Page 70 of Down Knot Out (Pack Alphas of Misty Pines #3)
Chloe
M y fingers sink into the dark soil as I pat the earth around the young lilac sapling.
Its branches quiver in the cooling breeze, fragile but determined. I had worried about it after the fire, and Nathaniel had spent the end of spring and all of summer nurturing it with the promise that it would be fine so long as we planted it before the first frost.
Now, I breathe in the sweet, earthy scent and let the last of the tension I’ve carried since we began rebuilding slip away.
Beside me, Nathaniel kneels in the dirt, focused as he tamps down the soil on his side to form a perfect basin to catch the rain when it comes.
His rolled-up sleeves reveal forearms corded with lean muscle, dirt clinging to the light dusting of blond hair, and sweat beading at his temple despite the mild autumn air.
“A little more on the far edge.” He gestures toward a spot where the soil dips.
I scoop more soil into the depression, fingers working the earth until it meets his approval.
“I thought it would take more time for it to feel like home again.” I brush a smear of dirt from my wrist.
My skin, once pale from never leaving the house, now holds a hint of sun-kissed gold, with freckles across my forearms from working outside as we rebuilt our life piece by piece.
Nathaniel’s head lifts, his dark eyes catching the sunlight. “Our crew really worked to earn their bonuses to get us out of Cabin One and back into the Homestead before winter.”
It had taken six months, during which our pack lived in the small cottage I first rented.
Back when I thought I would just be here for a two-week vacation, and then decided never to go back home.
It had been tight with four Alphas, one Omega, a six-year-old pup with too much energy, and one giant Newfoundland.
Grady had opted to bunk down with Kyle in between staying on the island and returning to his apartment on the mainland.
We had spent a lot of time outside, but we were more than ready to give up the camping life by the time the inspector signed off on us moving back into the Homestead.
I lean against his side, shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the mingled scent of earth and clove while the bond between us pulses with contentment, a steady heartbeat that connects us. “Do you think it’ll bloom this season?”
His arm comes around my waist, and he gently cups the rounded swell of my stomach. “Not until next year. It needs time to grow strong.”
Blushing, I bury my face in his quilted jacket.
From the path to the lodge, a cheerful bell clangs twice, the sound carrying across the lawn, clear in the still air.
I lift my head from Nathaniel’s shoulder. “Is that?—?”
“Lunch bell.” He checks his watch. “First tour guests are back from Blake’s hike.”
I wipe my hands on the worn denim of my overalls and laugh. “I forgot we were officially open for food service today.”
Between the tree planting and the hundred other tasks still left on our list, it slipped my mind .
Nathaniel’s lips quirk upward. “Shame on you. Holden’s been baking up a storm since before sunrise!”
“How is that different from any other day?” When he stands, I accept his hand. Getting up from the ground isn’t as effortless as it used to be with the extra weight I’m carrying. “Think they’ll eat all the sourdough?”
“You know he set aside a loaf for you.” Nathaniel dusts off his knees, leaving smudges of earth on his khakis. “He said there would be corn chowder for lunch, too.”
My mouth waters, and I hurry to help gather our gardening tools, stowing them in the new greenhouse.
With a last look at our newly planted lilac tree, we walk back toward the path that leads around the outside of the Homestead, our shoulders brushing. The scent of pine and cedar fills the air, along with the delicious lunch Holden made.
The lodge stretches ahead, warm cedar and fresh paint, planters blooming with late spring flowers along the porch rail. A hand-carved sign swings overhead, the letters burned into the wood by Blake’s careful hand: The Homestead at Misty Pines .
As we approach, I catch movement through the windows as guests move around the great room. While the cabins were open all summer, these are the first guests to enter the Homestead, not counting the soft opening we did for friends and family two weeks ago.
“I should change.” I brush at my dirt-stained clothes. “I must look a mess.”
Nathaniel’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “You look like someone who built this place with her own hands. I think they’ll appreciate that.”
His confidence steadies me.
Before we reach the porch steps, the front door swings open, and Quinn darts out, her pink dress swinging around her knees, a clipboard clutched to her chest.
“Aunt Chloe! Uncle Nat!” She bounces on her toes. “We have guests! Real ones! And I’m the official greeter!”
