Page 65 of The Bear's Blooming Mate

Two days. He could manage two days away from her.

But as he rounded the bend that would take Rose Farm and his mate out of sight, that sense of foreboding returned stronger than ever, and he had to fight the urge to turn around and race back to Elsbeth.

He didn’t know what he would do if he lost her.

But he kept his foot on the gas. Perhaps all shifters felt this way the first time they left their mate.

He checked the clear sky again and told himself he was being ridiculous. But instincts ran deeper than logic, and his bear wouldn’t settle. Not while their mate was alone, and the air felt so…wrong.

Chapter Twenty-One – Elsbeth

Something was wrong. Elsbeth jolted awake, her pulse racing, although she could not tell why. Was there someone outside? Or something?

Her mind conjured an image of the night when she looked out of the window, thinking her mother’s ghost had come to visit her. But it hadn’t been a ghost, it had been Philip’s bear, come to bask in her presence. A small smile curved her lips. Had Philip returned?

Had the sound of his truck woken her?

No. There was no sense of him. No familiar prickle on the back of her neck she felt when he was close.

Pushing herself onto one elbow, she looked around the room, which lay in an eerie half-light, too dark for morning. She listened to the familiar creaks and groans of the house, but it too seemed eerily still, as if holding its breath.

She moved to sit up; the sheets tangled around her legs from a night of restless dreams filled with wilting flowers and Philip’s worried face. The digital clock on her nightstand glowed 6:30 AM, but the darkness pressing against the windows suggested a much earlier hour.

Her sense of unease grew as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Then she heard it, a tap on the window, like a pebble being thrown against the glass.

“Who is it?” she whispered, suddenly fully alert as thoughts of ghosts returned.

No, she did not believe in ghosts. But then, she hadn’t believed in shifters until Philip.

Grabbing her robe from the end of the bed, Elsbeth pulled it on as she went to the window. She hesitated, as the sound came again and again in quick succession.

Rain. She pulled back the curtain to reveal a sky that looked like bruised fruit—purples and grays swirling together in ominous clouds that hung low over the distant mountains, obscuring the peaks.

A sudden wind bent the tops of the distant pines, and as she watched, another raindrop hit the glass, then another, until they came in a steady patter.

Philip had been right. The storm he’d sensed was here.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and pulled up the weather app, her stomach sinking as she read the updated forecast: severe thunderstorm warning, high winds, possible flash flooding. All the things that could destroy her flowers in a single morning.

No, a single hour!

“Philip,” she whispered to the empty room. As panic bloomed in her chest, she wished he were here. Wished she had not insisted he go.

She should have trusted his instincts. Instead, she had sent him away.

She was alone.

All her hard work, the anniversary flowers, the new plantings, the delicate seedlings. Everything she’d poured her heart and soul into could be ruined if she didn’t act fast.

Why had she insisted he go to that awards ceremony? Pride. Stubbornness. A desire to prove she could manage on her own. Now she faced this threat alone, and the weight of it pressed down on her shoulders, making it hard to breathe.

And then it came. The crushing absence of her mother hit her anew. Mom would have known exactly what to do. Mom would have checked the weather more carefully, prepared in advance, and not been caught unaware like this.

“I need you, Mom,” she whispered, her voice cracking as she let the curtain fall back into place, hiding the coming storm. “I need you both.”

But they were not here. At least not in person. But they were here in spirit. They had both taught her so much, helped her become resilient and courageous.

With no time to wallow in fear or regret, Elsbeth moved quickly to the closet. Her fingers brushed past her own clothes until they found what she was seeking—her mother’s flannel shirt, soft and worn from years of love. She hadn’t touched it since that first night with Philip, when she’d felt brave enough to finally let go. She’d needed it like a child needed a comfort blanket. But now she needed it for strength.

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