FanStory.com - After The Storm by Begin Again

Author's Note

I wrote After the Storm in the quiet hours, thinking of people who keep showing up for life even when it's hard.

If you're carrying a heavy day, I wrote these stories for you — small, hopeful pieces where gentleness and second chances take root.

Each story stands alone, yet they share a single thread: the courage to try again, the love that returns in ordinary ways, and the quiet determination to rebuild what matters.

This book will take you through four such journeys--

Mending the Heart — A woman returns to her father's orchard, intending to sell, only to discover that some places mend you while you mend them.

Yesterday's Brushstrokes — An inherited studio reveals unfinished paintings, hidden words, and a chance to make peace with what was left unsaid.

High Water Mark — A town dries out and starts again — one room, one apology, one nail at a time.

The Reply — A letter set adrift finds its way home, and two strangers find a way forward.

I hope you'll find pieces of yourself within these pages — the quiet bravery, the questions, and the light that always finds its way in after the clouds part.

P.S. To keep these stories welcoming for readers, I'll do my best to post shorter chapters while holding to the same steady flow. Thank you, as always, for sharing these journeys with me — and for the small discoveries that come when we choose to begin again.

Chapter 1
Mending The Heart Chap 1

By Begin Again

Marla eased off the highway when the Hawthorne Ridge sign came into view. Her stomach tightened as it had before report cards or hard talks with her father. Then she saw the yard-sale notice, taped beneath the name and written in Mrs. Cooley's careful print, and the tension eased. A slight, unexpected warmth took hold--the kind that comes from knowing not everything has changed.

Main Street felt like a familiar friend with a new haircut. A variety of rakes leaned outside the hardware store like old men swapping gossip. The diner had a chalkboard menu, but the same dented mailbox. As she drove past the familiar spot, a bell chimed a note she could feel in her ribs — Saturdays with Papa—two pancakes, extra butter, and laughs.

A quarter mile past the last stop sign, the Bennett Orchards board swung from one good chain and one ready to give. From the road, the rows were still there--just rough. The grass had grown too high. Branches crossed where they shouldn't. The barn's red had weathered to a tired pink, the color of an old shirt she'd used to polish apples before the fall festival.

She turned into the lane. Potholes jolted the boxes in the back seat; something slid and thumped. The farmhouse sat low at the top of the rise, windows dull, paint peeling. The porch swing was still there, one chain tangled. In her head, it clicked against the post — and she remembered — midnights, curfew fights, I hear you, kiddo, sit with me till we cool off.

She parked and kept both hands on the wheel — the stitching pressing half-moons into her palms. This was her father's place — childhood, chores, Saturday pancakes, and every argument about growing up — shrunk to a house that needed a coat of paint. She had come to clean up, sign papers, and list it. That was the plan.

She wasn't sure she liked that plan anymore. For some reason, it felt like turning her back on an old friend.

She got out and walked the path to the porch, gravel crunching under her shoes. The swing nudged the post in a tired rhythm. At the door, she tried the key. It stuck, then turned.

Inside, dust and the aroma of old apples greeted her. She heard the same soft groan where the boards always gave. She set the box on the kitchen table —trash bags, cleaner, the lawyer's folder — and crossed to the back door. Through the glass, the orchard ran unevenly. Some trees were gone. Some were leaning. Some were hoping for another day.

A hammer tapped, paused, then tapped again from the far fence — steady, measured, the sound of someone working.

She stepped back outside, followed the side yard past the lilac, and shaded her eyes.

Someone was down by the back line. Distance made him a shape at first: cap, canvas jacket, one knee in the grass. He was tightening the wire along a post. She stopped halfway and watched. He didn't look up. He finished one tie, checked it with a tug, moved three posts down, and did it again.

She hesitated. She wasn't in the mood to deal with anyone. Still, you can't just let a stranger fix your fence and say nothing. She walked the rest of the way. "You're on private property," she called when she was close enough not to have to shout.

He glanced over, not startled. "Morning." He snugged the wire, clipped the tail, and stood. "Saw the section down yesterday. Deer have been coming through. Figured I'd set it back up before they took the path for good."

Marla raised an eyebrow. "You always fix fences that aren't yours?"

"Sometimes. Depends what's on the other side." He nodded toward the trees. "Be a shame to let it get chewed up."

At a loss for words, Marla asked, "Do you know orchards?"

"Enough to see what's worth saving." He wiped his hand on his jeans and pushed his cap back a little. "I'm Jonah."

"Marla. It's my father's orchard. Well, it was until he passed. Now, I guess for a few days, it's mine."

He didn't step closer or talk faster. He just looked past her at the house and then back at the rows. "If you're getting it ready to sell, a little cleanup helps. If you're thinking about keeping it —" He let that trail off, like he knew better than to finish the sentence for her.

"I'm not hiring," she said.

"Understood." He hooked the fence tool to his belt. "I've got a couple of willow ties. There's a young tree leaning into its neighbor. I can brace it while I'm here. No charge." He shrugged. "It's bothering me."

She almost said no on principle, then glanced at the tree he meant — two trunks rubbing, bark worn. "Fine. If you want." She didn't know why she'd agreed, but the words had already shot out of her mouth.

He nodded, cut two thin lengths, and crossed them between the trunks, snug but not tight. It took him two minutes. He stepped back. The trees didn't look new; they just didn't seem as likely to give up.

