Chapter 6

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‎The autumn sky over Pine Valley opened up in shades of bruised slate and faded marigold. By seven in the morning, the valley floor was shrouded in a thick, frost-kissed mist that clung to the high tips of the pines and made every breath taste like wet iron and wood smoke.

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‎Katrina stood on her front porch, her hands wrapped tightly around a chipped ceramic mug of hot black coffee. Her left forearm throbbed with a faint, dull pulse beneath the fresh white bandage Doctor Harlan had secured the evening before, but the sharp sting was gone. She flexed her fingers inside her thick woolen sleeve, testing the movement. Sore, but usable.

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‎In the driveway, the bed of her heavy-duty red truck was lined with three thick woven wicker baskets, each cushioned with folded burlap sacks. Nestled securely inside were the twenty jars of preserves she had hauled up from Arthur’s dark cellar long after midnight. The glass mason jars—wiped clean of decades of dust, capped with squares of brown burlap, tied with hemp twine, and marked in her own careful script—glinted softly in the pale morning light.

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‎Rosewood Acreage — Wild Blackberry Jam. Rosewood Acreage — Spiced Apple Butter.

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‎Kat took a long, slow sip of her coffee, letting the bitter heat settle in her stomach. She knew what today was. The Great Pine Harvest Fair wasn't just a local autumn tradition with live fiddle music and cider booths; it was a jury. The entire town would be gathered in the central square, and every eye would be tracking the city girl who had inherited Arthur Rosewood’s rotting farm. They were waiting to see if she would fail, if she would ask for charity, or if she would simply pack her bags before the first real snowfall locked the valley down.

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‎Let them look, Kat thought, setting her empty mug on the porch railing with a deliberate thunk.

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‎She climbed into the cab of her truck, turned the key, and listened to the old engine roar to life with its familiar, sputtering growl.

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‎The four-mile drive down into the valley center was quiet. The mountain road wound through dense thickets of Douglas fir and golden larch, the crisp morning wind whistling through the slightly cracked driver-side window. As she rounded the final bend near Fiddler’s Ford Bridge, the quiet murmur of the valley exploded into color and sound.

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‎Pine Valley’s town square had been completely transformed.

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‎Dozens of heavy timber booths lined the perimeter of the cobblestone common, their frames built from dark, rough-sawn cedar that smelled overwhelmingly of fresh resin and crushed pine needles. Bright orange pumpkins, thick bales of dry hay, and woven garlands of dark green fir branches were draped over every wooden archway. In the center of the square, near the stone fountain, a low wooden stage had been erected, where a couple of local men were already tuning a fiddle and an acoustic guitar.

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‎The air was dense with the rich, mouth-watering scents of the fair: hot spiced apple cider from Holloway’s Orchards, crisp fried dough rolled in cinnamon sugar, and the deep, savory smoke of roasting pork drifting from Marge Wilson’s pop-up diner station.

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‎Kat parked her red truck along the outer edge of the square near Lazarus Smith’s general store. She killed the engine, stepped out into the crisp mountain air, and reached into the truck bed to haul the first heavy wicker basket of jars into her arms.

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‎"Need a hand with that, Kat?"

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‎Kat turned to see Mayor Thomas strolling over, a thick woolen scarf wrapped around his neck and a clipboard tucked under his arm. His smile was warm, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at the rustic baskets in her truck bed.

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‎"I’ve got it, Mayor," Kat replied smoothly, adjusting her grip on the basket handles so her left arm didn't take the brunt of the weight. "Just point me toward my table."

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‎"Right this way," Thomas said, gesturing with his clipboard as he led her toward the middle row of vendor booths. "We saved Arthur’s usual spot for you. Right between Marge’s pie stand and the woodshop's display."

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‎Kat’s steps slowed slightly at the mention of the woodshop, but she kept her face completely impassive as she followed him.

