Page 27 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
And then, of course, there’s Wyatt Hayes himself. He’s got one hand on the wheel and the other scratching Fern’s head, dressed in what I suspect is his typical attire: charcoal flannel button-down over his t-shirt, worn jeans, and a dark plaid wool coat with some kind of thick, fleecy lining. His stubble’s grown a little longer, like he hasn’t had the chance to shave, and there’s more tension in his brow than yesterday. Or maybe I’m just noticing it now.
I look out the window as we wind down the hill, admiring the pretty houses still shrouded in morning mist. All the vegetation is damp with rain and dew, turning ordinary autumn leaves into glistening garnet and shimmering topaz gems. A comfortable silence stretches between us, the kind I don’t even have with people I’ve known for much, much longer.
At some point, Fern’s resolve breaks, and I feel her wet nose brush my wrist as she investigates my still-wrapped burrito.
“Ah-ah,” Wyatt chides.
Fern pulls away from me and turns to stare at him, looking absolutely miserable, her eyes full of accusation. I find myself laughing at her expression.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, taking a hard turn onto what seems like a main road that heads straight down the hill.
“The way she just looked at you,” I explain, gesturing to Fern. “Like you’re starving her to death.” He isn’t. I saw the hearty breakfast Fern got this morning.
A soft smile takes over Wyatt’s features, illuminated by the yellow glow of the streetlamps that line the road. “Did you have a dog growing up?” he asks. I shake my head no. “I’m surprised you can read her that well, then.”
Contentment warms in my chest like a good cup of coffee on a rainy day, and I smile, looking down at my hands. “She’s an expressive lady,” I say instead of something more complicated and raw. I reach over and scratch Fern between her shoulders.
“Got a lot of those around here,” Wyatt returns dryly. He looks like he wants to say something else, but then his expression shifts—more stoic, removed. Flipping on the windshield wipers, he clears his throat. “I figure I can introduce you to some folks and we can see what we might be able to dig up about the missing hikers.”
A thrill races through me. “So am I an official consultant for the investigation?” I ask, turning in my seat to look at him.
He glances toward me and smiles. My heart flutters in my throat. “Something like that,” he replies as we pull onto the town’s main drag. Off in the distance, I can see the diner’s neon sign flickering like an omen. The mist isn’t as thick here, but the wind picks up, sweeping leaves back and forth across the streets like a brightly colored tide. “As long as that’s what you want, Blythe.”
I startle at that, pulling my attention away from Blackbird Hollow’s undeniable charm to turn back toward him. “I thought my annoying enthusiasm made it obvious,” I tell him, thankful he’s driving so I don’t have to look into his eyes as I say it. “I’m so in.”
“Who made you think your enthusiasm was annoying?” Wyatt asks me abruptly, his gaze abandoning the road. His eyes are intense, his jaw tight, almost like his hackles have gone up. Like he’smadat some nameless, faceless person from my past. My stomach flips, and I feel my face redden.
He turns back toward the road, his shoulders rounding, something sheepish about his posture. “Sorry,” he says with a wave of his hand. “You were probably just joking.”
“I’m not that funny,” I admit, pulling my canvas coat closer. “Usually I just try to make fun of myself before someone else gets the chance. Then the joke’s stale, you know?”
“I wouldn’t make fun at your expense, Blythe,” Wyatt says with an echo of that previous intensity. I watch his hands tighten around the wheel, a muscle in his jaw jumping.
“Thanks,” I say brightly, poking at the wrapping around my breakfast burrito. “If you ever want to take a trip to the city, you can break the kneecaps of everyone who’s ever wronged me.”
Laughter bursts out of him like sunshine through a cloud. “You’re a violent little thing,” he says, pulling off the main drag. As we pass the side of a large building covered in pale stucco, accented with carved wood that’s painted a deep green, I wonder if we’re flirting. I mean, Iwantthis to be flirting.
“Is that a yes?” I ask with little idea of where such boldness came from.
Wyatt pulls up alongside the stuccoed building and slows the truck to a halt. He considers my question, putting the gear into park.
“If you help me with preparations for the Wild Hunt,” he finally says, looking up at me with a mischievous smile that makes me aware of every single stitch of clothing on my body, “I’ll return the favor by breaking some kneecaps.”
He reaches over Fern to offer me his hand. To shake on it. Before I can think too much about it, I extend my palm, and then his fingers are closed around mine—strong, warm, callused.
I take a deep breath, heat unspooling low in my belly. “Deal,” I agree. “Guess it’s better to be making bargains with you instead ofThem.”
I intend it to be flirtatious, I guess, but I’m clearly shit at that sort of thing because Wyatt startles, looking over at me with concern. “That’s not…” He trails off, narrowing his eyes. “Blythe, that’s not something you’ve done before, is it?”
“Jesus Christ,” I sputter with a laugh. “No. Definitely not. They’ve always been…an abstract thing to me, you know? Theoretical. Academic.”
Something in his expression darkens as he pushes open his door, letting Fern bound over his lap and into the street. She takes off for a nearby field where a group of kids is playing. One of them notices her and starts calling her name excitedly, quickly joined by the rest.
“It would be wise for you to keep it that way,” Wyatt warns, like following him out of the truck is some kind of point of no return. “Theoretical. Academic.”
But I’m long past that. I think I have been for a while, even before Cookie’s message and Mr. Rabbit’s bugged eye. “Luckily, I’m an idiot,” I say with glee, pushing my door open and slipping down from the passenger’s seat, my burrito still in tow. I’m not abandoning it anytime soon. Even as my stomach roils at the thought of eating, I tuck it into my coat pocket and follow Wyatt as he heads for a side door: tall, narrow, also painted that deep, pretty green.
The mist sits over everything like a soft blanket, dampening the sound of tires through puddles and far-off dog barks and shops starting to open up for the day. But the second Wyatt pushes through the side door, sound thunders into my delicate, hungover senses.
