Page 5 of Roaring Heat
I hesitate. The truth is, I don’t know exactly. We've been keeping a close eye on the difference in the ley lines' activity, but only have theories. Warnings I don’t want to give voice to. Old stories that aren’t supposed to be real, let alone repeat themselves.
I choose to tell her something tangible that she will believe. "Animals acting erratically. Predators too close to town. Strangers. A couple of nights ago, I caught the scent of something near the east ridge that didn’t belong—something I haven’t smelled in over a decade. And two days before that, my brother Eli spotted claw marks outside the Talbot place. Deep ones. Too deep for anything that should be wandering this close to town."
Her brow furrows. "I thought this area was supposed to be a sanctuary."
"It is. But even sanctuaries can be breached."
She doesn’t argue. Just nods once, then kneels to retrieve her field journal from where she must’ve dropped it.
"Thanks for the heads-up, Beau."
The way she says my name—calm, sure, like it belongs on her tongue—rattles something deep inside me. Not just recognition. Not just heat. It hits with a quiet finality, a turn I can’t undo. Like the moment the lock clicks and the door swings open. She doesn’t know what she’s doing to me, not yet. But I do, and the part of me that’s still trying to be rational? That part just took a knee.
"Anytime, Anabeth."
She turns and disappears through the trees; her steps quiet, purposeful. I watch her go, unable to move, jaw tight, every nerve on edge. My bear strains forward, restless again, torn between following her and standing guard. The forest stills, every rustle and birdsong vanishing into a sudden, loaded quiet. Even the wind seems to hush, like the land itself isn’t ready to let her go.
I want to call after her. To warn her. To bring her back into the circle of my protection. But I don’t. I can’t. Not yet. Instead, I wait in the growing silence, feeling the tension wind tighter with every heartbeat. Something is coming. And Anabeth just walked straight into the middle of it.
But the land is louder now. Not just alive—but alert. Every root, every shadow, every pulse beneath my boots feels drawn to her, like the whole forest just realized she’s arrived. And somewhere deep in that quiet, I swear I hear it—not her voice, but her name. Whispered like a promise... or a warning.
CHAPTER 2
ANABETH
The forest holds its breath after I turn and walk back toward the trees, leaving Beau behind and my journal pressed tight to my chest. The quiet feels too heavy, like the woods themselves are watching me go.
A subtle pressure builds in my ears, the kind that comes before a thunderclap, but the sky holds no storm. I force my legs to move, each step taking me farther from the stones and the strange heat that still tingles through my palm. It's almost as if I can hear the wind whispering my name, and not in a cheerful Disney-like way.
By the time I reach the clearing near my cottage, I’ve convinced myself that thinking that the land is whispering my name is just exhaustion mixed with too much caffeine.
Only it doesn’t feel like imagination. It feels like being measured... and nauseated. I wonder what kind of after-shave Beau uses, as it seems every time I'm in his presence I feel dizzy and everything inside me seems to be roiling around.
I shake off the last residual feelings from the encounter and make my way toward the porch. My Jeep looks out of place in this landscape, the turquoise metal and glass too modern againsta backdrop of towering redwoods and fog that curls low to the ground.
The trees stretch into the sky like sentinels, and I can’t decide if they’re protecting me or warning me off. Either way, the view is staggering. Even through the drizzle, the coastline opens wide, rocky cliffs bracing against the Pacific, waves slamming themselves against the stone in a rhythm older than anything I’ve ever studied.
I set my journal down on the porch railing and breathe deeply, filling my lungs with something more than just the ocean. It's damp, rich, and thick with moss and salt. If I could bottle it, I would. No Wi-Fi, no cell service, but the trade-off is this: raw, wild beauty that refuses to be tamed. Freedom. Purpose.
My ex never understood it—why I needed this kind of space. Out here, I don’t have to explain myself.
The tread of approaching footsteps pulls me back to the present. I spin, heart pounding, only to find Beau striding down the path from the trees. The dizziness and nausea return. Maybe I need a checkup. He looks nothing like a mechanic who just finished an afternoon’s work. He looks like the forest built him. Broad shoulders rolling easy, boots sure-footed on the damp ground, eyes steady in a way that makes me forget how to breathe for a second.
"You shouldn’t be out here alone," he says, voice carrying low authority.
No hello. No small talk. Just straight into protective mode, like he thinks I need guarding from every tree and shadow. As if Redwood Rise, this charming little community perched at the foot of the mountains with its hand-painted signs and ocean views, is some kind of war zone. I may be new, but I’m not helpless—and I didn’t come all this way to be treated like something fragile.
I cross my arms. "Last I checked, this was my cottage. At least, that's what the lease says. So unless you’re secretly law enforcement, the check from my department bounced and you're here to evict me, you don’t get to tell me what to do."
He should feel a little insulted, but he doesn't. That grin—the one that made my knees go weak back at the store—returns, sharp at the edges. "I don’t need a badge to know when someone’s pushing their luck."
"And what makes you the expert?"
He steps onto the porch as if he belongs there, like the creaking boards are his personal invitation. His gaze flicks toward the treeline, then back to me, sharp and searching. His voice drops slightly, the edges roughened with something older than simple concern. "Because I’ve lived here my whole life. I know the difference between quiet woods and dangerous woods. And right now, these woods aren’t quiet—they're unsettled at best, and probably headed to dangerous."
The way he says it makes goosebumps crawl up my arms. Not because I believe in mystical currents of energy or whatever, but because he does. His certainty is unnerving. "Maybe the bobcat tracks I saw belong to a sick animal. Nothing supernatural about that."
"Maybe," he allows, but his tone suggests otherwise. "But you didn’t see the claw marks near the Talbot house. And you didn’t smell what I did near the ridge."
