would make you feel less trapped inside your own life.”
Wyatt’s expression softens in a way that makes my chest go hot and tight at the same time. “That’s not silly.”
“I know,” I say, and my laugh is quiet, a little embarrassed. “It’s just… I’ve spent so long being careful. Staying in my lane. Doing what makes sense. Bees. Honey. Market. Home. Repeat.”
“Routine is safety,” he says gently.
“Yes.” I glance toward the living room where Jesse’s laugh rises over the kids’ shrieking, where the cabin feels crowded with life and noise and bodies. “Except right now my safety is… three men and two six-year-olds and a cabin that keeps groaning like it wants us all to leave.”
He smiles faintly. “Cabin’s got opinions.”
“It does,” I whisper, and then, because the truth is buzzing too loudly under my skin, I add, “So do I.”
Wyatt tilts his head. “Yeah?”
I nod, staring into my tea as if the swirling chamomile could give me courage. “I keep thinking about my house.”
His gaze flicks up immediately, attention sharpening. “You worried it didn’t make it?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, yes. But also…” I press my thumb to the bee pendant at my throat, rubbing its tiny wings, trying to smooth my thoughts flat.
“It’s more like… it feels wrong not to know.
Like there’s a part of me still there, standing in that kitchen, listening to the wind chimes and waiting to see if the fire comes closer. ”
Wyatt goes quiet. “We’ll go back as soon as they let us.”
I hope that’s soon.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take.