Chapter 2
When Rachel reached the altar steps, David took her hand. His skin was steady, while hers was clammy. He took her bouquet with his free hand and set it carefully onto the communion rail, the yellow paper hidden deep among the green stems, buried out of sight.
The vows were David’s own composition.
“I promise to shelter you from the noise of a world that doesn't understand your worth,” David spoke, his baritone resonating through the small timber vaulted ceiling. “I promise to build walls strong enough to keep the cold out, and quiet enough for your thoughts to heal. You were given to a world that didn't know how to protect you, Rachel. I do.”
In the third pew, her friend Clara dabbed a tear from her eye. The guests sighed in collective reverence. It was the speech of a protector, an old-fashioned guardian who viewed modern life as a chaotic assault from which his bride needed sanctuary. Rachel felt a knot in her throat dissolve into hot, grateful tears. Whatever lingering sting Elena Vance’s note had left behind seemed to evaporate under the weight of his steady, unwavering gaze.
When the minister pronounced them husband and wife, David took her face between his palms and kissed her with a solemn, reverent pressure that sealed out the rest of the room.
***
The reception was held in the adjacent timber fellowship hall, lit by iron chandeliers holding battery-powered tallow candles. A local trio played Appalachian folk melodies on cello and fiddle. Outside, the autumn twilight deepened into indigo, the valley breeze pressing against the thick glass windows.
Rachel was standing by the dessert table, a glass of dry sparkling cider in her hand, when Clara appeared at her elbow. Clara was wearing a vibrant magenta dress that stood out starkly against the muted browns and creams of the hall.
“You look breathtaking, Rae,” Clara said, pulling her into a fierce, perfume-heavy hug. “A little pale, maybe? Are you eating? I know how you get when you’re designing—you forget lunch exists.”
“I’m fine, really,” Rachel laughed, leaning into her friend’s shoulder. “Just wedding nerves. And... well, David’s ex caused a minor scene outside the gates before the ceremony.”
Clara’s face tightened. “The Vance woman? God, Rae. Is she still lurking around? Didn't David get an injunction?”
“Deputy Miller handled it. It’s over now.” Rachel took a sip of cider, glancing across the room where David was speaking with the county historical commissioner. “David didn't want to press charges. He thinks she needs psychiatric care, not a jail cell. He’s... too kind for his own good sometimes.”
“Well, you’re about to disappear into the woods for two weeks anyway,” Clara said, nudging her. “I tried to look up Blackwood Ridge on Google Maps last night to see how far you'd be from town. The satellite view just ends in a blur of pine canopy. Is it totally off-grid?”
“Not off-grid, just private,” Rachel said. “David bought the parcel three years ago. The original farmhouse was built in 1888. He’s spent the last fourteen months gutting it and restoring the post-and-beam frame. He won't even let me see the finished master suite until tonight. He says a home should be revealed to a bride all at once, like a finished canvas.”
Clara opened her mouth to say something, but before the words could form, a broad hand settled gently against the small of Rachel’s back.
“Clara,” David said, his voice a low, warm hum. He was holding two small porcelain plates with slices of spiced apple tart. “Thank you for coming all this way from the coast. Rachel has spoken so often of your college days.”
“David. Congratulations,” Clara said, though her posture stiffened slightly under his scrutiny. “I was just telling Rae she needs to give me the landline number out at the ridge. My cell service died three miles before the chapel turnoff.”
David smiled smoothly, offering Clara one of the dessert plates. “We actually decided against running a traditional copper landline up the private road. The phone company wanted to clear-cut a thirty-foot swath through the old-growth hemlocks to string the wire. I couldn't bear to let them scalp the ridge.”
“What about emergencies?” Clara asked, frowning slightly.
“We have an industrial satellite hookup for my design office,” David answered without missing a beat, his tone polite and dismissive all at once. “And Deputy Miller patrols the ridge road twice a day. We’re safer out there than anyone in the city, I assure you.”
He turned slightly, positioning his shoulder so that Rachel was subtly angled away from Clara, drew Rachel an inch closer to his side, and lowered his head. “Sweetheart, you look exhausted. Your shoulders are tight.”
“I’m alright, David,” she whispered. “I was just enjoying talking to Clara.”
“Of course you were,” David said gently, his fingers caressing her waist. “But the drive up the ridge takes forty minutes in the dark, and the mountain fog is already rolling down from the gap. Miller told me the temperature is going to drop below freezing by ten.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a heavy brass ring holding two keys—her car keys.
Rachel stared at them, startled. “Where did you find those? I thought I left my purse in the dressing room.”
“I had the caterer’s assistant bring your overnight bags out to the Wagoneer half an hour ago,” David said, his smile patient, almost paternal. “And I took your keys from your tote so you wouldn't spend the rest of the evening fretting over whether you locked the trunk. You don't have to carry anything tonight, Rae. Let me carry the keys. Let me drive you home.”
*Protocol 2: He will insist on driving so you lose your keys.*
The words flared in her mind like a sudden flash of magnesium. Rachel took an involuntary step back, her heel catching on the hem of her gown.
David’s hand was instantly there, firm and unyielding, catching her forearm to steady her.
“Careful, darling,” he murmured. His grip wasn't painful, but it was absolute. His gray eyes fixed on hers, searching, completely calm. “You see? You’re so tired your balance is going. Come on. Say your goodbyes to Clara. It’s time to go home.”
Clara looked between them, her eyebrows knitting together in a quick flash of uncertainty. “Rae? Are you good to go?”
Rachel swallowed hard. The room felt warm, stuffy, smelling of melting tallow and spiced cider. David was looking down at her with nothing but unblemished, protective concern. Behind him, the guests were laughing, drinking, oblivious.
What was she doing? Letting a piece of paper written by a certified madwoman dictate how she interpreted her own husband’s consideration? David had spent eighteen months anticipating her every need. He had taken her keys so she wouldn't have to haul luggage in three-inch heels through the mountain gravel.
“I’m good, Clara,” Rachel said, forcing a bright, steady smile. She stepped out of David’s hold to hug Clara one more time, whispering into her ear, “I’ll call you on Tuesday once we’re settled. I promise.”
“Take care of yourself, Rae,” Clara whispered back, her tone lingering on an edge of caution that made Rachel’s heart pinch.
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