Chapter 5: Small Town, Big Secrets

When I joined Mrs. Thompson in the backyard, most of the guests had already arrived; nobody wanted to keep the mayor’s wife waiting.

The garden was alive with laughter and the soft clink of lemonade glasses. Neighbors dressed in their Sunday best mingled under strings of white lights. The air was sweet with the scent of blooming lilacs, and folding chairs lined the stone path. I felt dozens of eyes turn my way, all of Maple Heights eager for a show.

After greeting the ladies, Mrs. Thompson sent me to mingle with the young people—clearly hoping I’d look around.

She gave my arm a gentle squeeze, whispering, “Just have fun, dear. You never know who might catch your eye.” It was a nudge and a blessing all at once. I offered shy smiles to the crowd, drifting toward the less crowded edges of the yard.

I didn’t like crowds, so I wandered toward the old rock garden by the fence.

The rocks were covered in moss, arranged decades ago by someone with a taste for the dramatic. Wild violets peeked through the cracks, and the spot was half-hidden from the rest of the party. It was the kind of place you went to breathe, to escape the press of conversation.

Unexpectedly, someone was already there.

I paused at the edge of the shade, surprised to see a figure leaning against the fence. His posture was easy—comfortable, like the garden belonged to him. The party noise faded, replaced by the sound of his quiet humming.

“Natalie Hamilton, it really is you.”

His voice was warm, unmistakable, tinged with a northern accent I hadn’t heard in years. He grinned, the kind of smile that dared you not to smile back. Didn’t think I’d see you back here before graduation. Place hasn’t changed a bit, huh?

Backlit, I couldn’t see his face clearly—just that he was a young man in black jeans, broad-shouldered and lean, his hair pulled back in a messy bun. He was chewing on a blade of grass.

He wore scuffed boots and a faded denim jacket. There was a relaxed confidence about him, a kind of wildness that didn’t belong in a place as manicured as this backyard.

It took me a moment to recognize him.

His features were familiar, even after all these years—sharp jaw, crooked grin, eyes that sparkled with mischief. My heart skipped.

It was Derek, son of the rancher from up near the Canadian border.

Derek Adams—who used to trade baseball cards with me behind the barn and teach me how to whistle with a blade of grass. I hadn’t seen him since I was a kid, but he hadn’t changed much. Maybe a little taller, a little rougher around the edges, but the same spark in his eyes.

When my dad was alive, he was a sheriff in Montana. Until I was seven, I lived with my parents on my grandmother’s ranch.

Montana summers meant dirt under my fingernails, horses in the pasture, and days spent chasing after calves with Derek and his cousins. Dad’s badge hung on the hook by the door, and Mom always had a pot of chili bubbling on the stove. That life felt like a different world—one I’d left behind when everything changed.

Derek was two years older than me. For as long as I could remember, he’d drag me along to chase chickens and tease the neighbor’s dogs. The ranch hands never let us get away with anything—if they caught us, they’d haul us back to the main house by our collars.

Derek’s laugh was infectious, even when we were in trouble. The ranch hands called us ‘double trouble,’ and his mom would shake her head but always have a cookie ready for us. Those days were wild and free, a far cry from the polite, careful world of Maple Heights.

His mom would always give Derek a scolding while apologizing to my mother.

I remembered her wiping dirt from Derek’s face, shooting an apologetic look at my mom as she said, “Boys will be boys, but Natalie should know better!” The memory made me smile.

Ten years passed in a flash. The cold Montana wind never made it to Maple Heights.

Sometimes, I’d dream of snowdrifts and open sky, only to wake to the tidy rows of maple trees and neat lawns of this town. I wondered if I’d ever fit in here—or if I’d always belong to somewhere else.

Seeing an old friend again, I was honestly happy. For ten years, I’d learned how to act like a proper young lady in town, but deep down, I always missed the open fields and endless blue sky of the north.

Derek’s presence made me feel like the best parts of my childhood weren’t gone, just waiting for me to remember them. I felt lighter, bolder, like I could breathe a little deeper.

“Derek, it’s been a long time.”

My voice wavered with surprise and delight. I stepped closer, grinning back at him. For the first time in ages, I didn’t have to watch my words or worry about what someone else might think.

When I finally recognized him, a spark of happiness crossed his face. He rummaged in his jacket and pulled out a chunk of amber:

He held it out, the sunlight catching gold in the stone. His hands were rough, nails bitten—evidence of hard work and long days.

“Here, only up north do you find this. Take it as a reunion gift.”

The amber was warm in my palm, smooth and solid. I smiled, holding it up to the light, feeling the memories flicker in my mind.

I took the amber, looked it over, then, after a moment, pulled out the sachet I’d meant for Caleb:

“Fair’s fair. I made this myself—it keeps bugs away. My sewing’s not great, so don’t judge.”

I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly aware of how much I wanted him to like it.

The words tumbled out, shy but hopeful. I pressed the sachet into his hand, cheeks flushed. He turned it over, studying the stitches, his smile softening.

Derek took the sachet, and something flickered in his eyes I couldn’t quite read.

He tucked it into his jacket pocket, the gesture quiet but meaningful. For a second, our eyes met and held, something unspoken passing between us.

“Did your mom come today?”

When I said yes, I quickly pulled Derek along, planning to go say hi to his mom.

He followed without protest, his steps easy beside mine. It felt natural, like slipping back into an old pair of boots. The party noise swelled as we approached the main gathering.

Turning my head, I saw Caleb standing alone at the end of the porch. I couldn’t tell how long he’d been watching.

He stood just outside the circle, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. He looked like he’d swallowed a lemon, but tried to play it off, nodding at Derek like they were just old buddies. For a moment, I wondered if he’d say something, but instead, he just watched, frustration etched on his face. The air crackled with tension.