"That's it," he said. "If you change your mind, I'll be around for a few days. I do pruning and light repair. You get more out of the place if the rows look tended."

She folded her arms. "I'm not sure what I'm doing yet."

"Fair enough." He pointed his chin toward the barn roof. "You've got tin loose on the north side. Might want to tack it before the next wind. I can do it, or you can call someone."

"I'll handle it," she said, though she didn't know who she'd call or where to begin.

He tipped the brim of his cap. "Okay." He started along the fence, then paused. "I'll finish this line since I started it. Keeps the dogs from chasing the deer through the gap." He waited a beat, giving her room to object.

She didn't. "Leave your number," she said finally. "If I want help, I'll call."

He tore off a corner of a folded receipt, wrote a cell number on it, and handed it to her. "Good luck, Marla."

He walked the fence, quiet again. She stood there a moment with the scrap of paper in her hand, then looked back at the orchard. From here, she could see the worst row — dead gray limbs mixed with shoots reaching sideways for light. Her father would have already had a saw in his hand.

She went back to the kitchen and set the number by the sink without looking at it again. The plan was the plan. Clean, list, move on.

Still, when the wind kicked up and rattled the barn tin, she found herself checking the back field through the window. The fence line held straight where he'd tightened it. The two young trunks he'd braced had stopped rubbing.

She turned the gold ring on her finger once and stopped herself. "Think about it," she said under her breath, not sure whether she meant the tin, the trees, or the man with the cap.

Chapter 2
Mending The Heart Chap 2

By Begin Again

A thin line of sun edged up over the far trees. A rooster strutted along the fence line, stopped, and gave the morning a loud greeting. He did it again for good measure.

Marla rolled over and, for a beat, reached for the alarm clock--coffee stop, grab the mail, office--then caught herself. She sat up and set her bare feet on the cold maple floor. Expecting the apartment's carpet, the chill sent her straight back under the covers.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked around — low ceiling, faded blue curtains with little white sprigs, the lamp with the chipped base, the dresser with the sticky top drawer. She let out a quiet moan and buried her face in the pillow.

A quick memory came — her dad at the doorway on a Saturday, two knuckles on the jamb. "Pancakes, kiddo." She pushed the sheet off her lap and sat up.

"I almost forgot what a rooster sounds like at dawn," she muttered. "Welcome home, Marla." She took a breath, clearing her head. "You're not here to live in the past. You're here to get things done."

She opened the dresser and pulled on old jeans and a soft flannel, then laced the work boots from the hall closet. The hall mirror gave her the basics — reddish brown ponytail, square shoulders, fair skin that hadn't seen much sun lately, a straight nose, and a mouth set like she meant business. No makeup. Good enough.

She thought about a swipe of lipstick--Alluring Red — then shook her head. The orchard and the dusty house wouldn't notice.

In the kitchen, she rinsed a mug, made coffee in the same dented pot her father used for years, and went to the back door. She opened it and let the cool air in.

A visitor was patiently waiting.

Under the oak tree, a golden retriever sat in the wet grass. Honey coat dulled with mud, tail tucked around his feet, eyes watching the house.

"You lost," she said through the screen, "or are you another stray that thinks he can just move in?"

He didn't move.

Yesterday's vision of Jonah flashed through her mind — the shock of sandy blonde hair under his cap, a tan face, and a work shirt pulled tight across a broad chest — and she wondered how many uninvited things were going to show up this week.

A quick bark brought her focus back to the golden. He didn't growl or wag; he just watched her, as if he'd chosen that spot on purpose.

She poured coffee and stood in the doorway. The fence at the back looked straighter than it had last evening. The loose tin on the barn roof lay flatter. Either the wind had been kind, or someone had found a dry window before dawn. No one in sight now.

The dog held his post.

"You can sit there," she said. "But you can't stay."

He didn't argue. He didn't move.

She checked the breaker panel, coaxed the old fridge to hum, and started a list on the back of an envelope — roof, haul, fridge?, trash bags, coffee filters. Halfway down, she added call lawyer and call roofer, then set the pencil across the top like a lid.

When she came back with the mug, the dog had shifted closer by a few feet. She set a sleeve of crackers on the step. He just watched.

"Okay. My dad taught me it wasn't polite to eat in front of others, so — here. It's just a cracker, and it's all I've got until I go into town. You'll be gone by then."

She tossed one toward him. He didn't lunge. He looked at her first, stepped in to take it, then sat back down.

"I'm not a dog person," she told him.

One ear tipped a little. Unconvinced.

She stepped off the porch and walked the yard, making a mental note of what needed repair — fence staples, corner post, the willow brace along the young trunks. She came back to find him in the same place, same watchful look.

A car turned into the drive — a silver 1959 El Camino. Evelyn Cho climbed out with a cooler and an umbrella she no longer needed.

"Well, if it isn't Marla Bennett," she said. "You didn't think you'd slip into town without me hearing, did you?"

"Didn't think anyone still cared," Marla said, surprised to be glad she was wrong.

"Everyone cares. We don't always show it." Evelyn set the cooler down and glanced toward the corner of the porch. "And who's this handsome fellow?"

"He was here when I woke up," Marla said. "We have an arrangement. He sits there, and he doesn't stay."

