Chapter 35 Abilene
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Abilene
Thursday
A few days have passed, and my body has mostly caught up.
Mostly.
The sharp edge of everything has softened, but the awareness is still there, humming low beneath my skin. Not ache, exactly. More like my body is still taking inventory, making sure all the pieces came back with me.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the familiar sounds of the house settling into morning.
Okay, Abilene.
Still here.
Still upright.
But I still need to breathe before I do anything else, so I pull on my boots and head out back.
The air is cool, washed clean by earlier rain, carrying the faint, mineral scent of damp soil and singed pine from the ridge. The hives sit in their row along the fence line, dark boxes against the green, as familiar to me as the lines of my own hands.
I pause a few steps away, listening.
The hum is even.
Not exuberant or anxious.
“That’s better,” I murmur, more relief than commentary.
I set my veil and smoker on the bench. I walk the line slowly, eyes scanning without touching.
Landing boards first. Foragers are coming and going in arcs now, pollen baskets dusted yellow and orange. No frantic pacing. No clustering at the entrances.
Good.
I crouch beside Hive One and rest my palm against the side wall. The vibration through the wood is smooth, cohesive, a single organism breathing. I knock lightly with my knuckles, just enough to feel the response ripple back.
Healthy.
I light the smoker anyway. Dried needles, a pinch of burlap, coaxed into cool white smoke. When I puff it gently at the entrance, the bees fan instead of surging, drawing the scent inward.
Thank you for cooperating.
I crack the lid and lift the inner cover, careful and unhurried. The bees spill into view, bodies moving with that precise, purposeful choreography that never fails to settle my insides.
“Alright, girls,” I whisper. “Let’s see how you’re holding up.”
Frame by frame, I work my way through the brood box.
My eyes know what to look for before my brain names it. Solid brood pattern. Tight arcs of capped brood with clean edges.
Eggs standing straight up where they should be, larvae curled like commas at the bottom of their cells. No peppered gaps. No warning signs.
I spot the queen halfway through, her blue dot easy to track as she moves with confidence across the comb, attendants parting around her. She pauses, abdomen dipping as she lays, then moves on.
“There you are,” I murmur. “Still doing your job.”
I check for mites out of habit, scanning thoraxes and wing joints, tipping the frame to catch the light. Nothing alarming. I tilt the box slightly, feeling the weight of stored honey pull against my wrists.
They’ve eaten some through the stress. But not too much.
I make a mental note to supplement if the flow doesn’t pick back up.
At Hive Two, I adjust the entrance reducer back a notch, opening it slightly now that the immediate threat has passed.
I brush away a smear of dried mud from the bottom board, evidence of the debris flow that tried, and failed, to claim this corner of the yard.
You held.
At the third hive, I linger a little longer. This colony has always been more sensitive, quicker to react to changes. I slide the screened bottom board out and inspect the debris. Wax flakes, pollen crumbs, a few dead mites well within tolerance.
“Still with me,” I say quietly.
I close each hive carefully, pressing frames together so no one gets pinched, replacing lids exactly as I found them. Brick on top turned lengthwise—my own small signal that today’s inspection is done.
By the time I step back, my breathing has slowed, my thoughts untangled just enough to feel manageable.
The bees don’t ask me to decide anything.
They don’t rush me toward clarity or demand answers I don’t have yet. They just require attention, patience, and respect.
You listen. You respond. You don’t force what isn’t ready.
Maybe that’s why this helps.
I peel off my gloves, wipe my hands on my jeans, and take one last look down the line of hives. The hum continues, as if to say, “We’re working it out too.”
Only then do I head for town.
Downtown Colter Creek is bustling as usual. Trucks rolling through, bells chiming as shop doors open, someone laughing too loud outside the bakery. Normal things. Comforting things.
And beneath it all, that same quiet rhythm, inside me and out, still working. Still processing.
The bell over the Old Mill Café door gives its familiar, softer jingle when I step inside. The sound of the creek drifts in through an open window.
The smell hits instantly. Dark roast, warm bread, sugar melting into comfort. It wraps around me the way the bees’ hum did earlier. Another anchor.
“Morning, Abilene,” Mae calls from behind the counter, already reaching for my mug.
“Morning,” I say, grateful for routines that don’t ask questions.
She pours without ceremony. Black coffee and just a splash of cream. Slides it across the counter like a quiet kindness. I wrap both hands around the cup, letting the heat sink into my palms.
I turn, scanning for an empty table…
And that’s when I see them.
Dakota Fletcher is tucked into a corner booth near the window, a pencil in her hand, a small sketchbook open in front of her.
She’s laughing, head tipped back just enough that the light catches her face. There’s a child’s crayon drawing spread across the table beside her coffee. It looks bright and messy and loved.
