Page 8 of Flint’s Fate (Silver Falls Shifters #3)

CHAPTER 7

JENNA

T he Silver Falls Public Library was quaint, the kind of place that smelled like old books and polished wood. Its location was between a bakery and an antique shop on Main Street, and its large bay windows admitted the soft morning light. A bell chimed as Jenna pushed open the door, the sound oddly comforting.

She had spent little time in libraries since college, but after everything she’d uncovered in Maribel’s journal, she needed more than gut instincts and cryptic warnings. She needed proof.

A cheerful-looking woman in her sixties stood behind the front desk, glasses perched at the end of her nose as she flipped through a thick book. She wore a floral cardigan over a button-down shirtdress, her silver hair pinned up in a neat bun. When she looked up, her face lit with recognition.

“Well, now,” she said, setting the book aside. “You’re Maribel’s niece, aren’t you?”

Jenna approached, offering a polite nod. “That obvious?”

The woman laughed, the sound light and warm. “You have her eyes. And that look about you—like you’re about to dig up secrets that half this town would rather stay buried.”

Jenna grinned. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve annoyed the locals.”

“Then you are most definitely Maribel’s niece and in the right place.” The woman extended a hand. “Marian Dewhurst. I run this little archive of ours. My mother named me after the character in The Music Man. She had an unnatural love for Robert Preston, and I’ve been suffering for it ever since.”

Jenna shook her hand, biting back a grin. “I take it you don’t burst into a spontaneous song about libraries?”

“Not unless someone’s willing to pay me for it.” Marian chuckled, then leaned on the desk. “So, what can I help you with?”

Jenna hesitated for a fraction of a second. Trusting people hadn’t exactly been her strong suit lately, but Maribel had trusted this town once. And if there was anyone who might have answers about Cold Creek Orchards’ past, it was probably the woman standing in front of her.

“I need to know about land disputes,” Jenna said. “Specifically, anything related to my aunt’s orchard.”

Marian’s gaze sharpened, the warmth in her expression fading just a fraction. “I should have known you’d come looking. Flint Mercer stopped in a few days ago and told me not to help you, but then I’ve never been one to do as I’m told.” She straightened, then gestured for Jenna to follow her. “Come on, then. Let’s see what we can find.”

She led Jenna through a narrow aisle lined with towering bookshelves, the scent of aged paper thick in the air. The back of the library opened into a research area filled with microfilm machines, old newspaper clippings, and stacks of town records.

Marian pulled out a heavy ledger, flipping through it with practiced ease. “Orchards and blood feuds built this town,” she mused. “People like to pretend Silver Falls is a quiet little place, but this land? People have fought over this land since the first settlers staked their claims.

Jenna crossed her arms. “And Maribel’s orchard?”

Marian slid the book toward her. “She was one of the last holdouts. Refused to sell, no matter what offers they dangled in front of her.”

Jenna frowned as she skimmed the records. Cold Creek Orchards had been in her family for generations, but what caught her attention was the number of attempted buyouts. Developers, private buyers—hell, even the town itself had tried to get Maribel to sell over the years.

“She had a lot of offers,” Jenna muttered.

“More than you’d think. These are just the ones we know about.” Marian sat back, watching her closely. “Most of the other orchard owners sold off their land bit by bit when times got tough. Maribel never budged. Said she’d rather let the land die before she handed it over to the wrong people.”

Jenna stilled.

She’d seen those exact words in Maribel’s journal. I’d rather let the land die than hand it over to the wrong people.

Jenna tapped the ledger. “Do you know who she was talking about? The ‘wrong people’?”

Marian sighed, folding her hands over the desk. “I can guess. But I don’t have proof.”

Jenna’s pulse ticked up. “Guess, then.”

Marian glanced around the empty library before lowering her voice. “Connor McVey has been after that land for years. And not just him. The Calloways, too. The mayor’s family has been sitting pretty in this town for a long time, and they don’t like losing.”

Jenna clenched her jaw. The mayor had tried to convince her to sell. That wasn’t a coincidence.

Marian scrutinized her. “You should be careful, Jenna. People have a way of disappearing when they ask too many questions.”

Jenna’s spine stiffened, her instincts kicking in. “Maribel didn’t disappear. She died.”

Marian’s lips pressed together. “And how sure are you that was an accident?”

Jenna’s stomach turned. “Not sure at all.” She exhaled slowly, closing the ledger. “Can I borrow this?”

Marian studied her for a long moment before nodding. “Just bring it back in one piece.”

Jenna tucked the book under her arm, her mind already spinning. She had a name. She had a lead, and she wasn’t about to stop digging.

She spent the rest of that day doing some grocery and other essential item shopping. One of those items had been a new shotgun and another handgun. Maribel had kept a shotgun in the house, and Jenna had brought her Glock with her from New York. She wanted one of each in her bedroom and in the kitchen/main room.

Back at the farmhouse, she put together some food and began looking through the records she’d brought from the library. Later that evening, she spread the documents out on the kitchen table and began to really study them.

McVey. Calloway. The same names, over and over.