Nathaniel chuckles. “Is that so?”
“Uncle Dom said I have the best smile for the job.” With a solemn expression, she lifts her clipboard. “I need to check you in, please.”
I hide my amusement as Nathaniel bends at the waist, giving her his full attention. “Of course, Ms. Quinn. We’re here for lunch.”
She draws a giant check mark on her piece of paper. “You’re on the list.” Then she takes in my dirt-smudged appearance. “Aunt Chloe, you should wash your hands. Uncle Holden says no dirty hands at the table.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I give her a mock salute, and she giggles.
As she darts back inside, I exchange a glance with Nathaniel. His expression reflects the same pride, joy, and touch of disbelief I feel.
He steps ahead to open the door. “After you, Mrs. Wright.”
The entryway of the Homestead welcomes me with warmth and light, so different from the burned-out shell we stood in months ago.
Sunlight streams through the tall windows, catching on the polished wood floors we spent weeks sanding and finishing.
The scent of sourdough and rich chowder drifts from the kitchen, mingling with the cedar and pine that frame the vaulted ceiling.
Guests cluster in small groups around the space, some settling into the leather couches by the stone fireplace, others examining the local artwork hung on the walls. The whole place hums with life, vibrant with possibility.
Nathaniel squeezes my hand once before releasing it, already shifting into business mode as he moves toward a couple examining the trail map mounted on the wall. An air of quiet authority surrounds him as he points out the hiking paths and viewpoints, his posture relaxed but professional.
I weave through the dining room toward the kitchen, where the clatter of dishes rises above the hiss of the espresso machine.
When I step inside, I spot Holden standing in front of a giant stockpot on the stove. His golden-brown curls stick to his forehead, cheeks flushed from the heat of the kitchen.
He catches my eye across the kitchen island, and his face transforms, the stress melting away for a moment. “Right on time. Can you try this and tell me if it needs more salt?”
Before I can answer, he ladles a small portion of chowder into a tasting bowl and slides it across the counter to me. I lift it to my lips, blowing on it before taking a sip.
“Perfect,” I tell him, and his shoulders relax a fraction. “But you already knew that. How many times have you practiced this recipe?”
“I’m just nervous.” He wipes his hands on his apron. “Maybe I should have done the cold strawberry soup instead.”
“Too fancy. This is comforting,” I reassure him.
I linger at the counter, watching him work. Holden moves with a confidence he didn’t have when we first met, his anxiety channeled into creating rather than worrying. The kitchen is his domain, redesigned to his specifications after the fire destroyed the original.
The space is larger, expanding out the back of the house, with windows that face the smaller garden where he grows herbs and edible flowers. His hands never stop moving as he floats around the space, tasting, adjusting, and arranging.
I leave the kitchen to Holden and return to the great room, lingering off to the side as I observe the reception area.
Grady sits at the front desk, his golden hair catching the light as he leans forward to help a family with their check-in. His cane rests propped up on the side of the desk, within reach but not currently needed.
He had decided to give up his apartment in the city to take up permanent residence here while he continued to recover.
His stutter is almost gone, only popping out in moments of high emotion, but he still struggles with his balance.
He’s taking it easy as he decides what he wants to do with his future.
Authors have contacted him to be their agent, but he’s not sure he wants to take on new clients.
“You’ll find a welcome basket in your cabin.” He hands over a set of wooden key fobs with cabin numbers burned into them. “Fresh bread, local honey, and a trail map with our recommendations marked. If you need anything at all, press zero on the cabin phone.”
The father of the family says something, and Grady laughs, his head tipping back. He catches my eye across the room and gives me a small salute before returning his attention to the guests.
Quinn sits on a stool near the entry, clipboard clutched to her chest, watching Grady with studious attention. Her pink dress matches the bow in her hair, and her small feet swing back and forth, not quite reaching the floor.
When the door opens, admitting another couple, she hops down and straightens her shoulders. “Welcome to the Homestead at Misty Pines. May I check your names, please?”
The couple exchange amused glances before playing along, giving Quinn their names and reservation details. She makes a show of checking her clipboard, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.
Sadie appears from the hallway leading to the administrative offices, a stack of fresh towels in her arms. The hollows in her cheeks have filled out over the past months, her eyes clear and alert .