Evelyn crouched and scratched gently behind one ear. "Golden, by the look of him — good coat under the mud. Somebody's dog once." She straightened. "I wrote down the roofer we used after the windstorm — the one who actually shows up." She pulled a small notepad from her coat, tore a page, and slid it across. "And I brought a few basics — milk, eggs, butter — in the cooler. A few other items in the bag."

She headed for the back door like she'd done it a hundred times. "Is that coffeepot on? I could use a cup."

Inside, Marla poured coffee and opened the paper sack. Blueberries had bled into the white bag.

"Nothing like fresh blueberry muffins to get your day started," Evelyn said.

The dog sat square in the doorway, not crossing the line.

"I think he's wondering if you're going to share," Evelyn added.

Marla scowled at the dog, then tore off a piece of muffin and set it on the threshold. "Don't get any funny ideas. I'm only giving you this because Evelyn is making me feel guilty. It's not an invitation to move in."

He leaned forward, took it carefully, and returned to his spot.

"This place can shine again," Evelyn said, looking past the sink to the rows. "It's work, but not beyond saving."

"I came to clean it up and sell," Marla said.

Evelyn made a quiet sound that neither agreed nor disagreed. "If that changes, you'll know. In the meantime--call that roofer. And if —" she tipped her chin toward the dog, "your guest keeps showing up, I've got half a bag of kibble in my garage I can drop off later. Or Harper's sells small bags behind the counter."

"Not necessary," Marla said. "He's not staying."

"Suit yourself." Evelyn smiled. "Offer stands."

They drank coffee while the porch dried in patches of sun.

"I heard someone was on your fence yesterday," Evelyn said.

"Jonah Reyes," Marla said. "He finished a section. Braced a pair of young trees."

"That sounds like him. Quiet. Does the right thing because it's right." She turned the mug. "Had a rough time years back — family and bad luck. People said things that stuck. He left for a while and came back different. If you hire him, he'll do it well. If you don't, he might fix it anyway and keep moving."

Marla nodded. "He didn't talk much."

"He won't." Evelyn stood and zipped her jacket. "If you need a truck for a dump run, take mine. And don't try to do everything today. Let the place breathe."

Marla walked her to the car. "Thanks for the muffins."

"Thanks for coming home," Evelyn said, squeezing her hand. She looked at the dog, who didn't blink. "And you — keep an eye on her."

When the car disappeared, Marla sat on the top step. The dog had a burr at the edge of his ear where the mud hadn't covered it.

"You want that out?" she asked.

He stood and sidestepped, unsure.

"I'm not chasing you."

He eased back as if he understood. She stayed put and reached when he was close enough, pinched the burr free, and let him be. He resettled as if they had made a small agreement.

She made a sandwich — thin peanut butter on bread that had survived the pantry — and ate it near the doorway. Through the screen, he stayed put, as if he were guarding the step.

Marla sighed and tossed him a corner of the sandwich. "You can stay for now, but when I go, you do too." She turned toward the kitchen as the old fridge hummed. "I've got work to do, starting with putting these groceries away."

She set the eggs in the door and the milk on the top shelf. On the envelope list, she added dump run.

The afternoon put a little blue in the sky. She swept the front room, shook a sheet off the couch, and found the broom in the kitchen — quick strokes near the baseboard, longer ones out. Each time she passed the doorway, the dog had moved closer without quite crossing the threshold.

"You can come up out of the wet," she said finally, pointing to a bare board by the porch post. He stepped onto it and folded down.

When the light leaned gold, the temperature dropped with it. She gave the quilt a hard snap on the line; dust lifted and drifted toward the creek. The dog shivered once — small, like he meant to hide it. She pretended not to see, then saw it anyway.

"Porch is as far as it goes," she said. "That's the rule."

He tucked his nose under his paw and stayed put.

An hour after sundown, the cool bit through the boards. She washed the dinner pan, dried her hands, and gave herself one more chance to be firm.

"Fine," she said to the doorframe. "Inside. But only for the night. This isn't a bed-and-breakfast."

She stepped back and opened the door. He hesitated at the line, then came in quietly, nosed the kitchen once, and curled on the rug by the back door like someone who knew the difference between welcome and permission.

"No furniture," she said. "No bed."

He didn't answer. He didn't have to.

Marla found a sheet in the hall closet and pulled the quilt's cloth cover off. The bedroom smelled like cedar and old dust. She set her phone face down and stood a second, listening to the house tick.

Past midnight, the wind rattled the sash. Claws clicked on the floor and stopped at the threshold. She didn't move. Neither did he.

"Only tonight," she said into the dark. "When I go, you go."

The retriever performed a careful weight test on the bottom corner of the mattress before pulling himself up. He chose a spot, curled small, and exhaled against the quilt where her hand lay.

"You're not staying," she said.

He stayed anyway, and she slept.

Author Notes Character List

Marla Bennett ó inherited Bennett Orchards, her childhood home. Back to settle things, practical and guarded.

Jonah Reyes ó Quiet, capable handyman; fixes what's broken without fuss.

Evelyn Cho ó Warm, straight-talking neighbor who shows up with help (and muffins).

Rudy ó A stray golden retriever, muddy and watchful under the oak; looking for a home.

Chapter 3
Mending The Heart Chap 3A

By Begin Again

Marla woke to the weight at her feet and a warm nose on the quilt. The golden retriever lay curled in the corner of the bed, exactly where he'd settled in the night. When she sat up, he lifted his head, blinking sleep out of his eyes. His fur was warm against her jeans.

