Page 25 of The Lilac River (Silver Peaks #1)

Stay - Rihanna

Lily

B ertie was finally asleep, her tiny body curled into a soft comma beneath the covers.

Even in sleep, she clung to her stuffed dog like a lifeline, her damp curls sticking to her cheeks.

Two more rounds of throwing up had taken what little energy she had left.

I’d coaxed her into sipping some water and a bit of Enfalyte, whispering gentle encouragement the whole time like it might trick her body into settling.

Her fever had dropped a little, thank God, and the rise and fall of her chest was steady now.

But still, I couldn’t leave her side just yet.

I stood there longer than necessary, smoothing her blanket, brushing a curl from her forehead.

Just watching her breathe. Something about her vulnerability pulled at a place so deep in me it almost hurt.

She was fierce like Nash, but there was this softness to her, too, a sweetness I hadn’t expected.

A carefulness. Like she'd learned the world could hurt and was already preparing for it.

I hadn’t known what I’d find when I went digging through Nash’s medicine cabinet, but of course, it was all there.

Everything Bertie needed. Electrolytes, wipes, a thermometer that worked.

Nash had even labeled the kid’s drawer. That shouldn’t have surprised me.

Whatever Nash did, he did it with his whole damn heart.

Being a dad was no different. And somehow that hurt worse than anything else.

Bertie’s room was the same. A quiet kind of proof that he’d built a world for her from the ground up.

The walls were painted a warm buttermilk and soft lilac, colors that felt gentle without being precious.

It wasn’t overly girly, just cozy, lived-in, and deeply hers.

A hammock sagged in one corner, overflowing with plush toys.

On the wall, a pinboard bristled with her drawings, some crude stick figures, others bright, bold swirls of color that reminded me of the way Nash had once painted dreams out loud with me.

Family photos dotted the space. Nash and Gunner with a wild-eyed pony between them. Wilder lifting Bertie high over his head like a fireman drill. All of them laughing, alive. But not one image of the Mayor. That absence said more than any argument ever could.

My gaze snagged on a smaller photo on her nightstand. Nash’s mom. Hair pulled back into a ponytail, smile bright enough to blind a camera. She was giving a double thumbs-up like she knew a secret no one else did. It hit me like a freight train.

And then I looked up.

A shelf above Bertie’s bed. A picture frame. Nash in his old football gear—SCH jersey clinging to his frame, helmet under one arm, grin wide and boyish and full of light. That smile had once lit me up from the inside out.

I remembered that night. The autumn wind had been sharp, leaves crunching beneath our boots as we walked back to the truck.

He’d just been named MVP at a game that drew university scouts from three states to Sundance County High School.

I’d taken that photo right after the whistle blew.

He’d run up to me, lifted me off the ground, and kissed me like nothing else mattered.

“It’s the beginning of our dream, Lila,” he’d whispered against my neck . “Alabama will be just the start, baby.”

I swallowed hard. That night had been everything. Before things unraveled. Before lies and secrets and grief turned dreams into ghosts.

I had to look away before the tears spilled. My heart clenched so tight it hurt.

After one last check on Bertie, I slipped from the room and padded downstairs, instinct guiding me around the creaky step that used to squeal if you weren’t careful. Funny thing, it didn’t squeak anymore. Another small, strange change in a place that used to feel like my second home.

The house was different now. Colder. The warmth that used to greet you at the door had been scrubbed clean.

Where family photos once lined the hallway, abstract paintings now hung in their place—sharp angles and muddy tones.

The kind of art that said money but not soul.

It didn’t feel like Nash. Or the boys. Or Bertie.

I moved through it like a stranger. A ghost.

Downstairs, I curled up on a stiff leather couch that squeaked every time I shifted. I clicked the remote and let the TV flick through channels until it landed on Below Decks. The crew was yelling. Someone had dropped a tray of oysters. Mindless, chaotic comfort.

But even two episodes in, I couldn’t settle.

The house felt too quiet. The clock on the wall ticked past eight-thirty, and there was still no sign of Nash.

Worry gnawed at the edges of my calm. I didn’t have Wilder or Gunner’s numbers.

Just Nash’s. And I didn’t want to call him, not unless it was an emergency.

I didn’t want to seem like I couldn’t handle it.

Considering what to do, three raps at the door sent my heart racing.

The door creaked open. I squealed.

"Shane." The manager of the lilac farm. My old boss from time to time.

He blinked, taking a half-step back. "Lily?"

The years had silvered his hair and deepened the lines around his eyes, but his embrace was exactly as I remembered, warm and steady, like the father I'd needed.

"Heard you were back," he said, holding me at arm's length. "Still haven't found a worker half as good as you."

"Good to see you, too," I managed, feeling the closest thing to happiness I'd experienced since returning to Silver Peaks. Without Cassidy, I had no one left here.

