She was so wrong that it wasn’t even funny. I balked the entire drive home, mumbling to myself as I parked in the garage of my house. Charity had zero idea what she was talking about. Cam had been relentlessly apathetic that last year. He hadn’t given a crap what I’d done.

I picked up the onyx rook from my desk and rolled it between my fingers.

The path rejected me. It didn’t want me, so I decided not to want it.

His earlier words ran on repeat through my brain as I readied for bed.

“You’re wrong, Charity,” I whispered into the dark. Not because I wanted her to be but because I needed her to. And Cam did, too.

But what if she was right?

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Camden

I held my breath and turned the key in the ignition. It cranked for a second, then turned over, the Scout’s engine roaring to life.

“Yes!” I stood, my fists raised toward the sky in victory.

The 1967 International Harvester Scout hadn’t run since before I’d left for basic, even with Uncle Cal’s magic touch. It had taken a new alternator, belts, hoses, and more than a few prayers to a God I wasn’t sure I believed in, but she was running.

I brought my hand down to the rail that ran across the windshield and nodded to myself, savoring the momentary high of satisfaction. I’d been in Alba a full week and had managed to scrub down the house, change the oil in the Scout and the snowmobile, schedule the roof repair, and stock groceries.

It was the most domestic I’d been since…ever.

Then again, it had only been a week, and I’d already broken my vow to never see Willow again three times. Which was why I’d kept my ass here at the house today. At this point, my well-meant vow to leave her to her happiness was turning into a well-intentioned suggestion.

Now, if only I could stop thinking about her, that would be great.

I jumped down from the Scout, letting her run in the open air to charge her battery. Which reminded me—batteries were next on my checklist.

The power shed door stuck momentarily, but a nudge of my shoulder persuaded it to open. I stepped from the side of the garage into the small room and whistled.

Apparently, Uncle Cal had been going all Doomsday Preppers in his last few years. No less than twenty solar batteries sat on their industrial shelves, all wired from the roof’s panels to the electrical grid of the house. Three would have kept the house running twenty-four hours a day without hooking up the generator.

Twenty-five was definitely apocalypse compound level: expert.

At this point, he just should have harnessed the creek and put in a micro-hydroelectric system. Those suckers were clean and efficient.