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‎Her designated space consisted of a long, sturdy cedar table covered by a dark green canvas canopy. Directly to her left, Marge Wilson was busy arranging massive, steaming glass covers over freshly baked pecan and pumpkin pies, shouting cheerful greetings to everyone who walked past.

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‎Directly across the narrow gravel walkway, however, sat the large timber pavilion for The Vance Timber Mill.

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‎It was easily the most impressive structure in the square. Huge, hand-carved oak signs hung from the heavy rafters, displaying intricate wooden bowls, hand-turned cutting boards, custom iron-and-timber furniture, and detailed architectural blueprints. Standing on a low wooden stool, reaching up to secure a heavy iron lantern to the corner beam with a pair of pliers, was Azriel.

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‎He wore a dark canvas work jacket over a grey thermal shirt, his sleeves pushed up to his forearms despite the biting morning chill. His dark, thick hair was slightly tousled by the wind, dusted with a faint haze of sawdust. Every movement he made was slow, deliberate, and packed with effortless, broad-shouldered strength.

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‎As if sensing her presence, Azriel didn't turn his head immediately. He finished tightening the heavy iron bolt with a firm, practiced twist of his wrist, set the pliers into his leather tool belt, and slowly stepped down from the stool.

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‎His icy eyes drifted across the gravel path, locking onto Kat.

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‎He didn't smile. He didn't offer a wave. He simply stood there, his large hands resting loosely on his leather belt, taking in the sight of her standing beside her wicker baskets in her worn flannel shirt, dark jeans, and leather boots. His gaze dropped briefly to her left forearm—checking the bandage under her pushed-up sleeve—before rising back to meet her eyes with that maddening, unbothered calm.

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‎Standing right beside him, adjusting a display of polished wooden cutting boards, was Abby Smith. She wore a fitted burgundy sweater and dark boots, her blonde hair styled into soft, perfect waves. The moment she noticed Kat, Abby offered a bright, practiced smile, though her blue eyes remained cool and assessing. She stepped closer to Azriel, her shoulder brushing lightly against his arm as she pointed to a stack of wooden bowls.

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‎"Azriel, make sure these cedar pieces are placed closer to the front," Abby said, her voice carrying easily across the path. "The morning light hits them better over here."

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‎Azriel didn't answer Abby with words. He simply picked up the heavy wooden stack with one hand, shifting them to the front table without taking his eyes off Kat for a single second longer than necessary, before turning his back to arrange the display.

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‎Kat let out a quiet, slow breath through her nose, feeling a familiar, stubborn fire ignite in her chest.

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‎Unbelievable, she thought, turning her back on the timber pavilion and facing her own empty table. The man has two settings: silent judgment and utter arrogance.

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‎"Ignore the brood over there, dear," Marge Wilson’s raspy, cheerful voice called out from the pie stand. Marge was wiping down her glass counter with a damp rag, her sharp hazel eyes twinkling with amusement. "Azriel Vance hasn't smiled since the winter of ninety-eight. I think his jaw grew back sideways."

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‎Kat couldn't help the faint, genuine laugh that escaped her lips. "Is he always that charming?"

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‎"Only on high holidays," Marge chuckled, leaning over the wooden divider between their booths. "He's a good boy, Kat, but he's got oak where his heart ought to be. Built like a brick wall and just about as easy to talk to. Now, what have you got in those baskets, honey? Smell like blackberry from three feet away."

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‎Kat’s focus instantly shifted back to her work. She carefully lifted the heavy mason jars out of the wicker baskets, arranging them in neat, tiered rows across the cedar table.

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‎She placed the rich, dark purple wild blackberry jars on the left, the golden-amber spiced apple butter in the center, and the remaining jars of pure clover honey on the right. She arranged a few dried pinecones and small sprigs of autumn cedar around the bases of the jars, creating a simple, rustic presentation that highlighted the hand-written parchment labels.

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‎Rosewood Acreage.

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‎By nine o'clock, the fair was in full swing. The sound of lively fiddle music echoed through the square, punctuated by the loud laughter of children chasing each other through the hay bales and the steady, rhythmic clatter of townspeople browsing the rows of vendors.

