Page 18 of Never Been Gargoyled (Harmony Glen #4)

Dazy

M y phone rang while I was deadheading roses in one of the gardens, my hands covered with soil and leaf matter. I wiped them on my jeans before answering, not recognizing the number.

“Ms. Osborne? This is Sheriff Martinez. We spoke briefly when your lawyer was asking about Helga Morrison's history.”

My stomach clenched. “Yes, of course. Did you find something?”

“I did some digging into the town records, talked to some of the older folks around here. There's something you should know about Helga's past.”

I sank onto the front steps, gripping the phone tighter. “What kind of something?”

“About forty-nine years ago, Helga left town for about six months. Told everyone she was going to help care for a sick sister. ”

Forty-nine years ago. Rebecca was forty-eight now, which would make the timeline match perfectly if she'd been born then.

“A sick sister,” I repeated slowly.

“That's what she said. But here's the thing, Ms. Osborne. I've been sheriff here for most of my adult life, and I knew Helga well. She never mentioned any living relatives except for your father and you. In fact, I could swear she once said she had no siblings other than your dad’s brother.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I'm saying it was unusual for her to suddenly have a sibling who needed help.” He paused.

My heart sank into my shoes. “Then the sibling story was a lie.”

“Seems that way. And when she came back six months later, she was different. Quieter. She kept to herself more than usual, though Helga was already pretty private.”

“Did anyone ask her about it?”

“Small towns, you know. People talk, but they also respect privacy when someone makes it clear they don't want to discuss something. From what I heard, Helga made that very clear.”

I closed my eyes, trying to process what this meant. If Helga had disappeared for six months and lied about why, and Rebecca was born forty-eight years ago…

“Sheriff, is there any chance you could find out exactly when Helga left town and when she came back? ”

“I can try. It might take a few days to track anyone who might know, but I'll see what I can do.”

“Thank you. This is really helpful.”

“Hope it works out for you, Ms. Osborne. Helga was a good woman, and she loved that old place. I think she'd want it to go to someone who'd take care of it.”

“I appreciate that.”

After I hung up, I sat on the steps staring at the phone. The evidence was mounting, and none of it was in my favor. Rebecca hadn't been lying about her age or her connection to Helga. The timeline matched quite well.

“Everything alright?”

I looked up to find Feydin standing at the bottom of the steps, his bandaged hand tucked carefully against his side. The concerned expression on his face made my throat ache.

“That was the sheriff,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “He found some information about Helga.”

Feydin climbed the steps and settled beside me, his wing wrapping around my back in a comforting way. “What kind of information?”

I told him about the phone call, watching his expression grow more serious with each detail. When I finished, he was quiet for a long moment.

“The timeline matches,” he said finally.

“It does.” I picked at a loose thread on my jeans. “I’m beginning to believe she really is Helga's daughter.”

“That doesn't mean she has a stronger claim to the estate than you do. ”

“Doesn't it?” I looked at him. “A biological child would have stronger grounds to inherit. I'm just some great-niece.”

“You're not just anything.” His voice came out fierce. “Helga chose you. She could have left the estate to Rebecca if she'd wanted to.”

“Maybe she felt guilty about giving her up and couldn't face contacting her.”

“Or maybe she had her reasons for leaving it to you instead.”

I wanted to believe that. I really did. But the doubt was creeping in, cold and persistent.

“What if I don't deserve this place?” I asked quietly. “What if I'm fighting for something that was never meant to be mine?”

Feydin turned to face me fully, his gray eyes intense. “Do you love this estate?”

“Yes, but?—”

“Do you want to restore it? Make it stunning again?”

“Of course, but that doesn't mean?—”

“Would you turn it into a business opportunity or a home?”

“A home,” I said without hesitation. “But Feydin?—”

“Then you deserve it.” He reached over and covered my hand with his uninjured one. “You see gardens and sanctuary and history worth preserving here and that matters.”

His touch was soothing when I felt like everything was spinning out of control. The way he was looking at me made heat swirl through my body .

“You really believe that?” I asked.

“I know it.” His thumb traced across my knuckles. “I've watched you with this place. The way you hum while you work in the gardens. The way you talk to the plants like they're old friends. The way you light up when you discover something beautiful that just needs a little care to flourish again.”

