Page 70 of Found by the Pack
I picture it—the tall, sunlit wall broken up with color and texture, something that makes people stop the way they do in front of Sadie’s work outside.
She’d hate the idea at first, I’m sure. Too much attention. Too many people watching her work. And since the place is open all day, I don’t like the idea of her coming by way too early, or way too late just to work. But if I gave her the books, if I told her it was just for inspiration… maybe she’d come around.
Millie’s already moving toward the back, chattering about how she found some first editions buried under a box of Christmas decorations. Marjorie starts in again about the meeting agenda—how we’ll need visual aids, how the mayor’s wife should be on our side if we play it right, how she’s been writing her speech in her head for weeks now.
I let her talk, half listening, half already thinking about the moment I’ll hand those books over to Sadie. The way her brow will furrow at first, suspicious of any gift. The way her fingers will linger on the pages once she realizes what they are.
And maybe the way she might look at me differently after that—not like the guy who’s always on the periphery, but like someone who sees her, not just her art.
I’m done at the library earlier than I expected, which doesn’t happen often. The back room’s finally looking less like a hoarder’s den and more like an archive, and Marjorie has moved on to terrorizing Millie about alphabetizing the children’s section. I could go home, put on a pot of coffee, maybe get a jump on the weekend cataloging.
But instead, I find myself thinking about the books.
I told myself I’d give them to Sadie “when I happened to see her next,” but I know damn well that’s a flimsy excuse. I’m already halfway to the mural site before I’ve even decided if I’m going.
The south-facing wall of Baxter’s Feed & Seed is empty when I pull up, sunlight spilling across the whitewashed surface she’s been working on. No Sadie. No scattered paint jars. Just the faint trace of chalk lines in her careful hand.
I tell myself I’ll just drive by her place, see if she’s around.
She is.
She’s outside, barefoot, standing over a battered wooden table streaked with every color imaginable. Overalls rolled at the ankles, the faded denim mottled with paint stains from a hundred different projects. Her hair’s up in a loose knot, tendrils stuck to her temple in the warm breeze.
She’s bent over a mixing tray, coaxing two shades together with the tip of a brush, sunlight catching on the gold flecks in her hair.
And then I see them—tiny phoenixes painted up one strap of her overalls, each one different. No more than an inch tall, but detailed. Feathers in flame shades. Tiny bursts of color.
I get out of the truck, holding the books against my side. “Morning.”
She glances up, squinting, and when she smiles it’s like she’s been caught in a good moment she didn’t expect to share. “Morning. Why are you always up so early?”
I adjust my glasses out of habit, though they don’t need adjusting. “Librarian hours. Old habit. We open at ten, but the real work starts before anyone else walks in.”
She tilts her head, studying me like she’s deciding if that’s a decent answer. Then she nods at the table. “Mixing paints before I head over to the mural. Trying to get this shade right before the light changes.”
I glance down at the tray—deep crimson merging into something more molten, like embers cooling. “Looks delicate.”
“It is.” She straightens, wiping her brush on a rag. “The whole piece has to feel… alive, even when it’s still. If I get this shade wrong, the rest of it dies on the wall.”
Her precision makes me braver than I should be. “What’s the mural about?”
She hesitates. Her gaze flicks toward the table, then back to me. “It’s about resurrection,” she says finally, voice quiet. “Something ugly, burned down to nothing, finding a way back.”
There’s weight to her tone, more than just artistic metaphor.
I’ve seen her in town enough to know she moves through the world like someone guarding something. And now, in the warmth of her yard, with paint smudged across her forearms and a smear on her cheekbone, I see her not just as an artist… but as an Omega.
Not in the way men leer at Omegas, or the way small-town gossip chews over their choices, but in the way something ancient stirs in me, an awareness that has nothing to do with sight or scent—only recognition. Like my bones know her before my mind does.
She reaches out—hesitant, almost testing—and her fingertips brush my hand.
It’s nothing. Just a touch. But my pulse spikes anyway, and neither of us moves for a long moment.
I clear my throat and lift the stack of books. “I, uh… I thought you might like these. Millie found them—old art books, local history. A couple have sketches of Driftwood Cove from decades ago.”
Her eyes light, the guardedness melting for just a second. She takes the top one like it’s something fragile. “Oh my god, these are incredible.” She flips through the pages, her mouth curving into a smile. “Shepard, these are?—”
She cuts herself off by stepping forward and hugging me. It’s quick, maybe three seconds, but long enough for me to register the scent of turpentine and soap, the press of her paint-streaked forearm against my side.