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‎Kat stood behind her table, her hands tucked neatly into the pockets of her jacket, watching the townspeople drift past. At first, many of them simply glanced at her banner, murmured quietly to one another, and kept walking. They recognized Arthur’s old jar shapes, but they didn't know what to make of the girl standing behind them.

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‎Then, Father Samuel Yaptengco stopped by, his dark eyes warm behind his silver wire-rimmed glasses as he admired the hand-written calligraphy on the labels. He bought two jars of the spiced apple butter without hesitation, dropping a crisp twenty-dollar bill into Kat’s small wooden cash box and offering a blessing for her harvest.

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‎That single transaction broke the dam.

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‎Word spread quickly across the square that Arthur Rosewood’s granddaughter had uncovered a secret reserve of his legendary preserves. Within an hour, a steady stream of locals began gathering in front of Kat’s booth.

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‎Lazarus Smith dropped by, testing a small wooden spoon sample of the blackberry jam and nodding with deep, solemn approval before buying three jars for his store shelves. Julietta Smith brought over a fresh, warm cinnamon roll wrapped in parchment paper, swapping it for a jar of honey with a motherly pat on Kat’s hand. Even Doctor Harlan strolled past, checking her bandage with a stern eyebrow before purchasing a jar of apple butter for his office staff.

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‎Kat’s hands were moving constantly—wrapping jars in brown paper, tying them with twine, counting change, and answering questions about the farm. Her sore arm throbbed with a dull heat, but her chest swelled with a deep, intoxicating sense of pride. She wasn't just surviving; she was standing on her own two feet in the middle of Pine Valley, honoring her grandfather’s legacy with every jar she passed across the wooden counter.

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‎Across the narrow gravel path, the Vance Timber Mill booth was equally busy. Local contractors, farmers, and tourists crowded around Azriel and his step-father, Jonathan Ashford, admiring the massive, flawless timber tables and hand-carved woodwork.

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‎Azriel moved through the crowd like a force of nature. He answered customers' technical questions in brief, four-word sentences, quoted prices with uncompromising precision, and loaded heavy wooden beams into the backs of buyers' trucks without breaking a sweat. He worked with a fierce, efficient intensity, completely indifferent to the praise or small talk offered by the townspeople.

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‎Yet, despite the constant crowd surrounding his booth, Kat felt his presence like a physical weight across the path.

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‎Every time Kat reached for a fresh roll of twine, every time she laughed at a joke from a neighbor, every time she leaned over the counter to hand a package to a customer, she would catch the swift, subtle shift of his shadow.

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‎Azriel would be standing by a pile of cedar planks, a heavy iron clamp in his calloused hand, and his dark eyes would be fixed on her. He didn't smile when he saw her sales box filling up. He didn't look impressed. But he didn't look away, either. He watched her with a quiet, unrelenting intensity—a man watching an outsider build a fire in the middle of his frozen woods, waiting to see if the flame would catch or die out.

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‎By two o'clock in the afternoon, Kat’s table was nearly clear. Only three jars of wild blackberry jam remained resting against the green tablecloth.

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‎Kat wiped down the cedar wood with a clean rag, letting out a long, satisfied breath. Her shoulders were stiff, her fingers were stained faintly with purple berry juice and ink, but her wooden cash box was heavy with earnings.

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‎She paused, resting her hands on the edge of the table, and looked up at the grey autumn sky. The heavy clouds were beginning to roll lower over the craggy mountain peaks surrounding the valley, carrying the unmistakable, sharp scent of an approaching cold front.

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‎"You're almost sold out."

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‎The deep, low voice sliced through the noise of the fair, grounding itself right in front of her table.

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‎Kat snapped her eyes down.

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‎Azriel was standing on the opposite side of her counter. He had dropped his leather tool belt, his dark grey thermal sleeves pulled back down to his wrists. He towered over the small display, his broad chest casting a long shadow across her remaining three jars.

