Page 50 of Salvation

Upstairs, Clover’s footsteps thundered across the ceiling, followed by her voice calling down, “There’s a canoe in the boathouse! Can we take it out later?”

Reality intruded, but gently, reminding us we weren’t alone. “Tomorrow morning,” I called back, reluctantly releasing Yulia to continue unpacking.

As I worked, I felt something unfamiliar settle into my bones -- a sense of rightness, of pieces clicking into place. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I wasn’t a member of the Reckless Kings first and a man second. Here, I was just a father and a husband, spending time with his family in a peaceful place. And somehow, that felt like enough.

* * *

The forest trail wound around the edge of the lake, narrow but well-maintained, dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy overhead. I led the way, my footsteps instinctively quiet despite the peaceful surroundings, old habits impossible to break completely. Behind me, Clover chattered excitedly, stopping every few yards to examine something new -- a uniquely shaped rock, an interesting insect, the tracks of some small animal pressed into the soft earth. Yulia brought up the rear, her pace leisurely, hair loose around her shoulders. Away from the compound, she looked younger somehow, the vigilant awareness that normally characterized her movements replaced by a gentle ease that made my chest tighten with emotion.

“Dad, what kind of bird is that?” Clover pointed upward, where a flash of blue darted between branches.

“Blue jay,” I answered, scanning the trees automatically for any sign of actual threat, finding none. “Noisy bastards, but pretty.”

“Language,” Yulia chided, but her smile took any sting from the admonishment.

I shrugged, unrepentant. “Just telling it like it is.”

The trail curved sharply, and I held back a low-hanging branch for them to pass.

“Wait,” I said suddenly, stopping in my tracks. I pointed toward a small clearing about thirty yards off the trail. “Look there. Don’t move.”

Clover and Yulia froze instantly, their bodies responding to the command in my voice before their minds could question it. A moment later, Clover’s sharp intake of breath told me she’d spotted what I had -- a doe and two fawns, grazing peacefully in the dappled light.

“Oh,” she breathed, barely audible. “They’re beautiful.”

We stood motionless, watching the small family. The fawns stayed close to their mother, occasionally nudging at her side, tails flicking nervously. The doe kept her head up, alert, protective, even in this seemingly safe place. I understood that vigilance all too well.

“Just like us,” Yulia murmured, so quietly I almost missed it.

We watched until the deer moved deeper into the forest, disappearing among the trees like ghosts. The moment broken, we continued along the trail, climbing steadily as it wound upward away from the shoreline. When the path grew steeper, roots creating natural steps in the incline, Yulia reached for Clover’s hand without hesitation. My daughter -- nearly grown but still so young in many ways -- took it without the eye-rolling protest she might have shown back at the compound. Some walls came down here in the forest, away from watching eyes and reputations to maintain.

A hawk circled overhead as we crested a small rise, its wingspan impressive against the clear blue sky. I pointed it out to Clover, who tracked its lazy circles with fascination.

“Did they name Uncle Hawk after birds like that?” she asked, shielding her eyes against the sun.

I chuckled, the sound rusty but genuine. “Yeah. Story goes he could spot trouble from a mile away, like those birds spot prey. Nothing escaped his notice. Until he fell in love, then he screwed up in all kinds of ways before finally making Hayley his.”

The trail opened suddenly into a clearing perched on a small rise above the lake. The view was spectacular -- water stretching to the distant shore, mountains rising beyond, the afternoon sun turning everything golden. A fire pit ringed with stones occupied the center of the clearing, clearly used by hikers before us.

“Perfect spot for a break,” I announced, shrugging off my small backpack. “Think we can get a fire going before the sun drops too low?”

Clover’s eyes lit up. “Marshmallows?”

I grinned, pulling a bag from the pack. “What’s the point of a fire without them?”

While I arranged larger branches in the fire pit, Yulia and Clover gathered kindling from the surrounding forest edge. They worked together seamlessly, heads bent close as they discussed which sticks would burn best, Yulia pointing out particularly dry pieces, Clover darting to collect them. The sight of them together -- so similar in some ways despite no blood connection -- made something twist pleasantly in my chest.

Once the fire caught, flames licking eagerly at the dry wood, we settled around it in a tight semicircle. The breeze off the lake carried the clean scent of pine and water, mixing with the smokier smell of burning wood. I unwrapped the package of marshmallows, passing out long sticks I’d stripped of bark for roasting.

“The trick,” I told Clover seriously, “is to keep it just above the flames, not in them. Slow and steady.”

“Says the man who burns his marshmallow every single time,” Yulia teased, her accent wrapping around the words like silk.

“I like them charred,” I protested, deliberately plunging my marshmallow directly into the flames until it caught fire.

Clover burst into laughter as I blew out the small inferno, leaving a blackened, smoking lump on the end of my stick. “Dad! That’s disgusting!”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” I said, popping the entire burnt mess into my mouth with exaggerated satisfaction.

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