Page 4 of Honey for the Bear

“You don’t understand,” I say quietly, turning away.

“No, I don’t,” Earl says, his voice firm.“But I do know this.You can’t keep running forever.Sooner or later, you’re gonna have to decide if she’s worth the risk.”

The words hang in the air between us, heavy and unavoidable.

I don’t respond.I can’t.

Instead, I grab a block of wood from the pile on the floor and set it on the workbench, picking up a carving knife.The familiar weight of it in my hand steadies me, the sharp blade glinting in the light.

Earl doesn’t say anything else, just returns to his rocking chair, the hum of the sander filling the silence.

But his words linger, echoing in my mind as I carve, the wood chips falling like snow onto the floor.

***

BythetimeIleave the workshop hours later, the sun has dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of deep blue and gold.The walk back to my cabin is quiet, the only sounds are the rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.

My thoughts are anything but quiet, though.

Earl’s voice plays on a loop in my mind, his words digging into me like splinters.

You can’t keep running forever.

The cabin feels cold and empty when I step inside, the darkness pressing in around me.I set the carving knife on the counter and stare at the block of wood in my hand.It’s rough and unfinished, but I can already see the shape of it taking form—a bear, standing tall and proud, its head tilted toward the sky.

I set it down and glance at the jar of honey still sitting on the counter.

Hannah’s face flashes in my mind—her smile, her laugh, the way she looks at me like I’m more than just some shadow in the woods.

My chest tightens, the weight of my own fear threatening to crush me.

I don’t know if I can risk it.

But I don’t know if I can stay away, either.

And that terrifies me most of all.

Chapter 3

Hannah

Thestormrollsinjust after midnight, tearing through the quiet of my farm with a vengeance.The first crack of thunder rattles the windows, and I shoot upright in bed, my heart pounding.Rain lashes against the roof, and the wind howls like a living thing, wild and furious.

I throw on my boots and grab a flashlight, heading for the back door.My bees will be fine—the hives are sturdy, built to weather storms—but the rest of the farm is another story.I step outside into the chaos, the rain soaking me instantly.It’s cold and sharp, slicing through the humid summer air.

The garden is a mess.My tomato plants are flattened, and the trellis for the beans looks like it’s about to give up entirely.Worse, one of the fence posts near the far end of the property is leaning heavily to one side, barely holding up the wire.

“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, pushing wet hair out of my face.

There’s no fixing it tonight.The storm is too fierce, and I’m already shivering.I’ll deal with it in the morning, I tell myself, trudging back to the house.But as I climb into bed and listen to the storm rage on, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s coming.

***

Bymorning,thestormhas passed, leaving the air crisp and cool.The damage is worse than I thought.The bean trellis is a total loss, and a fence post has snapped clean in half, leaving a gaping hole in the perimeter.

I tie my hair back, roll up my sleeves, and grab my toolbox.If I wait too long to fix the fence, the deer and wild critters will move in, and I’ll lose what’s left of my garden.

The morning sun is warm on my skin as I work, but frustration builds with every swing of the hammer.The post is heavier than I expected, and the ground is still wet and stubborn from the rain.By the time I manage to wedge the new post into the hole, I’ve worked up a sweat, and my arms ache from the effort.

---