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‎Up close, the scent of him was overwhelming—cold mountain air, sharp pine resin, and the bitter, earthy tang of fresh wood shavings. His icy eyes were cool and unreadable, tracking the slight flush of color on her cheeks.

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‎Kat straightened her spine, pulling her hands out of her rag and resting them casually on her hips, refusing to let him see her falter.

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‎"I am," Kat replied, keeping her tone crisp and even. "Turns out the valley actually likes Arthur's preserves."

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‎Azriel’s gaze drifted slowly over the three remaining mason jars, taking in the hand-written parchment labels and the neatly tied hemp twine. His jaw set in a hard, quiet line.

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‎"Arthur made good preserves," Azriel said flatly, his deep voice carrying that low, dangerous vibration. "He knew how to seal glass so the frost wouldn't crack it."

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‎"I sealed these myself," Kat countered smoothly, tilting her chin up to hold his dark gaze. "I cleaned the cellar, wiped the glass, and hand-labeled every single one."

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‎Azriel tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes dipping down to her left forearm, where the white bandage was visible beneath her sleeve.

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‎"With one good hand," Azriel noted smoothly, his tone laced with that familiar, infuriating lack of emotion. "You're reckless, Katrina."

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‎Kat’s jaw clenched so hard her molars ached. "I am standing behind a market table, Azriel. I’m not cranking a hydraulic jack or fighting barbed wire. I'm selling jam."

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‎"You've been on your feet for six hours," Azriel said, his voice dropping an octave, completely ignoring her defensive tone. "The mountain draft is coming off the north peak. In two hours, the temperature drops below freezing."

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‎He reached into the pocket of his dark canvas jacket, pulled out a small, folded stack of bills, and tossed them onto her wooden table with a light thud.

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‎"What is that?" Kat asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the money resting beside her jars.

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‎"Three jars," Azriel said flatly, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an unyielding, impenetrable stare. "I'm buying the rest."

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‎Kat stared at the money, then back up at his cold, unbothered face. Her chest heaved with a sudden, sharp surge of irritation.

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‎"I don't need your pity sales, Azriel," Kat snapped softly, her voice tight with pride. "I can sell these three jars to anyone in the next twenty minutes."

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‎A razor-thin, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the very corner of Azriel’s sharp jaw, gone so fast she almost thought she imagined it.

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‎​"I don't offer pity, city girl," Azriel murmured, his voice a low, grounded rumble across the narrow cedar counter. "My mother likes blackberry. Pack the jars."

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‎Kat stared down at the cash on the table, her jaw set so tightly her cheeks burned. She wanted nothing more than to push those bills back across the cedar wood, to tell Azriel Vance to take his mother’s cravings and shove them into his timber mill. But looking at his blank, unyielding face, she knew that refusing a completely legitimate sale would only make her look petty—and give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d gotten under her skin.

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‎Without a word, Kat reached under the table, pulled out a small brown paper bag, and carefully packed the three remaining jars of wild blackberry jam inside. She folded the top rim twice, creasing the paper with a sharp flick of her thumbnail.

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‎"That'll be eighteen dollars," Kat said, her tone as cold and clipped as a frost-bitten pine needle.

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‎Azriel didn't move to pick up his change from the twenty-dollar bill resting on the table. He simply took the paper bag from her hands. His calloused fingers brushed against hers—a brief, fleeting touch that sent an electric spark straight up her arm. Kat pulled her hand back instantly, tucking her fingers into the pockets of her jacket.

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‎Azriel’s icy eyes tracked the movement. "Keep the change."

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‎"I don't keep tips from customers who act like they're doing me a chore," Kat shot back, reaching into her cash box, pulling out a crisp two-dollar bill, and slapping it onto the counter. "Eighteen flat."

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‎Azriel looked at the two-dollar bill, then back up at her face. A slow, subtle tension tightened around his eyes, but his voice remained maddeningly level. "Suit yourself."