My face grew hot. “You watch me work in the gardens?”

His gaze fell. “I may have observed your gardening techniques. For educational purposes.”

“Educational purposes.” I couldn't hold back my smile. “Is that what we're calling it?”

“I'm still learning about proper plant care and who better to learn from but you?”

“Uh-huh.” I bumped his shoulder with mine. “And what have you learned so far?”

“That you have a remarkable talent for bringing stone-cold things back to life.”

The way he said it, so serious and earnest, made my breath catch. There was something in his voice that suggested he wasn't just talking about plants anymore.

“It's not really a talent,” I said. “Most things will grow and thrive if you give them the right conditions. A little water, some good soil, enough sunlight. Patience.”

“Patience,” he repeated, like he was filing that information away.

“The hardest part is knowing when to intervene and when to step back and let nature take its course.”

“And how do you know the difference? ”

I thought about it. “Experience, mostly. And paying attention. Plants will tell you what they need if you know how to listen.”

“What do they tell you?”

“Droopy leaves usually mean too much water or not enough. Brown edges mean stress, though it could also mean drought or disease or just shock from being transplanted. Yellow leaves are often a sign of nutrient deficiency.” I glanced at him. “Why the sudden interest in botany?”

“I want to understand what makes you happy.”

The simple honesty of his answer hit me right in the heart. He wanted to understand what made me happy. Not just tolerate my interests or humor me but actually understand them.

“Oh,” I said.

“Is that acceptable?”

“More than acceptable.” My voice came out soft. “It's really sweet of you.”

“Sweet.” He frowned. “You keep calling me that.”

“Because you are. You bring me breakfast, you fix things around the house, you create beautiful gardens in the middle of the night, and you want to understand what makes me happy. That's the definition of sweet.”

“I prefer 'helpful' or 'supportive.'“

“You can prefer whatever you want. You're still sweet.” I grinned at his disgruntled expression. “What's wrong with being sweet?”

“Sweet is…diminutive. Insubstantial. ”

“Sweet is caring and thoughtful and considerate. There's nothing diminutive about that.”

He looked unconvinced.

“Feydin.” I turned to face him. “In my experience, truly sweet men are rare. Most guys I've known have been selfish or careless or not particularly interested in anyone's happiness but their own.”

“That sounds lonely.”

“It was.” I winced. “I mean, I had friends and my dad, but romantic relationships never seemed to work out for me.” I shrugged.

“Their loss.”

The quiet conviction in his voice made my heart skip. He said it like it was an absolute fact, not just something polite to make me feel better.

“You don't even know me that well yet,” I said.

“I know enough.”

“Like what?”

“I know you talk to plants and make happy noises when you eat eclairs. I know you inherited a falling-down estate and decided to restore it instead of selling it. I know you trust people until they give you a reason not to, and you see potential where others see problems.”

I stared at him. He really had been paying attention.

“I know you hum when you're content,” he continued, “and you bite your lip when you're concentrating. I know you'd rather fix something than replace it, and you think everyone deserves a second chance.”

“You got all that from a few days of knowing me? ”

“Some things are obvious if you're paying attention.”

“And you've been doing that.”

“Every moment.”

The intensity in his voice made my pulse race. The way he was looking at me, like I was something precious and fascinating, sent warmth spreading through my chest.

This was dangerous territory. I was already getting attached to this place and the life I was building here.

Getting attached to Feydin too would only make losing everything hurt that much more.

But looking at him now, seeing the careful way he cradled his injured hand and the fierce protectiveness in his expression when he talked about the estate, I realized it might already be too late.

I was falling for him. Had been falling for days now, maybe since that first moment he'd kissed me in the garden.

The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it felt amazing.

“We should probably get back to researching Rebecca,” I said, though I made no move to get up.

“Probably,” he said, also not moving.

I explained what the sheriff said. “He’s going to try to find the exact dates Helga was gone. That might help us figure out our next move.”

“Good plan.”

We sat there together, his hand still covering mine, watching the sun sink lower in the sky. My heart was flipping around, but not from anxiety about the legal situation anymore.

For the first time in longer than I could remember, I wasn't facing my problems alone. And maybe, if I was very lucky, I wouldn't have to face anything alone ever again.