"Well," she said, "you're still here."

He stretched and yawned, his tail giving a few lazy thumps before sliding off the bed.

The house was cool. She pulled on her jacket and went to the kitchen. She started the coffee and opened the back door. He stepped onto the porch, hopped down, and nosed around the steps. He picked up a short stick, sat under the oak, and looked back at her with the kind of hopeful face she'd seen before.

A picture formed in her thoughts — her father raking leaves into a pile, and a honey-colored pup barking and jumping into them before trotting off with a stolen stick like he'd invented the trick. She'd called him Rudy because her grandfather had had a dog with the same name once. He'd slept on the kitchen mat for years. Every morning and afternoon, he'd wait at the bus stop. The porch felt empty the week her dad came home from the vet without him. She'd told herself then she would never do that to herself again.

The dog under the oak tilted his head and wagged once.

"Don't start," she said, but the word that came out next surprised her. "Rudy."

His ears lifted. He stood and took two quiet steps closer, stick still in his mouth.

"It's just a name," she told him. "Doesn't mean you're staying."

He dropped the stick at the bottom step and sat as if he knew she'd pick it up.

For the first time, she scratched behind his ears and ruffled his hair. A warm ache settled in her chest. She knelt beside him, looked into his eyes, and whispered, "Do you want to be Rudy for a few days?"

He pressed his wet nose against her cheek and followed it with a quick lick.

"I guess that means yes. So, for a few days, that's who you'll be." She stood and scratched his ear once again. "My name is Marla."

She turned to walk toward the house, then stopped and looked at him, waiting under the tree. "That still doesn't mean you're staying. But for now, we can be friends."

Inside, she poured coffee, broke a corner off the last muffin, and set it on the threshold. "Breakfast, Rudy." He leaned in, careful as ever, and took it.

"After I get through this list, we'll see about real food," she said, adding dog food, staples, gloves, call roofer to the envelope.

She stepped onto the porch. Rudy followed her with his eyes, then with his feet.

"Ground rules stand," she said, more to herself than to him. "Stay out of the mud. No barking unless something is really wrong. And when I go, you go."

He thumped his tail.

The sun lit the barn roof. Someone had nailed down the loose sheet of tin. The fence line was straight all the way to the back corner. Jonah had finished what he started sometime before dawn.

"Early riser," she said under her breath. "And persistent."

At the barn, the hinges groaned. Inside smelled like hay, oil, and time. Her father's tools still hung on the wall, handles worn smooth. Coffee cans of nails and staples lined the bench. In one corner, the ladder leaned--wood, gray from weather, rungs worn by years of hands and boots.

"Light and air, that's what they need," he'd say. "Just give them lots of light and fresh air and they'll grow big and strong."

She touched the ladder, then noticed a short coil of fresh wire by the door that hadn't been there yesterday. She set it back, pocketed the list, and looked at Rudy. "Town run."

*****

He put both paws on the truck's floorboard and waited. She patted the seat. "Okay. Sit nice." He climbed in carefully and sat.

*****

The bell over Harper's door rang twice. Mr. Harper nodded without looking up. "See, you picked up a friend." His gaze shifted to the truck parked at the curb.

Marla nodded. "More like he picked me up."

She took a basket — gloves, light staples, heavy staples, trash bags. She was checking the rope when a voice came from behind her, confident and just a little too loud.

"Well, will you look at that — guess who decided to mosey back home. The big city girl herself."

She turned. Ty Harrigan stood at the end of the aisle — same grin, same swagger. The last time she'd seen that grin, they'd said things neither of them could take back.

He was the past, and she wanted it to stay that way. She turned away.

"What — too fancy to talk to an old friend?" he said, stepping in.

She muttered through clenched teeth, "Hello, Ty."

He spread his hands, as if the name proved a point. "The one and only."

"I'm busy," she said and moved to pass.

He shifted half a step and was in her way. Not touching — just close enough to make a point.

"Busy doing what? Playing farmer for a weekend?" His eyes dropped to her basket. "Heavy staples. That creek corner still pulling? Roof still chattering on the north?" His smile sharpened. "Place like yours eats time. And cash."

"I'll manage."

He didn't move. "That's not what I remember. I remember you hating wasted Saturdays."

"That was then."

"And this is now." He leaned a shoulder on the end-cap, easy like he owned the aisle. "You're a long way from coffee shops and smooth sidewalks."

She looked at his shoulder, not his eyes. "Move, Ty."

He held her a beat longer, then stepped aside like it was his idea. "Sure."

She went to the counter. Mr. Harper rang up the gloves, the staples, and the trash bags. She paid for the items and headed for the door. Ty's boots followed.

"Dog food's behind the counter," Mr. Harper said.

"I'll take the small bag," Marla answered.

He handed it to her. "First bag's on the house." He opened the door for her. "You have a good day, Marla."

She stepped into the street by the time Ty moved around Mr. Harper, who had remained standing in the doorway.

"You brought company," Ty said, flicking a glance toward the truck.

"A dog."

He rounded the truck and walked with her to the driver's door. "Hold up." He reached first and caught the handle.

The retriever had his paws on the passenger armrest, watching the door. His ears pricked when he saw Ty. A low growl rose and stayed there.

