Page 22 of Their Reluctant Catch

Savannah

The cold air nips at my cheeks as I pull the borrowed wool scarf tighter around my neck. Diana insisted I take the whole set—jacket, mittens, hat—before I ventured out again. She didn’t say it outright, but I’m sure she took one look at my Florida-thin layers and decided I’ll freeze my ass off if left to my own devices.

She isn’t wrong.

It’s Sunday, and I haven’t seen the Turner brothers in days. It’s fine!

I stuff my hands into the warm mittens, my boots crunching over the lightly snow-packed sidewalk as I pass the row of businesses along Main Street. Everything here serves a double or even triple purpose. The general store isn’t merely a place to pick up groceries; it doubles as a post office and a bait shop. The hardware store sells tools, hunting gear, and has a tiny coffee bar tucked into the corner, where a couple of old men sip black coffee and talk about the weather. Even the pharmacy stocks yarn, fishing tackle, and propane tanks and doubles as a clinic run by Mel.

The town is resourceful. That much is clear.

Thanks to Diana’s generosity, I’m actually warm as I head down Main Street and take it all in. It’s smart and efficient. This town exhibits a kind of quiet resilience that fascinates me.

Back in Miami, stores have singular purposes. A grocery store is a grocery store. A gas station doesn’t sell bolts or lumber. If something breaks, you call a repair guy or buy a replacement. Here? The people fix things. They make things last. It’s something that appeals to my mechanic’s soul.

I pull my scarf tighter, not because I’m cold—I’m not, not really—but because this place, this town, is getting to me.

The worst part?

I like it.

The crisp air, the pine-scented breeze, the way the sunlight dances off the snow-dusted trees, it’s all quite beautiful.

I’m falling for this stupid little town in this snow-covered state.

I immediately feel disloyal for thinking it. Florida is beautiful, too, in a different way. The endless blue sky, the golden beaches, the swamps humming with life, the heavy, tropical air curling against your skin.

I shake my head. Different, not better.

I don’t have a destination in mind. I’m just... moving.

Almost a week has passed, and my car’s spare parts still haven’t arrived. Boredom has driven me out of my room. I’ve spent those few days walking more miles than I usually do in a month.

A restless energy simmers beneath my skin. I need to move, to do something, anything, even if it’s only walking until my legs burn and my thoughts blur into exhaustion.

I let my feet guide me, my boots crunching against sidewalk. I don’t have a destination in mind, but when I realize I’m heading toward the docks, my stomach twists.

Nope. Not today.

Damn it.

I stop mid-step and deliberately turn left, heading away from the water. Away from theSea Spirit. Away fromthem.

The sign reads Hemlock Ridge Road. I haven’t walked this road before. I shift my backpack to a more comfortable position and continue.

About twenty minutes later, I encounter a large, two-story log cabin nestled among the trees, its dark wood exterior blending into the rugged landscape. Though it’s made from wood, a stone chimney juts up on one side. It’s far from a simple cabin.

Despite its secluded location, the property is well-kept—a graveled driveway, a meticulously maintained front yard, and a row of raised garden beds along the side of the house. Out back, a small greenhouse and a neatly stacked pile of supplies hint at a level of self-sufficiency I have come to associate with Northwick Cove.

About five minutes further into my walk, a dirt path winds toward the woods. A weathered sign at the entrance reads Blueberry Ridge Trail—2.7 miles.

A hike. That’ll keep me occupied.

The trail winds ahead, mostly clear except for a few half-buried stones and creeping tree roots. The scent of damp earth and pine lingers in the crisp air. Wind rattles through the bare trees, making the branches creak and groan. Patches of snow cling to the undergrowth, but in the places where sunlight filters through, dark soil peeks through.

I push forward, breathing deeply.

The trail ascends gradually, curving around a moss-covered rock outcrop. The trees thin just enough for a glimpse of the bay below, the water dark and restless under the cloudy sky.

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