His brow furrowed. "You and Nash...?"

"God, no." My response came too quickly. "Had to bring Bertie home from school and then Nash had an emergency."

"Of course, you’re the amazing new teacher." His eyes softened. "Bertie hasn’t stopped talking about you." He chuckled softly. “She’s real special that girl.”

"She is."

“God, it’s so good to see you, Lily.” He glanced at his watch. "Wish I could stay, but Felicia and I are due at Sarah's."

"Your Sarah? She's married now, right?"

His smile turned proud. "To Jaxon from the fire department. Baby's due in weeks."

"That's wonderful." I hesitated. "She was finishing college when I..."

The unspoken words hung between us: When I left without explanation. When I broke Nash's heart.

“I know, sweetheart. Anyway, you’re back now.” Shane patted a canvas bag. "So, farm takings for Nash. Mind giving them to him?"

"Of course. How is the lavender farm?" My voice cracked as memories flooded back. Working there. Loving Nash there.

A shadow crossed his face. "Good, though Mr. Miller's talking about selling."

"No! He can't." My fingers clutched at my dress, right over my heart. That farm, our special place, where Nash and I had lost ourselves among purple blooms and summer heat. “Nash’s mom started it when she was a little girl.”

"Seems that our mayor doesn’t care. The boys are fighting it, so let’s hope it doesn’t happen." He squeezed my shoulder. "Anyways, don't be a stranger. Dinner soon. Felicia would love to see you."

I nodded, not voicing my doubt. Felicia had warned me once about breaking Nash's heart. Three weeks later, I'd done exactly that.

As the door closed behind him, I wondered if talking to Shane back then might have changed everything—saved Nash and me from a decade of silence. Another question without an answer, in a life suddenly full of them.

Trying to distract myself, I wandered into the kitchen. The difference hit me like stepping through a memory. This room, this room was still theirs. Still his.

Buttermilk cabinets. A long, worn table scattered with Bertie’s coloring books and a half-drawn horse.

A wool throw draped carelessly on the sofa, smelling faintly of cedar and something warmer, something like Nash.

Crayon drawings stuck to the fridge with mismatched magnets.

A note in a child’s handwriting that just said: DADDY I LOVE YOU .

I pressed my hand over my heart.

Here, in this space, I could breathe.

I found pasta and chicken and cooked without thinking, letting the motion ground me.

Stirring. Draining. Slicing garlic with a familiarity I didn’t question.

It wasn’t a fancy meal, but it was warm.

Real. I set a plate on the kitchen table and left it there like a peace offering.

Like maybe it could say the things I didn’t yet know how to.

I was wiping my hands on a dishtowel when I heard it.

Boots on hardwood.

I turned and forgot how to breathe.

Nash stood in the doorway, shadow and light dancing across him.

His shirt was dusted with grit, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dirt smudged across one cheek.

His shoulders looked like they carried the weight of a whole mountain range.

His hair was a mess. And he was, without a doubt, the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

“You’re back,” I said, my voice catching.

He gave me a tired half-smile. “Yeah.”

Two strides and he was in the room, close enough that I could see the lines around his eyes. The kind that didn’t come from age, but from too many sleepless nights.

“How bad is it?” I asked.

“A shit show,” he rasped. “Public Health took samples. We dammed the creek, but…” He ran a hand through his hair. “Could be weeks before we know anything.”

I nodded, heart aching. “But you caught it early, right? The water’s slower this time of year. Less spread.”

He blinked, surprise flickering across his face. “You remember that?”

I gave a small shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “You taught me everything about this place. Guess it stuck.”

He looked at me a moment too long, like he was trying to see through time. Then he exhaled, long and low.

“How’s Bertie?”

“Sleeping. She kept some water down. No fever. I think she’s over the worst of it.”

Relief rolled through him in a visible wave. His knees almost gave. “Thank you,” he said, voice thick with it.

I looked down. “I made you dinner. Just pasta and chicken. Hope that’s okay.”

Nash’s eyes softened, something deep and unreadable in them.

“I don’t deserve that,” he said.

“Maybe not,” I whispered. “But you deserve to be taken care of. Just a little.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared like I was something precious he’d forgotten how to hold.

Then he cleared his throat. “Would you stay? Eat with me?”

And just like that, the ache inside me changed. Cracked. Became something else. Something warm. Something that tasted like hope.

“I’d love to.”

He nodded once, almost shy. “I’ll check on Bertie. Grab a shower. Be down in ten.”

I watched him walk away.

My hands trembled where they gripped the counter. My heart beat wild and fierce in my chest.

Maybe I couldn’t tell him everything tonight.

But maybe, just maybe, this was the start of something new.

One quiet dinner. One truth at a time.