Ty heard it. He gave a half-laugh that wasn't happy. "Loyal mutt, that's for sure."

"Good judgment," she said.

He let the door swing open a few inches, kept a hand on it, and lowered his voice. "You came back to sell, didn't you? Makes sense. I can make it painless. Keep strangers from carving it up. You get the money and your weekends back."

"I said I'll manage."

"That's what your dad said too, and, unfortunately, it didn't work out so well for him."

Marla yanked the door open and, with as much control as she could manage, said, "I said I'll manage."

"You always were stubborn when you were scared."

Her face went still. "Move."

For a second, he didn't. The growl from the truck dropped a note. Ty stepped back half a pace.

"Fine," he said. He lifted a manila envelope from his pocket. "This is from last year. Your dad ordered beams. I fronted the lumber. Paperwork's all here — liens, balances, dates." He slid it into the crook of her arm. "We'll square it when you're ready."

Mr. Harper appeared outside with a leash and collar. "Thought you might need one of these." He glared at Ty, and then his kind eyes settled on Marla. "Far as I heard, they found the ladder on the ground at the scene," he said, as if discussing the weather — just a fact. "It was an accident, nothing more."

Ty watched her face, then softened his tone. "I am sorry about your dad. Bad night to be up there. Storm. Tin lifting. He set a ladder. Foot went wrong." He met her eyes. "You know how slick that edge gets."

"He didn't like heights."

"Men do what they have to," he said too quickly. "Especially if they've had a few." He rolled his wrist like the rest didn't matter and shrugged. "Can't blame the old man, though, trying to manage all by himself."

Her anger flared. "Shut up, Ty. You don't have any right to talk about my father." She dropped her gaze for a second and added, "Besides, he quit years ago."

"People slip. Nights get long." Then lighter, as if none of it mattered. "Think about selling. This place will bleed you dry, city girl. I'll keep it from doing that."

"Get out of my way."

He looked at Mr. Harper, then back at Marla, smiling. "Be seeing you again, I'm sure." He stepped aside.

Rudy pressed his nose to her wrist like he was checking in. She scratched his head once, got in, and set the envelope on the seat.

She started the engine and pulled away from the curb, fighting the tears that threatened to fall.

*****

As she turned down the gravel road, she stopped and sat, staring at the orchard and the barn. She'd believed her dad had been working in the orchard and had a heart attack. No one had mentioned the barn and, while blaming herself for not being around more, she hadn't thought to ask for details.

She shook her head. "Well, it's too late to say I'm sorry now, Dad. But I refuse to believe Ty. I know how important sobriety was to you—a promise you made when Mom died. He must be wrong."

She climbed out of the truck and shoved the envelope into the bag, then looked at Rudy, who sat patiently in the passenger seat. "Come on. Can't get any work done sitting there."

He barked once and jumped out of the truck, following her into the house.

She set the dog food down and filled a bowl. He checked her face once, then ate. She left him on the porch and carried the staples to the barn.

The door complained in the same key. Light fell in clean bars. She set the sacks on the bench and looked at the ladder in the corner--a steady pressure built behind her ribs.

She slid the wooden ladder out and carried it to the north eave. The rails were gray with age; the rungs were smooth from years of use. She set the feet square, leaned the top, and stepped back.

It didn't reach. Not close. Two rungs shy of the gutter line, even if you were careless. She shifted left, then right. The roof stayed too high.

She stood under the eave and checked for signs--any fresh scrape or dent where a ladder might have slipped. The old paint showed no marks. A fine spider line stretched from a nailhead to the corner, unbroken.

A soft huff came from behind her.

"I know," she breathed. "Me too."

She lowered the ladder and laid it flat in the grass. Running her hand along the side rail, she found a rough patch — two small staple holes and a brittle corner of orange tape still stuck under a strip of cloudy transparent film. The tape was faded, but a few ghosted letters bled through: SHE — a smear — a crooked R.

The sheriff's mark. On this ladder. Too short to reach the roof.

Marla looked up at the eaves, then down at the ladder again. Her throat tightened. "This doesn't make sense," she said, barely above a whisper. "Dad didn't like heights. He would've hired someone. Did he know Jonah?"

She stood there as the question settled. Another followed it, heavier.

Why did I think it was in the orchard?

Because that's what she'd pictured back then—her father in a tree, not the barn.

She wiped her palms on her jeans. "I need the report," she said to the quiet that surrounded her. "All of it."

Rudy's tail brushed her calf. She set the ladder back in its corner and closed the barn door. The latch clicked into place.

It was time she visited the Sheriff's Office and got the actual story — not the one polished and handed to her at the time of his death.

Author Notes Sorry for the rewrite of chapter 3.... My brain short-circuited for a few days, and nothing was right. Hope this one comes off better. Please feel free to point out if I still don't have things straight. Thanks!

Chapter 4
Mending The Heart Chap 4

By Begin Again

The Sheriff's Office sat between the post office and a tax preparer that only opened a few months each year. A flag flapped against the pole in the light wind as Marla parked at the curb. Rudy sat upright in the passenger seat, eyes steady on the building.

"I won't be long," she told him.

He gave a quiet bark and laid his chin on the armrest, still watching her as she crossed the sidewalk.

Inside, the lobby was small—three chairs, a bulletin board with curling flyers, and a coffee pot half full. She stood for a moment before a side door opened.

