Page 55 of Wild Heart

Natalie gave a hollow laugh. “You’ve always had a way with words.”

“Years of living in a place where the wild things don’t speak but still tell the truth.”

They remained in silence for a while as the sun dipped behind the tree line. The air cooled, tinged with pine and ash and something faintly floral, the new lavender bushes by the guest cabin. A sign perhaps.

Finally, Natalie said, “I’m glad the community showed up today.”

“They didn’t come for me,” Olivia said. “They came because we all gave them something to believe in again.”

Natalie shook her head. “Yes. We did that. Together.”

They turned then, slowly, back toward the crowd, where laughter rose like mist and music carried across the hills.

And behind them, the sanctuary stood, stitched together, scarred but breathing. Just like them.

23

It had been just over a week since the sanctuary, like the trees that had withstood the fire, had found its rhythm again. The sanctuary buildings, still partially charred in places not yet replaced, stood like quiet sentinels to survival. There was beauty in their battered edges, in the signs of life having been fought for. Burned brush had been cleared, and new plants, low brush, hardy blooms, were being coaxed into the soil by volunteers with trowels and calloused hands. Smoke from the hearths rose into the still morning air, curling slowly into the sky like prayers.

Inside this quiet rebirth, Natalie moved silently, not wanting to engage. She wore dark jeans, and a charcoal-colored fleece jacket zipped high to her chin, her hair always tied back tightly, as though keeping it bound could also tether the rest of her fraying self. Her features had become pale, cheekbones more defined, dark circles gathering like ink beneath her eyes. Her lips were rarely painted with the half-smile that once came so easily.

She walked briskly between the outbuildings, clipboard in hand, her boots firm against the dirt paths. Every so often,someone would call her name, and she would turn with a look so detached it felt like a stranger answering.

Mason had stopped trying. Not because he didn’t want to try, she knew that, but because each time he reached for her, she pulled farther away. His face, once open and gentle, had become more guarded. The faint laugh lines at his eyes now deepened more with weariness than joy. His usual earth-toned shirts and jackets hung slightly looser on his frame, as though he’d lost a few pounds without noticing.

But his smile for Davey remained.

Davey had shed something too, some old layer of teenage bitterness that had long kept people at arm’s length. He now wore a sturdy denim work jacket, his sleeves often rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms speckled with dirt and wolf hair. He moved with purpose, his gait confident, and he met people’s eyes when he spoke.

The boy had become a man almost overnight.

Olivia watched from her porch most mornings, wrapped in a wool shawl and sipping black coffee from a chipped mug. Her once-severe limp had softened into a steadier walk, thanks to physical therapy and stubbornness in equal measure. Her face, lined with sun and sorrow, still carried the kind of warmth that settled people even when her eyes gave her away.

She had noticed how Natalie flinched slightly when someone spoke to her too suddenly. How she lingered too long alone in the barn after chores. How her laughter, when it came at all, sounded hollow.

The tension between them remained thick as mist. One gray afternoon, as clouds gathered low and heavy over the ridges, Olivia found Natalie in the tack room, her back turned, rummaging through a storage bin. The air was laced with thescent of leather and dust. A storm was coming, one of those early winter squalls that blew in off the mountains without warning, sheeting the valley in sudden sleet and wind. Outside, the trees bowed in the rising gusts.

“We need to talk,” Olivia said, her voice edged but calm.

Natalie didn’t look up. “Now’s not a good time.”

“You’ve been saying that for a week.”

Natalie straightened slowly, her hair frizzy from the weather, cheeks pale. Her eyes, once so expressive had dulled to slate.

“I haven’t had anything worth saying.”

Olivia crossed the room slowly, her cane tapping against the concrete floor.

“This isn’t about Mason anymore, is it?”

Natalie let out a quiet, bitter laugh, then dropped a length of rope to the ground with a thud. “No, Liv. It’s about everything.”

The silence between them stretched thin. Outside, a shutter clattered in the wind, the sky dimming further as sleet began to whisper against the windows like fingernails tapping glass.

Olivia studied her. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

“I haven’t,” Natalie replied. “Not really. Not since the fire and I lost hope.”

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