Page 80 of Feels Like Home

She takes a second to think about it, but when she comes up empty she keeps walking.

I follow behind. “Wait. Do you have any hobbies?”

She makes a frustrated sound. “I can turn right back around you know⁠—”

I hold up my hands. “Okay, okay. I’m just teasing.” I make my way up a bit further a steeper part of the trail, and turn back to hold out my hand to her. “I’m just, you know, trying to fill in the blanks a little. In some ways you’re exactly how I remember you, but in other ways, you’re totally different.”

She stops moving. Her frown is back.

“I mean, you’re still stubborn, and you don’t like to ask for help.”

Another eye roll, this time, a little more playful, so I go on.

“You act like you don’t need anyone, and you probably don’t. I mean, you work harder than anyone I know, and when you set a goal, you achieve it.” I pause and look at her. “That’s pretty incredible. But, I don’t know, sometimes I think maybe you should say what you need.”

“I do,” she says. “You know I’m not afraid to speak up.”

I shake my head. “You say what you think, not what you need.” I shrug. “Sometimes I have to remind myself that underneath that tough exterior, you’re just a big softie.”

Her frown deepens, and a strand of hair falls across her forehead.

Instinctively, I reach over and brush it away from her eye. “You have this really big heart.” I pull my hand back and clench my fist. What am I doing?

Hattie watches me for a beat then goes back to walking. “Well, that big heart led me down the wrong path more than once, so I had to get a handle on it.”

“I know you volunteer at the community center,” I say, because her brothers told me, and also because I saw her in half the photos on the wall.

“There!” she says, triumphantly. “That’s my hobby.”

I catch up to her. “Not the most relaxing thing I can think of, but yeah, I think that counts.”

“Good. Now what’s yours?” She faces me, eyes wide, expectant.

She’s adorable.

“Woodworking.”

She looks confused. “Woodworking?”

“Yeah. In the early days after I left, I got a job working for a contractor. The guy who hired me taught me everything, and I realized I like fixing stuff. Working my hands. Building things. I mean, you know how it is out here, you either figure out how to fix it yourself, or⁠—”

“Spend a lot of money to find someone who can.” She nods. “Briggs Holbrook wisdom right there.”

I laugh softly and walk on. “I can fix just about anything now.”

“We’ve got two tractors that don’t run worth a darn,” she says.

I smirk. “Actually, it’s just the one now.”

She turns to me. “You fixed that too?”

“I told you, I like to fix things.” I move in front of her. “Besides, it’s easy when you’ve got time on your hands.”

And I really, really want to prove that I’ve changed. I keep the thought to myself, choosing to do what her dad said and let my actions speak. This is the guy I want to be. The one who sees a problem, then finds a solution. The one who lightens her load.

We wind our way around a bend in the trail, stepping over exposed roots and slab stones.

“And now that you’ve got time on your hands, enjoy it,” I say, as my shiny silver Airstream comes into view. After she mentioned moving it at dinner that first night, I stashed it here, away from the gravel road, away from the barns, away from anything anyone might see.