A deputy came out with a folder in his hand. He looked younger than she expected, maybe mid-thirties, clean-cut, with a tie a little crooked.

"Morning," he said. "Can I help you?"

"I'm Marla Bennett. I called about my father's personal things—Robert Bennett."

Recognition flickered across his face, that small-town look that said he knew the name even if he didn't know the story. "I'm Deputy Lane," he said. "Give me a second."

He disappeared and returned with a shallow cardboard box. "We held these until the case closed," he said quietly. "Of course, it's closed now."

He lifted the lid, naming each item as he went. "Wallet, pocketknife, wristwatch." The watch face was cracked, its hands frozen between nine and ten. Then he picked up a smaller plastic bag. "This was in his coat pocket."

Inside was a small brown glass bottle—empty, label half-peeled and stained.

Marla stared at it until the edges of the room went soft. "He quit fifteen years ago," she said. "He hated the smell of it."

Lane nodded. "The report lists a possible cardiac event and a fall. We don't assign meaning, ma'am—we just log what's there."

"I understand," she said, though she didn't. "Can I see the report?"

He slid a clipboard toward her. "Initial here." He pressed his finger near the yellow mark.

She signed. When he came back with the copy, he turned the first page around. "Date and time of call—nine twenty-four p.m. Location—north side of barn. Weather—drizzling rain, light wind. Ladder noted on scene."

Her eyes stopped in the middle of the page: Position — ground, three feet from the north wall. One head wound. Preliminary cause — cardiac event, accidental fall.

Lower down—Caller / first on scene: Jonah Reyes.

She pressed her thumb along the edge of the paper. "I was told he had a heart attack," she said. "That he fell off a ladder."

"That's how it's written," Lane replied. "A heart episode is listed as possible. Ladder present, tin loose on the roof."

"The roof? Was he on the barn roof?"

Lane flipped the sheet. "Doesn't say anyone saw him up there. Just that a ladder was found. Soil disturbed near the base, no clear slip marks."

"So they don't actually know where he fell from."

"That's correct."

He hesitated, then added, "There are photos in the file—roofline, ground, ladder, the whole scene. Sheriff Green can release copies if you want them."

"I do," she said, her voice firmer now. "I'll request them."

Her gaze went back to the time — the watch stopped at 9:17, the call made at 9:24. Her father on the ground, an empty bottle in his pocket—things that didn't belong together.

"Can I take the box?"

"Yes, ma'am. They're yours."

"One more thing," she said. "You mentioned Jonah Reyes as the caller."

"That's right."

"He found him."

"He did. Stayed till help came."

"Did my father know him?"

Lane hesitated. "Can't rightly say."

She slid the report into the box and set the bottle on top, as if to keep it from floating away. Lane opened the door for her. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Outside, the flag rope tapped the pole. Marla set the box on the truck seat. Rudy leaned forward to sniff, then looked up at her. She rested her hand on the lid a moment before getting in.

A woman she'd known from school passed by with a bag of groceries. "Marla Bennett?" she said, smiling. "You holding up?"

Marla managed a small smile. "Doing what needs doing."

Denise Leary waved and kept going.

In the cab, the box sat beside her. She lifted the bagged bottle and turned it in her hands. The glass was clean. No smell. No sense. She set it back carefully and stared at the name on the report—Jonah Reyes.

"Dad didn't climb," she whispered, maybe to Rudy, maybe to herself. "He'd have hired it out."

Rudy leaned over and pressed his head against her shoulder before settling again.

She started the engine and pulled away from the curb. Instead of turning toward the orchard, she went the other way—past the diner, past Harpers, past everything familiar enough to sting.

The report lay open on the seat. She imagined the photographs Lane had mentioned—the barn, the rain on the tin, the ladder at its angle, the outline where her father had fallen. She didn't need to see them to picture the scene, but she would.

"Tomorrow," she murmured. "I'll get the photos."

The night he died had been windy. Tin lifting, they'd said. Ladder nearby. But ladders didn't sprout where you needed them, and her father had always been the one who said, "You climb. I'll spot."

The old ladder in the barn was too short—no marks on the fascia.

"If he didn't climb," she whispered, "someone wanted it to look like he did."

Up ahead, a green pickup pulled onto the road—ladder rack, fence tools, coil of wire—Jonah's truck.

She didn't honk or wave. She followed, keeping her distance, watching how he braked at corners and slowed before the turn toward the creek.

He parked on the grass near the bridge and cut the engine. She stopped a ways back, gripping the wheel. The evidence bag crackled on the seat beside her.

"Stay," she told Rudy, then opened the door.

The air by the water carried the cool weight of the creek. Jonah stood at the fence line with a toolbox, checking the top run, steady and unhurried.

He heard her boots in the grass and turned. His eyes caught hers—calm, measuring, maybe already expecting her.

"Marla," he said.

She stopped a few feet away, the report and the bottle still stuck in her head like a word she couldn't swallow.

"I went to the Sheriff's Office," she said.

He nodded once and then patiently waited for her to continue.

"They gave me his things. Wallet. Watch. Knife." Her voice hitched. "And an empty bottle. Said it was in his coat pocket."

Jonah's jaw tightened, but he didn't look away.

"They told me it was a heart attack. Said he fell off a ladder. I always pictured an orchard ladder—not the barn."