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‎Before Kat could offer another sharp retort, a pair of soft, polished leather boots crunched over the gravel behind Azriel.

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‎"Azriel! There you are," Abby’s bright, melodic voice cut through the quiet standoff.

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‎Abby stepped up beside him, her cheeks flushed a light rose from the cold autumn air. She glanced down at the paper bag in Azriel’s hand, her eyebrows flicking up in subtle surprise before her expression smoothed into a warm, practiced smile. She reached out, looping her arm comfortably through Azriel’s dark canvas sleeve. He didn't pull away, though he didn't lean into her either, standing rigid as an iron post.

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‎"Did you buy out the rest of Kat's table?" Abby asked, her tone light, though her blue eyes locked onto Kat’s with a cool, calculating edge. "How sweet of you to help her wrap up early."

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‎"His mother wanted the blackberry," Kat interjected smoothly, closing the lid of her empty wooden cash box with a clear, decisive snap. "It was purely transactional."

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‎"Of course," Abby smiled, tightening her grip on Azriel’s arm just enough to draw attention to the physical closeness between them. "Well, we need you back at the timber booth, Azriel. Mayor Thomas wants us to check the stability of the bonfire scaffold down by the pier before the sun goes down. You know how the lake winds pick up in the evening."

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‎Azriel didn't look at Abby. His eyes stayed glued to Kat, taking in her straight spine, her flushed cheeks, and the fierce, unyielding pride burning in her dark eyes.

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‎"The wind's already turning," Azriel said low, his voice carrying over the noise of the bustling square. He shifted his stance, pulling his arm away from Abby’s grip under the guise of transferring the paper bag to his other hand. "Clear your table before the frost hits, Katrina. You don't want glass sitting out in a drop."

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‎Without waiting for her answer, Azriel turned on his heavy work boots and walked toward the timber pavilion, his long strides effortless and grounded. Abby lingered for a split second longer, offering Kat a small, tight nod before hurrying to catch up to his side.

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‎Kat stood behind her bare table, watching the two of them walk away through the crowd. Her chest rose and fell in a long, ragged exhale.

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‎Infuriating, she thought, grabbing a clean rag and aggressively wiping down the empty cedar table until the grain shone. Absolutely, completely insufferable.

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‎By four o'clock in the afternoon, the bright autumn sun had succumbed to a thick blanket of heavy grey clouds rolling over the craggy peaks of the valley. The wind whistled through the timber arches of the market, carrying a sharp, biting chill that made the vendors wrap their heavy woolen scarves tighter around their necks.

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‎Kat had packed her empty wicker baskets, folded her dark green canvas canopy, and stowed everything securely in the bed of her red truck. Her wooden cash box was tucked under the driver’s seat, heavy with her day’s earnings—earnings that would go straight toward buying new fence posts and winter feed for the farm.

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‎She was about to climb into the cab to head home when Marge Wilson called out to her from across the walkway, waving a gloved hand.

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‎"Kat, honey! Don't you dare drive off yet," Marge shouted over the wind, wrapping a thick plaid shawl over her shoulders. "The town bonfire starts in twenty minutes down by the creek pier. You've worked like a dog all day—come have a cup of spiced cider and watch the timber burn!"

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‎Kat hesitated, her hand resting on the cold door handle of her truck. Her left arm was throbbing with a dull, steady ache from the day’s exertion, and her body begged for a quiet evening by her grandfather’s fireplace. But as she looked across the square, she saw Father Samuel, Lazarus, Julietta, and several other townspeople heading toward the south trail leading down to the water.

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‎If she left now, it would look like she was hiding. It would look like the city girl had sold her goods and retreated back to her shell the moment the work was done.

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‎"I'll be right down, Marge," Kat called back, locking her truck doors and pulling her collar up against the gathering wind.

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‎The trail to the creek pier was lined with low iron lanterns that flickered with soft, amber light against the darkening pine forest. The scent of wood smoke grew stronger with every step, rich and heavy in the crisp night air.

