Page 13
"I'll have to visit tomorrow," I say, making a mental note.
Riley looks at me and chews his pizza. For the first time since I've met him, he seems to be considering whether to say more rather than less.
"What?" I ask when his scrutiny becomes too much.
"I was thinking… The Mitchells were one of the founding families," he says finally. "Along with the Carters, the Abernathy, and a few others. If your father was from that line, you've got deep roots here."
"Really?" This is news to me. Dad never mentioned being from a founding family. "I had no idea."
"There's a section at the historical society dedicated to the founding families. Photographs, ledgers, that sort of thing." He takes a swig of water. "Might find some answers there."
Thunder crashes outside, making me jump slightly. The rain shows no sign of letting up, sheets of water streaming down the windows, turning the world beyond into a dark blur.
"Looks like you might be stuck here a while," I say, glancing at the storm. "I'm sorry about that."
Riley shrugs. "I've been in worse."
I can only imagine what that means—what he's seen and experienced in his twelve years of military service. The shadows under his eyes tell a story of their own.
"I'm glad I'm not alone, though," I admit. "Second night in a new place during a storm like this? I'd be jumping at every creak and groan."
"Old houses talk," Riley says, his voice softening slightly. "This one's got good bones, though. Built in the forties. Original hardwood floors."
"You know a lot about this cottage?"
His eyes meet mine briefly, then slide away. "Helped Mrs. Abernathy with repairs over the years. New roof last summer. Fixed the porch railing before that."
I glance around with new appreciation. "Is there anything in this town you haven't had a hand in fixing?"
The question is meant to be light and teasing, but Riley's expression grows distant.
"Plenty," he says quietly, “The firefighters do most jobs around here. I just give a helping hand when it’s needed.”
We finish our pizza in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. There's something about Riley that makes silence feel natural, even restful. I'm used to filling quiet moments with chatter, but with him, I don't feel that pressure.
I clear away the box and napkins, bringing back a fresh glass of water for each of us. The storm continues unabated, lightning occasionally illuminating the room in stark white flashes.
"Tell me about your book," Riley says suddenly as I sit back down.
The request surprises me. He doesn't strike me as someone particularly interested in historical fiction—or in making small talk.
"It's set in 1873," I begin, warming to my favorite subject. "Right when Cedar Falls was being established. The main character is a young woman who comes west with her husband, only to lose him in a logging accident. Instead of returning east, she decides to stay and make her own way."
Riley nods, encouraging me to continue.
"It's about resilience, really. How women carved out spaces for themselves in frontier communities. The history books focus on the men who founded these towns, but women were essential to their survival." I pause, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry, I get carried away talking about it."
"Don't apologize," he says. "It's good, having something you're passionate about."
There's a wistfulness in his tone that makes me wonder what his passions might be, beyond fixing engines.
"What about you?" I ask. "What do you do when you're not rescuing stranded motorists?"
His lips quirk in what might almost be a smile. "Not much to tell. Work. Fish sometimes. House projects."
"Do you live in town?"
He shakes his head. "Got a cabin out past the falls. Ten acres, backs up to national forest."
Riley looks at me and chews his pizza. For the first time since I've met him, he seems to be considering whether to say more rather than less.
"What?" I ask when his scrutiny becomes too much.
"I was thinking… The Mitchells were one of the founding families," he says finally. "Along with the Carters, the Abernathy, and a few others. If your father was from that line, you've got deep roots here."
"Really?" This is news to me. Dad never mentioned being from a founding family. "I had no idea."
"There's a section at the historical society dedicated to the founding families. Photographs, ledgers, that sort of thing." He takes a swig of water. "Might find some answers there."
Thunder crashes outside, making me jump slightly. The rain shows no sign of letting up, sheets of water streaming down the windows, turning the world beyond into a dark blur.
"Looks like you might be stuck here a while," I say, glancing at the storm. "I'm sorry about that."
Riley shrugs. "I've been in worse."
I can only imagine what that means—what he's seen and experienced in his twelve years of military service. The shadows under his eyes tell a story of their own.
"I'm glad I'm not alone, though," I admit. "Second night in a new place during a storm like this? I'd be jumping at every creak and groan."
"Old houses talk," Riley says, his voice softening slightly. "This one's got good bones, though. Built in the forties. Original hardwood floors."
"You know a lot about this cottage?"
His eyes meet mine briefly, then slide away. "Helped Mrs. Abernathy with repairs over the years. New roof last summer. Fixed the porch railing before that."
I glance around with new appreciation. "Is there anything in this town you haven't had a hand in fixing?"
The question is meant to be light and teasing, but Riley's expression grows distant.
"Plenty," he says quietly, “The firefighters do most jobs around here. I just give a helping hand when it’s needed.”
We finish our pizza in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. There's something about Riley that makes silence feel natural, even restful. I'm used to filling quiet moments with chatter, but with him, I don't feel that pressure.
I clear away the box and napkins, bringing back a fresh glass of water for each of us. The storm continues unabated, lightning occasionally illuminating the room in stark white flashes.
"Tell me about your book," Riley says suddenly as I sit back down.
The request surprises me. He doesn't strike me as someone particularly interested in historical fiction—or in making small talk.
"It's set in 1873," I begin, warming to my favorite subject. "Right when Cedar Falls was being established. The main character is a young woman who comes west with her husband, only to lose him in a logging accident. Instead of returning east, she decides to stay and make her own way."
Riley nods, encouraging me to continue.
"It's about resilience, really. How women carved out spaces for themselves in frontier communities. The history books focus on the men who founded these towns, but women were essential to their survival." I pause, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry, I get carried away talking about it."
"Don't apologize," he says. "It's good, having something you're passionate about."
There's a wistfulness in his tone that makes me wonder what his passions might be, beyond fixing engines.
"What about you?" I ask. "What do you do when you're not rescuing stranded motorists?"
His lips quirk in what might almost be a smile. "Not much to tell. Work. Fish sometimes. House projects."
"Do you live in town?"
He shakes his head. "Got a cabin out past the falls. Ten acres, backs up to national forest."