The quiet that followed was filled with the sound of the river.

"You called it in," she said. "The report has your name."

"I did," he said. "I was passing by, checking the fence near the willows. I saw him on the ground, checked for a pulse, called it in, and stayed till they came."

She studied his face. His hands were still. His eyes didn't move.

"The ladder was there," he said. "And the tin was lifting. Both true."

"Do you think he climbed?"

Jonah's gaze followed the distant line of the barn, as if the question needed space to land. "Your father told me once he didn't like heights," he said quietly. "Said he'd hire it done. No, I don't think he climbed."

The ground felt steadier under her feet—but not safe.

"Then why the bottle?" she asked. "Why write it that way?"

"I don't know," he said softly. And she believed him.

She inhaled sharply before speaking again, "His watch stopped at 9:17."

"That's about when I found him," Jonah said. "I remember looking at my own watch when I called."

"Did you see anyone?"

He shook his head. "No. But the ground near the ladder was — messy. Rain makes it hard to read."

She met his eyes. "I'm asking for the full file," she said. "Photos, everything."

"Good," he said.

A gust came up the creek, bending the grass flat, then letting it rise again. Marla looked at the barn beyond the bend and at Jonah's quiet patience—the kind that comes from fixing things you didn't break.

"I'm not done here," she said.

He didn't argue. Just nodded once.

When she reached the truck, Rudy's head appeared above the dashboard. She reached in for the evidence bag, the paper crackling in her hand.

Jonah had followed her to her truck.

"I'm going to the courthouse for the full file," she said. "After that, I'll find you."

"I'll be here," he said.

She got in, started the engine, and stared through the windshield for a long moment before shifting into drive. Rudy pressed against her arm, warm and solid.

"Okay," she whispered. "We start with what we can touch."

She turned toward the square, the flag at the Sheriff's Office small in the distance, the report on the seat beside her, and Jonah's name in her mind.

"Someone's not telling the whole truth, Rudy. And we're going to sniff it out."

Chapter 5
Mending The Heart Chap 5

By Begin Again

Marla woke before dawn again. Restless nights were becoming a habit -- something new for her, especially after years of sleeping late on city weekends.
The house was still and gray in the early light. She poured a mug of coffee while Rudy did his morning business outside, which included a few rowdy barks at the rooster.

She smiled faintly, then sighed. It was too early for anyone with sense to be up, but she hadn't been able to settle since reading the sheriff's report. A trip into town might clear her head. After that, she'd take a better look around the farm — especially the barn.

With Rudy in the passenger seat, her first stop was the drugstore for dish soap, a box of screws, and maybe a little conversation.

Mrs. Cooley had worked the counter for as long as Marla could remember. She still wore bright lipstick and kept a dish of hard candy near the register.

"Good morning," she called as Marla walked in. When recognition hit, her smile widened. "Well, I'll be — Little Marla Bennett! I can't believe my eyes. You're all grown up, and what a sight for these tired eyes. Heard you were back in town. Any chance of staying?"

Marla blushed and accepted the hug. "Your smile could still light up a room, Mrs. Cooley. As for staying — I came to arrange a sale, but I've got a few things to handle first."

Mrs. Cooley returned behind the counter, shuffling receipts. "I heard you had a run-in with Ty Harrigan — and that you stopped by the Sheriff's Office."

"News travels fast," Marla said with a faint smile. "Guess Robert Bennett's daughter coming home stirred the gossip mill."

"Well, you are our local celebrity," Mrs. Cooley said, reaching under the counter and producing a paperback. Secrets. "I'm halfway through it — fine story. I swear I recognize a few characters."

Marla laughed. "Thanks. But it's fiction."

"Ty says he inspired the romance parts."

"Ty can imagine anything he likes," Marla said lightly. "If he shows up in my books, he'll be the villain."

Mrs. Cooley chuckled. "Old wounds still sore?"

"They were healed," Marla said. "Seeing him again just scratched them a bit. Nothing permanent."

She scanned the shelves, choosing dish soap, two scouring pads, and a bottle of water, then set them on the counter.

Mrs. Cooley slid the items into a sack. "Hope I didn't upset you. I do tend to rattle on."

"Not at all." Marla hesitated. "But I do have a question. Did you ever see my dad buy whiskey last spring? Or before that?"

Mrs. Cooley blinked. "Your father? Oh, mercy, no. He gave that up ages ago. Bought coffee, nails, and those cinnamon candies that'll break your teeth — that was it."

A man by the seed rack, Bill Avery, looked up. "Your daddy told me the same. Haven't seen him touch a bottle since before you left for the city."

Marla nodded. "Thanks."

As Mrs. Cooley handed her the change, Marla noticed a curled flyer on the counter: SPRING FLING — Volunteers Needed (Setup 7-9 p.m.)

Halfway down the list of names, Ty Harrigan had a blank box beside him. Someone had penciled in two words: no-show.

Mrs. Cooley followed her gaze. "That was the storm night. Ty was supposed to help with the risers. Jonah and my boy did it alone. Ty never showed."

"Something's never change," Marla murmured. She folded the sack to her chest, thanked her, and stepped outside.

The air had a stillness, a feeling before rain. Rudy stood watching her from the truck. She slid in, set the bag behind the seat, and added Ty — no-show, storm night to the mental file that already held 9:17 p.m.

