Page 8 of Wild Heart

"It is. But it’s my life. And some days, that has to be enough."

Natalie reached across the table and covered Olivia’s hand with hers.

"You don’t have to carry it alone."

Olivia smiled, something soft and grateful in her eyes. "Neither do you."

Later, after the dishes were rinsed and the kitchen dimmed to a gentle glow, Natalie walked the path back to her cabin under a blanket of stars. The night air was brisk and quiet, filled with the scent of moss and pine and the faint mustiness of the earth.

Her breath clouded in front of her as she opened the cabin door and stepped inside. The warmth from earlier still lingered. She lit a single lamp and changed into flannel pajamas, curling into bed with the quilt pulled high.

As she lay there, staring at the moon through the window, Natalie felt something she hadn’t in a long time. Not peace. Not yet. But hope. A fragile, tantalizing thing that she held onto it like a lifeline.

4

The smell of fresh coffee and frying potatoes greeted Natalie as she stepped into the main lodge the next morning. Sunlight beamed through the lace curtains above the kitchen sink, casting soft patterns across the pine floorboards. The lodge felt warm and lived-in, as though it had absorbed years of conversation, of morning silences, of hands wrapped around mugs while frost still touched the windows.

The morning light slanted through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes suspended in the air like lazy fireflies. On one windowsill sat a row of succulents in mismatched ceramic pots. A faded calendar hung beside the pantry door, a dry-erase board pinned beside it with notes from volunteers written in different colors. Every surface carried homely signs of wear, a fraying dish towel, a hand-carved spoon darkened with use, the subtle creak of wood as the house settled into the day.

Olivia was at the stove, a faded green apron tied around her waist, flipping golden potatoes in a cast iron pan. The kettle whistled gently on the back burner, and the low murmur of NPR filled the background like an old friend. She looked more tiredin the daylight, a few more lines around her eyes, a tightness to her shoulders that hadn’t been there last night.

Natalie rubbed the sleep from her eyes, a yawn catching in her throat. "Smells amazing."

Olivia turned, smiling softly. "Morning. Sit. You need a proper breakfast if you’re going to be of any use around here."

Natalie laughed, slipping into the same seat she’d taken the night before. The table had already been set with thick ceramic plates, mismatched mugs, a jar of homemade preserves. Everything here had the comfortable look of things chosen with care and used with love.

Before Natalie could reply, the screen door creaked open, and Davey stepped inside.

She noticed the shift the moment it happened, an almost imperceptible rigidity in Olivia’s posture, the way her shoulders squared, the pan lifted just slightly higher over the heat.

Davey was taller than she remembered, broader in the shoulders, with a beard that made him look older than his twenty-one years. His brown hair was tousled from sleep, and he wore a flannel shirt unbuttoned over a T-shirt that read SANCTUARY STAFF. His eyes, a softer version of Olivia’s, flicked toward Natalie, then away just as quickly.

"Hey," he said, a little shyly.

"Morning," she replied, offering a small smile.

He moved across the room with a quiet, slightly guarded energy. Natalie could see the ghost of the teenager she had once known in the way he half-hunched his shoulders, how his hands stayed buried in his pockets until Olivia handed him a plate.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

The silence that followed was subtle but stretching, like a thread pulled too taut.

Natalie picked up her fork, glancing at Olivia, who busied herself with the coffee press, her hands at work. She pouredherself a mug but didn’t ask Davey if he wanted one. He didn’t ask either.

The air in the kitchen was warm, but the atmosphere had cooled. Even the cheerful bubbling of the potatoes seemed suddenly too loud.

"You look... different," Natalie said, hoping to ease the tension.

He shrugged. "It’s the beard. Makes me look less like a disaster."

Natalie smiled, but Olivia made a sound in her throat, not quite a laugh, not quite disapproval. She said nothing, but the way she picked up a dish towel and started drying already-clean mugs spoke volumes.

Natalie saw it then. Not just the tension of a mother worried about her son, but something more complicated. Resentment, maybe. Frustration. A quiet hurt that had never been fully voiced.

"I didn’t know you were back," Natalie said, directing her words more to Davey now.

He nodded, keeping his gaze on his plate. "Yeah. Been a few months now. Just helping around here. Trying to figure things out."

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