Page 3 of Befriending the Bear (Forestville Silver Foxes #6)

FRASER

M y truck was being a bastard again.

I stood in Walter’s Auto Repair, watching the mechanic—a kid who couldn’t be more than twenty-five—scratch his head and mutter something about alternators.

My right leg throbbed, the way it always did when the barometric pressure dropped.

Rain coming, probably. Yes, at fifty-one, I had become the man who could predict the weather based on how his body felt.

It would be funny if it weren’t so goddamn offensive.

The cane leaned against the wall where I’d propped it, and I resisted the urge to grab it. Not yet. Not unless I absolutely had to.

“Might take a few days to get the part,” the kid said, finally looking up from under the hood. “That’s if we can find one. These old Chevys, they’re particular about?—”

“It’s fine.” I didn’t want to hear another explanation about why my twenty-year-old truck was more trouble than it was worth. It had carried me through three states and two decades of fire seasons. I wasn’t giving up on it now. “I don’t care how long it takes. Just call me when you know something.”

He nodded, already turning back to another car.

I grabbed my cane—fine, the leg was winning today—and headed for the door.

The September air hit like a slap, cold and damp with the promise of rain.

I’d been in Forestville for a few weeks now, and I still wasn’t used to how green everything was, how the air tasted like growing things instead of smoke.

Some hotshot I’d turned out to be. Thirty years jumping out of planes into wildfires, and now I couldn’t even manage a walk to Main Street without assistance. The doctors called it “significant nerve damage.” I called it karma for all those years of thinking I was invincible.

I was halfway across the parking lot, focused on the uneven asphalt and the way my right foot didn’t quite clear the ground anymore, when it happened. A man came around the corner, nose buried in a book, walking with the distracted confidence of someone who’d taken this route a thousand times.

We collided—not hard, but enough to send him stumbling backward. His book went flying, pages fluttering like wounded birds, and I moved without thinking. My hands caught his upper arms, steadying him before he could fall. The cane clattered to the ground. Fuck.

“Shit, I’m sorry—” I stopped.

Hazel eyes stared up at me, wide with shock.

He was smaller than me—most people were since I was six-two—but there was something about the way he held himself, careful and contained, like he was trying to take up less space in the world.

Gray threaded through dark hair that looked soft enough to touch, and his face…

Christ, he was beautiful. Not young-beautiful, but the kind that came from character, from living. Late forties, maybe, with laugh lines that suggested he’d seen plenty of happy times, though an air of sadness surrounded him now.

I’d seen him before. We’d almost collided the day before as well, in Brianna’s. Apparently, we were destined to bump into each other.

His mouth opened, closed, opened again. “I-I-I’m…” The word caught, stuck on the repetition, and pink flooded his cheeks. “S-s-sorry, I wasn’t… I didn’t…”

I kept my hands on his arms, steady but not restraining. My experience had taught me to read people’s distress, to know when to push and when to wait. This man needed to wait, needed space to breathe through whatever was happening.

“No harm done,” I said, keeping my voice low and easy. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

He pulled back, and I let him go immediately. His hands got busy, straightening his shirt, touching his throat, then dropping to his sides. The book lay spine-up on the asphalt—poetry, I noticed. Mary Oliver. Good choice.

I bent carefully to retrieve it, using the movement to grab my cane too.

The cover was a little scuffed, but the pages seemed intact.

When I straightened, he was staring at the cane, and I saw the moment his embarrassment shifted to something else.

Recognition, maybe, of another person carrying damage.

“Here.” I held out the book. “Hope it’s not too banged up.”

He took it carefully, our fingers not quite touching. “Th-thank you.” The words came out rushed, like he was forcing them past an obstacle. “I’m s-s-sorry about—” He gestured vaguely at the space between us.

“Fraser,” I said, offering my name like a life preserver. “Fraser Strickland. I moved here a few weeks ago.”

His eyes darted to mine, then away. The struggle was visible on his face, social expectation warring with something deeper. His jaw worked, and I could see the effort it took to form the words.

“C-C-Calloway.” He managed it on the third try, and the name came out like a victory. “G-Gilstrap.”