Her aunt had been fighting this battle alone—not anymore. Her aunt might be gone, but Jenna would ensure her aunt’s legacy lived on. But why hadn’t Maribel asked for her help or at least let her know what was going on?

A creak sounded outside. Jenna’s head snapped up, her she-cat stirring beneath her skin. She walked to the sideboard. Retrieving the shotgun, she moved silently toward the door.

The night was quiet. Too quiet. Then she saw it. A shadow by the barn, just at the edge of the light. Watching.

Jenna lifted the gun, steady and sure. “You wanna try me?” she called. “I assure you, I’m an excellent shot.”

The shadow didn’t move. Didn’t seem to blink. It made no noise, but then, slowly, it backed away into the trees.

Jenna stood there, gripping the gun, heart steady and cold. If they hadn’t finished with her, she certainly hadn’t finished with them. She went back into the house and returned to researching the records. She’d barely had time to finish her second cup of coffee before the unwanted knock came at the front door.

She set her mug down with deliberate care, staring at the wooden surface separating her from whoever thought it was a good idea to show up uninvited. She had a damn good guess, though.

Grabbing the ledger she’d borrowed from Marian, she tucked it under one arm and swung the door open.

Connor McVey stood on the porch, dressed in a tailored dark suit far too polished for a man who claimed to understand the town’s roots. His hair was perfectly styled, and he had a practiced smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Ms. Hartford.” He greeted her as though they were old friends. “I was hoping we could have a chat.”

Jenna leaned against the doorframe, blocking his path. “You mean another attempt to convince me to hand over my aunt’s land?”

Connor’s expression didn’t waver. “I’d call it an opportunity.”

“I’d call it a waste of both our times.”

His practiced smile widened, but Jenna wasn’t blind to the flicker of irritation in his gaze. “I don’t think you understand what I’m offering you.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly.” She crossed her arms. “You’ve been trying to buy out this orchard for years, long before my aunt died. And now that she’s gone, you think I’m an easier target.”

Connor tsked, shaking his head like she was a troublesome child rather than the woman standing between him and whatever the hell he wanted. “That’s not what this is, Jenna.”

She bit back the urge to roll her eyes. “Then why don’t you tell me what this is?”

Connor exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly done pretending this was just friendly business. “I’m offering you a way out. Many people would kill for the kind of deal I’m prepared to give you.”

Jenna didn’t miss the intentional phrasing. “Interesting choice of words.”

She let the silence stretch between them, watching him, waiting. Connor might be used to bullshitting his way through negotiations, but she had spent years dealing with corporate sharks in New York. He wasn’t anything special.

When it became clear she wasn’t jumping to respond, he pulled an envelope from his jacket and extended it toward her.

“Take a look,” he said.

Jenna didn’t. Instead, she held his gaze and took a slow step forward, closing the space between them just enough to watch the way his throat worked to swallow.

“I don’t know what fantasy you’ve been playing out in your head,” she murmured, “but let me clear something up for you. I’m not selling. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

Connor’s jaw ticked, his fingers tightening around the envelope. “I’d reconsider if I were you,” he said, his voice lower now. “This land isn’t what you think it is.”

“Then why do you want it so badly?”

His lips parted slightly, just a flicker of something he hadn’t meant to reveal. But he recovered quickly, too quickly. “I want it because it’s wasted potential,” he said smoothly. “And because you don’t belong here.”

Jenna smiled, slow and deliberate, because she wanted him to feel it like a slap. “Then you’re in for a real disappointment.”

Connor studied her for another long moment, then, finally, he tucked the envelope back into his jacket. “This is a limited-time offer,” he warned.

“So is my patience, which is running thin. I suggest you leave.”

He said nothing else. Just turned and walked down the porch steps, moving with a businessman’s precision rather than the rage she knew was simmering just beneath the surface. As he reached the door of his vehicle, she called, “And next time, Mr. McVey, call for an appointment before you just show up on my doorstep. I might not be in as hospitable a mood as I was earlier.”

Jenna grinned at the way he slid into his car, slamming the door closed. She waited until his shiny black car disappeared down the dirt road before shutting the door. Connor McVey wanted something buried in this land. And he wouldn’t stop until he got it. Whatever it was he wanted, he wasn’t going to get it. She meant to find and protect it.

A few hours later, Jenna sat cross-legged on the floor of the farmhouse, surrounded by old maps and ledgers spread across the worn wooden planks.

The map she had found was unlike anything she’d seen before. It was hand-drawn, delicate in some places but bold in others, the ink faded from age. It mapped out Cold Creek Orchards in excruciating detail—every tree, every structure, every natural landmark.

And then there was the symbol—a strange marking, deep in the orchard’s heart, half-hidden beneath the curling lines of the map. Jenna traced it with her fingertips, her she-cat stirring at the back of her mind.

Maribel’s journal had mentioned nothing like this. And yet… someone had drawn it. Marked it. Buried it in these records, hidden for who knew how long.

She flipped through the pages, scanning for anything else that might explain what she was looking at. Near the bottom of one ledger, she found something else.

A name. Calloway.

Jenna’s breath steadied, slower now. Marian had explained that the mayor’s family had been connected to this land for generations. And if she was reading this correctly, there had been a dispute over the very land she was sitting on.