Three men surround her.
Clint sits beside her, broad shoulders angled outward. A barrier he doesn’t even realize he’s maintaining. His hand rests at the small of her back, possessive without being restrictive.
He watches the room more than he watches her, but every time she leans into him, his posture shifts, softening by a fraction.
Sawyer is across from them, glasses pushed up his nose, explaining something animatedly with his hands while Dakota watches him with quiet amusement. He keeps stopping mid-sentence to smile at her, like he forgets where he was going whenever she looks at him too long.
Reid sprawls at the end of the booth, boots crossed, grin easy and bright. He nudges Dakota’s foot with his own, earning a gentle kick in return, and laughs like that’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for.
It’s subtle.
If you weren’t looking for it, you might miss how naturally they move around each other. How no one flinches when Dakota turns from one man to the next. How there’s no hesitation, no tension, no accounting.
But I’m looking.
I always notice patterns. I notice rhythms. I notice how living things orient themselves toward safety.
They move like they know exactly where they belong.
I choose a table near the window, close enough to observe without staring. I don’t mean to listen. I don’t need to. The body language tells me everything.
Dakota leans into Clint, then reaches across the table to steal a bite of Sawyer’s pastry without apology. Reid watches her do it like it’s the highlight of his morning. No one looks offended. No one looks threatened.
They’re settled.
The word lands in my chest, warm and unexpected.
I take a sip of coffee, watching steam curl upward, and my thoughts drift, uninvited but persistent, to Wyatt’s quiet steadiness, Marshall’s calming presence, Jesse’s warmth that feels like sunlight you didn’t realize you were missing until it hits your skin.
Different men. Different ways of loving.
And yet.
Dakota laughs again, softer this time, and her posture loosens as all three men lean in at once, a shared moment so ordinary for them and so startling for me.
No one looks like they’re competing.
No one looks like they’re bracing for loss.
I watch them for another minute, maybe two, until the moment feels complete in the way some things do. A chapter ending, not a cliffhanger.
Dakota gathers her sketchbook, sliding the pencil behind her ear. Clint stands first, instinctively stepping half a pace closer to her before she even rises. Sawyer stacks the plates, habit over necessity, and Reid grabs the empty cups, joking about being promoted to “official café busboy.”
They move together when they leave.
I finish my coffee, thinking about Wyatt’s hands, careful and precise. He’s always aware of what he’s holding.
About Marshall’s presence, the way he fills a room without raising his voice, how safety seems to follow him like a shadow.
About Jesse’s warmth, the way he laughs with his whole body, how he makes space feel lighter just by standing in it.
Different rhythms. Different anchors.
And somehow, all of them fit.
The realization doesn’t scare me the way it did at first. It settles instead, like honey poured into a jar.
When I leave the café, I tell myself I’m just heading toward Sophie’s to look at the window display. She just got in a new shipment of linen dresses, and I’ve been meaning to replace my old one.
That’s all.
It’s a coincidence that Dakota and her men are walking the same direction.
Total coincidence that I hang half a block behind them, pretending to examine a chalkboard sign outside the bakery while I watch the way Clint leans in to murmur something in Dakota’s ear.
The way Sawyer listens, nodding, eyes bright. The way Reid swings the boutique door open with a flourish and bows dramatically, earning a laugh from all of them.
I do not follow them.
I merely… arrive at Sophie’s Boutique at the same time.
The boutique smells faintly citrusy. Soft music hums from hidden speakers. Racks of clothes line the walls. Flowy dresses, structured jackets, scarves that feel like they could change a mood just by being draped right.
Dakota laughs at something Reid says, tipping her head back, unguarded. Sawyer leans in to murmur something in her ear that makes her smile soften. Clint watches them all, expression calm, a quiet satisfaction there that makes my chest ache in a way I can’t quite name.
They move as a unit without clustering. They drift apart and back together naturally, hands brushing, glances exchanged. Charlie darts between them, clearly secure in the knowledge that all of these adults belong to him.
Sophie pops out from behind the counter, clapping her hands once. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite crew.”
Dakota grins. “We’re being good today.”
Sophie snorts. “Liar.”
I pretend to browse a rack of cardigans I absolutely do not need, my fingers sliding over soft fabric. Dakota catches my eye then.
Her smile flickers into a knowing, gentle expression. She doesn’t call me out. Just gives me a small nod, like she sees me and understands exactly why I’m here.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
The sound is loud in the quiet space, pulling me out of my thoughts so abruptly my heart jumps. I glance down, expecting a market reminder or a supplier email.
Instead, I find a message.
Mara: Hi, Abilene. Thank you for reaching out to me. I want to come to Colter Creek. I want to meet with you.
The words blur.
Mara.
My aunt.
The world tilts, just slightly.
Holy shit.