Page 21 of Breaking Through

"Did you now?" His eyes twinkled. "And did our taciturn ranger have anything interesting to say?"

I thought about Wade's quiet understanding and his hidden depths. "He reminded me that sometimes the right path isn't the obvious one."

Grandpa set his book down. "Sounds like Wade's been doing some thinking of his own."

"Maybe." I adjusted the oxygen tube where it had twisted. "Now, do you want to hear about the Johansen boats while we enjoy these squares, or should I save the story for tomorrow?"

"Oh, tonight, definitely tonight." Grandpa patted the chair next to his. "I might even fill in some details you haven't heard yet."

I settled in beside Grandpa with the pastry bag between us. The oxygen machine hummed its steady rhythm but didn't seem so loud anymore. Outside, Gran's wind chimes sang softly in the evening breeze, and somewhere in the darkness, Wade was walking home, carrying a piece of my heart I hadn't meant to give away.

"You're smiling," Grandpa observed.

"Am I?"

"Mhmm." He selected a lemon square with careful deliberation. "Though I notice you only brought back twosquares. Did our stern ranger confiscate one as part of some park service pastry inspection?"

"That's not—he didn't—" I sputtered, which only made Grandpa's grin wider.

"Careful, Match. A man my age shouldn't have to witness his grandson turning quite that shade of red. It might impact my oxygen levels."

He selected a lemon square with careful deliberation. "You know, your grandmother always said the best stories start when we're busy looking elsewhere."

I thought about chance meetings, coffee shop conversations, and how Wade's eyes crinkled at the corners when he almost smiled. "What else did Gran say about stories?"

"Oh, lots of things." Grandpa's voice took on the soft, storytelling tone I remembered from childhood. "But mostly that love shows up in unexpected places, sometimes wearing work boots and carrying coffee."

I couldn't help laughing. "That's not what she said."

His eyes twinkled. "No, but she would have if she'd seen the way you look after you've been talking to our park ranger."

Chapter eight

Wade

I'd spread the storm shelter documentation across my desk at dawn, telling myself I needed to be thorough and professional. Unfortunately, my hands kept finding other things hidden between maintenance reports and restoration guidelines—sketches from therapy sessions I thought I'd filed away for good.

The early October air had a chilly bite to it, but I'd opened my office window anyway. Sometimes, I needed that promise of escape, a clear connection to the outside. Maya and Tom were already checking trails, leaving the station quiet except for the soft scratch of pine branches against the glass.

A pencil sketch of flames curling through warehouse beams slipped free from a folder. My throat tightened. After three years of therapy, I still couldn't look at it without feeling the heat.

I shoved the drawing back between paper-clipped stacks. My coffee had gone cold, bitter dregs matching my mood. I couldn't stop thinking about the night before at the Little Blue Bean. I remembered how Holden's voice had cracked when he talkedabout his grandfather and how something in me had wanted to reach across the table and…

The front door's hinges creaked. It was that specific pitch I'd been listening for all morning while pretending I wasn't waiting. My hands weren't quite steady as I gathered the scattered papers. The last two mornings, I'd caught myself tracking time until nine o'clock, like some lovesick teenager instead of a forty-three-year-old ranger who knew better.

"Hello?" Holden's voice drifted in from the public area. "Wade?"

Just hearing him say my name made my heart skip a beat. I pictured him standing out there in the morning light that always seemed to find him, probably wearing one of those soft flannel shirts. I was sure he had a camera slung around his neck.

"Back here." The words came out rougher than intended. I knew I should retreat and slam the professional walls back into place. It would be smarter, safer. Instead, I heard myself say, "Come on through."

He appeared in my doorway exactly as I'd imagined, in blue flannel this time. Something in my stomach dropped, the way it did on hiking trails when a step wasn't quite solid. His smile started bright but faltered when he saw my face. Of course, it did. He noticed everything, this kid with his artist's eye and endless optimism.

"Are you—"

"Research materials." I gestured at the mess on my desk, trying to hide how my hands shook. I tried not to think about how he smelled like coffee and woodsmoke—everything warm and good. His gaze fell on a sketch peeking from beneath a topographical map. I hadn't been quick enough to hide it.

"Did you draw this?" He moved closer, radiating warmth in my too-cold office.

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