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‎When Kat emerged into the clearing at the edge of the creek, a breath caught in her throat.

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‎The townspeople had gathered in a wide circle along the rocky bank. In the center of a wide pit lined with heavy river stones sat a massive timber bonfire, nearly twelve feet high, constructed from heavy cedar logs and pine brush.

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‎As the sky turned a deep, bruised violet, Mayor Thomas stepped forward with a long burning torch, touching the flame to the dry pine needles at the base.

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‎WHOOSH.

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‎A brilliant wave of golden-orange fire roared to life, shooting sparks high into the darkening twilight sky. The heat radiated across the clearing, instantly cutting through the biting mountain chill and casting long, dancing shadows against the surrounding pines.

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‎Lively fiddle music erupted from the wooden platform near the water as the local musicians struck up an energetic autumn reel. Children ran in circles around the outer edge of the pit, holding toasted marshmallows on long wooden sticks, while adults gathered in small, laughing groups, clutching steaming mugs of hot cider and mulled wine from Holloway’s Orchards.

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‎Kat stood near the edge of the tree line, a warm mug of spiced cider cradled between her gloved hands, watching the flames leap toward the stars. For the first time all day, the quiet, persistent tension in her shoulders began to dissolve. The warmth of the fire, the rhythmic crackle of the burning cedar, and the genuine laughter of the townspeople created an atmosphere that was deeply, undeniably comforting.

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‎"Enjoying the view, Kat?"

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‎Kat turned her head to see Mayor Thomas standing beside her, holding a mug of his own and watching the flames with a proud, contented smile.

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‎"It's beautiful, Mayor," Kat said genuinely, taking a sip of the sweet, cinnamon-laced cider. "I don't think I've ever seen a bonfire this big."

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‎"It's a Pine Valley tradition," Thomas said softly, his eyes reflecting the golden light of the fire. "We burn the summer timber every autumn to mark the end of the harvest and welcome the winter freeze. Your grandfather never missed one. He used to stand right over there by the big oak, telling stories about the old logging days until the fire burned down to ash."

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‎Kat looked toward the ancient oak tree near the water's edge, a gentle, bittersweet pang settling in her chest. She could almost picture him—Arthur Rosewood, with his booming laugh and weathered hands, holding court among his neighbors.

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‎"He loved this valley," Kat murmured softly.

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‎"That he did," Thomas agreed, turning to look at her with a gentle, fatherly warmth. "And judging by that empty table of yours today, I think a part of him is still alive and well right here."

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‎Thomas patted her shoulder gently before walking off to greet Father Samuel near the cider station.

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‎Kat stood alone for a moment, taking a slow, deep breath of the wood-scented air. She looked across the roaring fire, her eyes naturally scanning the crowd—and caught him immediately.

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‎Azriel was standing on the far side of the stone pit, leaning against the rough trunk of a tall white pine, his broad shoulders framed against the glowing light of the flames. He was holding a heavy iron poker in one hand, occasionally stepping forward to adjust a shifting log with absolute, practiced authority.

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‎Abby was nearby, talking animatedly with Mara, Azriel’s step-sister, but Azriel wasn't paying attention to either of them.

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‎He was looking straight through the dancing sparks, his icy gaze locked onto Kat.

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‎In the flickering firelight, the hard, sharp angles of his jaw were carved in deep shadow. He didn't look angry. He didn't look distant. He looked like a guardian standing watch over the edge of his woods, silent, immovable, and entirely focused on her.

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‎Kat didn't look away this time. She held his stare across the roaring fire, the heat of the flames mirroring the quiet, electric static crackling between them.

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‎Neither of them moved. Neither of them smiled. But as the wind whipped through the high canopy above, bringing the first dusting of cold mountain rain against her cheeks, Kat felt a strange, terrifying truth settle deep in her bones:

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‎Azriel Vance might still believe she was going to pack up and leave when the winter hit—but every time he looked at her, he was starting to realize she wasn't going anywhere without a fight.

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