*****

She turned toward the creek road, planning to check the lower fence before heading home. The sky had gone the color it gets before a storm, even when the forecast swears otherwise.

Rudy sat up, ears sharp. Then he barked — short, hard, urgent. His paw pressed her thigh, eyes fixed ahead.

"What?" she asked, already slowing.

Another bark. Then a whine toward the low bridge.

Around the bend, a jon boat spun in the current — two small bodies inside, one oar missing, the other clattering uselessly.

Marla braked on the gravel and jumped out before the tires stopped crunching. Rudy hit the ground running for the water.

"Stay low!" she shouted. "Hold the middle!"

The girl in the bow screamed as the boat tipped. The boy reached for the drifting oar, missed, and the current turned them broadside toward a downed cottonwood.

"Rope!" a voice called from the fence line.

Jonah was already moving, a coil over his shoulder. He tossed one end toward Marla. "Around that oak — low!" he said, splashing into the shallows. "You stay on shore."

She looped the trunk twice, braced, and hauled the rope across her hip. "Set!"

Rudy swam out, head high. "Bow ring!" Marla yelled over the current. "Tie through and pull tight!"

The girl's hands shook, but she managed the knot. The boat swung and held.

The boy lunged for the oar, slipped, and vanished beneath the water.

"Rope me," Jonah said.

Marla threw the second loop. He clipped it to his belt and dove. Moments later, he surfaced with the boy. "Got him!"

The rope went taut. Marla dropped to a seat and hauled while Rudy angled ahead, line clamped in his jaws.

"Matty!" the girl cried.

"He's got him," Marla said -- whether to the girl or herself, she didn't know.

They reached the shallows. Marla waded in and helped Jonah lift the boy ashore. He coughed once, then sobbed in a rush of air.

"What's your name?" Jonah asked, steady and calm.

"Matty," he rasped.

"You did good, Matty," Jonah said. "Slow breaths."

The girl was still in the boat, frozen.

"I'll get her," Jonah said. He waded back out. "Okay, Ellie — slide to me. Sit, then stand. That's it."

She slipped into his arms. Rudy swam beside them, the rope taut between them.

On shore, Marla ran to her truck and grabbed a blanket — one she'd seen a dozen times but never needed — and wrapped it around both kids. Their teeth chattered. Their eyes were too big.

"You're safe now," Jonah said, kneeling eye level. "You scared yourselves and us too, but you're all right."

Marla exhaled shakily. The adrenaline left her trembling. She crouched beside Jonah and tightened the blanket around Ellie's shoulders. Rudy sat close, head pressed against her knee.

"Thank you," Ellie whispered -- to Rudy more than anyone.

"You're welcome," Marla said softly.

Jonah stood and offered a hand. When she took it, her knees wobbled. Without thinking, he steadied her, one arm firm around her shoulders. For a heartbeat, she let herself lean there — his shirt damp, his breath even — before she stepped back, embarrassed by the warmth in her chest.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

She nodded. "Almost lost them."

His hand lingered a second longer than it needed to. "You didn't."

Tires crunched on gravel above. A door slammed.

Ty came down the slope, a manila envelope in hand, trying to look concerned.
"Everything all right?" he called. "I was headed out your way -- brought copies of your dad's bills to square the lumber. Heard shouting."

Marla stood. Her jeans clung wet to her legs. Rudy moved to her side, a low growl rumbling.

"You drove out here to deliver bills?" she asked.

"Trying to save you a trip." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Looks like I picked the right time. Everyone okay?"

"We're fine," she said. "Kids, too."

"Good." He glanced at Jonah, then back. "Whenever you want to —"

"Not now, Ty."

He laughed lightly, pretending this was friendly business. "This place keeps trying to hurt you, Marla. Sell while you can. Let someone who knows what he's doing handle it."

Jonah, crouched by the children, said calmly, "We should get them up to the park office. They can call their folks."

Ty kept talking as if he hadn't heard. "I can close fast. Cash on the table. Clean break —"

"Ty," Marla said. "Enough."

Silence stretched. Only the river and Rudy's breathing filled it. Ty shifted his weight, eyes flicking between her and Jonah as if he were recalculating something. His thumb tapped once against the envelope before he smoothed it flat again.

"Like I said," he murmured, "just trying to help."

"Then help by moving your truck," Jonah said evenly.

Ty studied him a beat, then smiled that small-town smile that never reached his eyes. "I'll get out of your way." He lifted the envelope like a reminder and climbed the slope, his boots leaving shallow prints in the wet earth.

*****
They eased the kids up the path. Rudy trotted close, bumping Ellie's hip like a steady hand. At the road, Jonah called the park office. By the time they reached the ranger station, a white truck arrived with lights flashing softly.

"Let's get you warm," the ranger said, wrapping both kids in blankets. "Your folks are on their way."

Marla crouched beside Ellie. "You're safe now," she said.

Ellie smiled weakly and buried her fingers in Rudy's fur. "Thank you."

When their parents arrived -- shaken but grateful — Marla and Jonah stepped back onto the gravel road. The park quieted around them. Wind brushed through the trees.

Jonah looked at her, his voice low. "You did good back there."

"So did you," she said. Then, after a breath, "Guess we make a decent team."

He smiled faintly. "Looks that way."

Rudy barked once, as if in agreement.

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