“Good to meet you, Calloway.” I shifted my weight, trying to ease the pressure on my bad leg without being obvious about it. The way he’d noticed the cane told me he was someone who paid attention, who understood what it meant to navigate the world differently from how others expected.

He clutched the book against his chest like armor, but he hadn’t fled yet. That felt like something. In my experience, people either ran from difficulty or leaned into it. Calloway seemed caught between the two, and I wanted to tip the balance in my favor.

“You’ve got good taste in poetry,” I said, nodding at the book. “Mary Oliver’s been getting me through some long nights lately.”

His eyes widened, genuine surprise flickering across his face. “Y-you know her w-w-work?”

“Her line about what we plan to do with our wild and precious life has been rattling around my head since I got here. Trying to figure out the answer.”

A smile ghosted across his face, there and gone like morning mist. He opened his mouth, closed it, then seemed to make a decision. “Th-the library has a b-b-book club. F-Fridays. W-we’re doing p-p-poetry this m-month.”

The invitation was so unexpected, offered with such visible effort, that something tightened in my chest. “Yeah? Maybe I’ll check it out. Been meaning to get more involved in town stuff.”

He nodded quickly, already stepping backward. “I s-s-should…”

“Sure,” I said, not wanting to push. Over the years, I’d learned that sometimes the best thing to do was to let a fire burn itself out naturally. “It was nice running into you, Calloway. Literally.”

That earned me another fleeting smile, and Christ, I wanted to see what he looked like when he really smiled, when he wasn’t fighting so hard against himself.

And then he was gone, walking quickly but carefully, like someone who’d learned to navigate the world without drawing attention.

I stood there in the parking lot, weight balanced between my good leg and the cane, watching him disappear around the corner.

My leg was screaming now, demanding attention, but I barely noticed. Something had happened. I wasn’t sure what, exactly, but it felt significant. Like the moment when you realize a controlled burn is about to jump the fire line, except this time I wasn’t sure I wanted to contain it.

Book Club in the library on Fridays.

I filed the information away and started the slow walk back to my truck, only to slap my forehead at the realization that I didn’t have it.

Right. That was why I was there in the first place.

Thank fuck I lived just off Main Street and would be able to walk back home, even with my leg being an asshole today.

I headed for home. Maybe I could stop by Brianna’s for a sweet treat?

Lord knew I deserved that today. And that woman could bake.

Hell, she could make a monk forget his vows in exchange for a bite of her cinnamon rolls.

The cane clicked against the sidewalk in a rhythm I was still getting used to.

Six months, and I still felt like I was playacting at being someone who needed mobility aids.

The Fraser who’d run up mountains with sixty pounds of gear on his back was gone, but I hadn’t quite figured out who this new version of me was yet.

Forestville revealed itself slowly as I walked.

Flower boxes hung from lampposts, full of late-season blooms. A used bookstore I hadn’t noticed before, its window full of sun-faded covers.

The sound of the river running behind the buildings, constant and soothing.

It was the kind of town that appeared in Christmas movies, all small-town charm and everybody-knows-everybody warmth.

Like a Hallmark movie, except in September.

I continued toward Brianna’s, my mind still circling back to those hazel eyes and the way Calloway had fought so hard for each word.

In thirty years of firefighting, I’d learned to read people quickly—who would freeze, who would run, who would stand their ground when the flames got close.

Calloway was something else entirely: someone who stood his ground despite wanting to run, who pushed through fear with a kind of quiet courage that made my insides all warm.

The bell above Brianna’s door chimed as I entered and the scent of cinnamon and fresh bread hit me. My stomach growled, reminding me I’d skipped breakfast in favor of getting to the auto shop early.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Brianna called from behind the counter, her smile bright enough to power the town. “Fraser, honey, you look like you could use some coffee and something sweet.”

Only six weeks in, and she already made me feel like I’d been coming here for years. Clearly, baking wasn’t her only strength. She had a way of putting you at ease, of making you feel at home.

“You’re not wrong.” I made my way to the counter, trying not to lean too heavily on the cane. “What’s good today?”

“Everything’s good every day,” she said with mock offense. “But I just pulled a Dutch apple pie out of the oven. Still warm. Served with fresh whipped cream.”

“Sold. With a double espresso, please.”

She waved her hand. “Find a seat. I’ll bring it right out.”