Page 1 of S'more of Silas
Chapter 1
Cassie
Joy'sgeneralstoresmellslike October. Not the artificial pumpkin spice that comes in a canister, but the real thing. Cinnamon mingles with the yeast from her morning bread baking, undercut by the sharp sweetness of apples someone brought in from Jackson’s Orchard at dawn. The wood floors creak under my feet as I make my way to the counter, worn smooth by decades of customers tracking in mud and snow and the dust of summer.
I'm careful with the stack ofMurder at the Harvest Fairin my arms. Paperback corners bend so easily, and there's somethingabout a pristine book cover that makes people more likely to pick it up and actually buy it.
Joy emerges from the back room. She's been at war with pie dough since before the sun came up, same as every morning during festival season. Her apron tells the story of that battle—white dust, a smear of what might be cherry filling, and a handprint where she wiped her palm.
"These'll fly off the shelf faster than I can stock them," she says, taking the books from me and arranging them in the wire rack that sits between the register and the jars of old-fashioned stick candy.
Then she gives me that conspiratorial smile, the one that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners. "So, Cassie, have you found yourself the mountain man of your dreams yet?”
I laugh, adjusting the top book so the spine faces outward. "I write mysteries, Joy. The mountain men I daydream about are serial killers, suspects, or red herrings. Not love interests.”
She makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a laugh, the kind that suggests she's privy to information I'm not. Her hand waves me toward the door, dismissing my protest entirely. "Be that as it may, it’s autumn, and you know what that means.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What does it mean?”
She winks at me.Winks!“When the leaves fall in Maple Ridge, the mountain fall too.”
Chuckling, I turn to leave. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll be on the lookout for all those falling men.”
“Make sure you are.”
The walk to the festival grounds takes me down Main Street, past the bank with its brick facade and the insurance office that still has the same sun-faded posters in the window from three years ago. Maple Ridge doesn't change much. That's part of its charm. The town is small enough that everyone knowsyour business, but big enough that you can still find pockets of privacy if you know where to look.
By the time I reach the festival grounds—the meadow where the old Mackenzie farm used to sprawl before the family sold it to the town—my arms are aching from hauling boxes from my car.
It’d sure be nice if Orion, my big, strapping NFL star brother, would arrive already. I could use the muscle.
For most of our lives, Orion’s been busy in the fall with football. But after suffering a career-ending injury, he has time on his hands. And he’s promised to help me sell books at the festival this year, just to give himself something to do.
Concerned thoughts about my brother start to creep in, as they have so often since his career ended. I know how devastated and lost he must feel. But I push the intrusive thoughts aside.Can’t worry about Orion right now.There’s too much to do.
Besides, he swears he’s fine and that worrying is unnecessary. So, for once, I really should just mind my own business and let my big brother handle his.
After three trips back and forth, each time loaded down with books, signage, and the little decorative elements that make a booth look inviting, I’m finally finished. When I step back and survey my setup, it looks exactly right.
Pumpkins from the orchard are tucked beside my banner. Larkin, the local librarian and my dearest friend, helped me design my author logo. It’s a rich purple with Cassiopeia Sinclair scrawled in looping letters. Stacks of my books are displayed on the table, with more boxes under the table to add as needed.
I run my fingers across the spines ofCorn Maze Conspiracy,A Latte to Die For, andDeath by Pie. All the cozy murders my readers have come to expect. Small-town settings, amateur sleuths, and nobody dies in graphic detail. Everything wrapped up in a neat little bow by the end.
I'm adjusting the last display, making sure the business cards are fanned out properly and the small bowl of chocolate is centered, when awareness prickles across my shoulders. That unmistakable feeling of being watched, of someone's attention settling on you with weight and intention.
I glance up… and there he is.
Silas Whitaker.
He's lived in the mountains outside of town for a few years. He’s a permanent fixture in Maple Ridge, yet somehow always separate from it.
Ex-military, though nobody seems to know which branch or what he did. Army, someone told me once. Special Forces, someone else whispered at the coffee shop. Navy SEAL, claimed a third person with absolute certainty.
He’s clean-cut in a way that makes him stand out among the flannel-and-beard set that dominates the outdoor recreation crowd in these mountains. His light hair is cropped close, his jaw clean-shaven. He's wearing a simple gray henley that's seen better days, the fabric soft with age and washing, but it fits him in a way that makes it impossible not to notice his shoulders. Broad, solid, the kind of build that comes from actual labor rather than a gym.
People whisper about him in line at the grocery store. They talk about how he always keeps to himself, living alone in a cabin he built himself. How he owns a significant chunk of land up on the ridge, but no one knows for sure how much—or how he paid for it.
He leads guided hunting and fishing tours, but the people who’ve hired him say he’s all business. There’s no time to chitchat when tracking a bear.