Maribel had refused to sell. And now, Jenna had a symbol, a map, and a gut feeling that she wasn’t just inheriting an orchard—she was inheriting a war.

A noise creaked outside. Jenna snapped her gaze up, her muscles going taut. Her pulse slowed, sharpening to a deadly rhythm as she reached for the gun on the table.

Through the window, she saw movement. A shadow near the barn. Not Flint. Someone else. She rose slowly, her fingers steady on the gun’s grip, her body tense but controlled.

They were back. Whoever was haunting this land wasn’t finished with her yet. She was growing tired of their cat-and-mouse game.

Jenna was used to being alone. After years in New York, her world had become a well-curated isolation. Work, power moves, late nights where she existed on whiskey and sheer will. She had controlled everything.

Now?

She was sitting in the farmhouse she’d inherited, flipping through a map covered in secrets, a name she didn’t trust, and a history someone clearly wanted buried.

And she was not alone.

A sharp knock rattled the front door. Not tentative. Not polite. She recognized that knock before she even moved. Flint.

Jenna let out a slow breath, pushing to her feet. The moment she cracked the door open, her stomach tightened.

Flint stood in the doorway, bare-chested, blood streaking down his side, the scent of adrenaline clinging to him. His jeans hung low, his muscles flexing as he braced a hand against the frame. His eyes scanned her as if he was assessing her to determine if she was injured, scared, or ready to fight him.

“You look like hell,” she said, masking her concern.

Flint’s lips curled slightly. “You should see the other guy.”

Jenna pushed the door open wider. “Get inside before you bleed all over my porch.”

He didn’t argue, stepping past her, bringing the heat of him, the scent of forest and musk and something darker.

Jenna closed the door and turned, arms crossed, gaze sweeping over him. His torso was all muscle and tension, his skin streaked with dried blood and dirt, a long gash slicing across his ribs.

“What the hell happened?” she asked, already moving toward the first aid kit tucked beneath the sink.

Flint sat heavily in one of the wooden chairs at the kitchen table, his body too big, too powerful for the small space. “Found your visitor,” he muttered.

Jenna froze, her fingers tightening around the first aid kit. “And?”

“He won’t be back tonight.”

She wasn’t stupid. That meant Flint had done something violent.

Jenna walked over, dropping the kit on the table before gripping his chin, tilting his face toward her. His skin was hot, his jaw covered in faint stubble, a bruise already blooming along his cheekbone.

His eyes locked onto hers, challenging, testing.

“You’re bleeding like a dumbass,” she muttered, releasing him before she did something even dumber.

She grabbed a cloth and a bottle of alcohol, kneeling beside him, pressing the damp fabric to the wound on his ribs. Flint hissed, his muscles jumping beneath her touch.

“Hold still, Mercer.”

“You’re bossy,” he murmured, his voice rougher, deeper.

Jenna rolled her eyes but didn’t stop working. “And you’re reckless.”

Flint watched her, his gaze too intense, too consuming. “It wasn’t reckless. It was necessary.”

Jenna swallowed, trying to ignore the heat coiling in her gut. She could feel his body vibrating with tension, his bare skin so damn warm under her hands.

“This could’ve been worse,” she muttered.

Flint huffed a laugh. “I’ve had worse.”

Jenna wiped at the gash, her fingers grazing the hard muscle beneath. Her she-cat stirred, restless, demanding. She ignored it.

“You keep fighting my battles, Mercer,” she said, her voice low, “and I’m going to start wondering who you’re trying to impress.”

Flint’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist, halting her movements. Her breath hitched. His eyes burned with something deeper than the attraction simmering between them.

“I’m not fighting for you, Jenna,” he said, voice rough. “I’m fighting with you.”

Her pulse slammed. The space between them vanished.

Flint’s fingers tightened just slightly, his grip firm but not demanding. His chest rose and fell, his body still coiled with the energy of the fight he’d left behind.

Jenna’s gaze flicked to his lips—just once, and then he moved.

Flint’s hand slid to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her toward him. The first brush of his mouth against hers sent heat pooling low, sharp and consuming.

Jenna didn’t resist. She met him, her fingers gripping his shoulder, digging into the muscle as she tilted her head, deepening the kiss. Flint let out a low growl, his other hand gripping her hip, dragging her closer, spreading fire through every inch of her body.

It was too much. Too hot. Too dangerous.

Jenna ripped herself away, breathing hard. Flint’s eyes flashed, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling like he was fighting something primal.

Jenna swallowed, her lips tingling. “That was a mistake.”

Flint leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze locked onto hers like he could still taste her.

“No, it wasn’t.”

Jenna forced her shoulders back, shoving the first aid kit toward him. “Clean yourself up.”

Flint didn’t move. Didn’t argue. Just watched her with a smoldering gaze that made her feel like she was standing too damn close to the fire.

Jenna turned on her heel, leaving him there, alone in her kitchen, bleeding, shirtless, and entirely too dangerous to her sanity. But as she climbed the stairs, her lips still tingling from the kiss she’d just thrown away, she knew one thing.

She wanted more, and that scared her more than any enemy lurking in the woods.