Page 97 of Found by the Pack
Gasps ripple through the crowd, then applause. Baxter’s wall—once a crumbling eyesore—is now an explosion of color. A phoenix, wings stretched wide, rising from a storm of blues and grays into oranges and golds. Fire and sky, destruction and rebirth. It’s breathtaking, even for me, even though I’ve been watching the damn thing take shape for weeks.
I glance at Boone, expecting him to be glowing, but his eyes are locked on Sadie, not the wall. The way he looks at her makes something in my chest twist.
“Hey,” I murmur, trying to play the bigger person. “I know things with Gabe have been… tense. But he does care, Boone. About her. About you. About all of this.”
Boone’s jaw tightens. “This isn’t the place, Shep.”
“I know,” I say quickly. “I’m just saying, don’t write him off. He’s?—”
Boone’s phone buzzes. He curses under his breath, mutters an apology, and steps away, already answering the call.
I exhale, running a hand down my face.
That’s when Millie appears at my elbow, cheeks pink, eyes bright. She’s clutching a notebook to her chest, still looking like she hasn’t fully recovered from whatever hangover she carried out of the bonfire.
“Shepard!” she chirps. “I was hoping to catch you.”
I force a smile, because she means well. “Millie. How’s the volunteer work treating you?”
Her grin widens. “Busy! But good. I wanted to talk to you about maybe organizing a little exhibit. You know, tie it into the murals? History and art together.”
I nod, grateful for the distraction. “That’s a good idea. Let’s talk more about it.”
But my eyes can’t help drifting back to the stage, where Sadie stands clutching the bouquet like a lifeline, her pink hair glowing in the sun, the phoenix blazing behind her.
And I know, without a shadow of doubt, that I’m in trouble.
Boone returns to my side with his phone still in his hand, expression pulled tight. He doesn’t even have to say it for me to know—duty’s calling.
“Shep,” he mutters low, leaning closer so only I can hear, “I’ve got to go. Car accident just outside Harbor Road. Multiple calls coming in. I’m on shift.” His voice is clipped, efficient, already half out the door in his head.
“Go,” I say immediately, because there’s never a question when it comes to Boone and his job. People first. Always.
He hesitates, though, and glances back toward the stage where Sadie’s talking with Jake, bouquet still clutched likearmor. “Can you”—he swallows, looking almost guilty—“just tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t stay? That I’ll come find her later?”
“Of course.”
His relief is brief, just a nod and a clap on my shoulder before he’s jogging off toward the lot where the ambulance is parked. He’s gone in seconds, swallowed by the noise of the crowd, leaving me in the middle of the town square with his words weighing heavier than they should.
Now it’s just me.
And her.
Jake steps up to the microphone with that easy charisma he’s honed from years of being both Alpha and mayor. “Driftwood Cove,” he calls out, and his voice carries, strong enough to silence even the restless kids darting through the folding chairs. “Thank you all for being here today. Today we celebrate more than just a wall. We celebrate resilience. Renewal. A chance to see our town in color again.”
Applause rises, easy and warm, like the whole town’s been waiting for something to clap about. I glance at Sadie. Her shoulders are stiff, but her chin is lifted, eyes darting between the mural and the people gathered. She looks like she’s bracing for impact.
Jake gestures toward her. “None of this would be possible without the talent and dedication of Sadie Devereaux. In just a few short weeks, she’s poured herself into this project—into us—and the result speaks for itself. A phoenix rising. Driftwood Cove reborn.”
When the tarp comes down, the crowd gasps.
The old brick wall that had been faded and crumbling is alive now, transformed. The mural isn’t just a phoenix—it’s a phoenix woven into the feed store’s history.
The wings burst upward in oranges and golds, but the base of the painting roots itself in farm imagery: sacks of grain, stalksof wheat bending in the wind, a horse and plow sketched in clean, bold lines beneath the flames. The storm clouds at the bottom aren’t abstract; they’re layered with faint outlines of old farmhouses, barns, silhouettes of the Cove’s earliest families.
The phoenix rises out of that history—not away from it, but because of it.
Baxter himself is near the front, weathered cap in hand, blinking hard as though he’s seeing his own life written across the brick. His wife claps first, sharp and proud, and then the applause swells, spreading through the square until the whole town is alive with it.
