Even if his beast raged, even if his heart broke.
3
Dew arrived at the library early in the morning, her car’s tires slipping on the icy road just enough to throw her heart into her throat as she pulled into the parking lot. Last night had been freezing, and the morning sun hadn’t yet chased away the chill.
Nobody was here this early, which was perfect. Dew went into the library, disengaged the alarm, and locked the door behind her. This quiet time would be the best opportunity to work on her letter to S. She’d drafted it last night, but it wasn’t quite perfect yet. She wanted to show him the best, smartest side of herself. She wasn’t a poet like he was, but she appreciated words and their connotations, and that meant taking time to write the best letter possible.
The letter in her favorite handbag (a purse large enough to carry several books) was one of her longest letters yet. She’d listed her hopes and dreams for the future, as well as her fears. Loneliness was a big one of those fears, but she skirted the issue, not wanting to sound pathetic. She didn’t want S’s pity, just his understanding. The way he responded to her letters was always perfect—just the right amount of sentiment to make her feel seen. He “got” her, and that was all there was to it.
After flipping on the library’s lights, Dew hurried to the thermostat to get the heater running. It wouldn’t take too long to heat up this little building, which was one of the benefits of working at a tiny library in a tiny mountain town. The disadvantages included lack of funding and a lack of space for new books so they were constantly trying to sell older tomes to make money—and room—for newer ones.
Shrugging off her coat, she sat down at one of the big tables in the kids corner of the library. When cleaning up yesterday, she’d missed a tiny bit of glue from the craft session. She picked at it with her fingernail until it popped off the laminate.
There. Now she had a large, clear workspace.
She took her letter from her handbag and spread it open, then snagged one of those stunted library pencils from the tray in the center of the table and got to work, crossing out sentences, rephrasing the awkward ones, stripping out the overly-vulnerable lines that crossed too far into confessions of her desperate loneliness. She liked S, and she didn’t want to lose his respect because she’d shown herself to be maudlin and melodramatic.
An hour later, she had a nice letter in front of her. Now all that was left was copying the cleaned-up version to a new piece of paper. She’d brought her favorite blue stationery with her, tucked into a folder in her handbag. S always wrote to her on plain white paper, or binder paper, which didn’t bother her in the slightest. His words were good enough, he could probably scrawl his poems and missives on toilet paper and she wouldn’t care.
Unfortunately, a key turning in the library’s door alerted Dew to the fact that Jillian was here, and Dew would have to copy down her letter to S during her morning break. Totally fine, because Garrett wouldn’t be here to pick up the BTDs—books to deliver—until after three.
Following on Jillian’s heels were a few patrons, the older folks who liked to get their errands done first thing in the morning, bringing in and out stacks of all kinds of books—military nonfiction, self-help, mystery, high-brow literary fiction, and romance. The early part of Dew’s shift passed in a whirl of soft conversation, checking in returns, and helping people find their next favorite reads.
A man came in after the early rush—a stranger to Dew. She was on a first-name basis with most of the library patrons, so this was odd in itself. He walked around the small space, ducking between the shelves, touching the spines of books before moving on. He didn’t even seem to be browsing, just wasting time.
Working up his nerve to come to the circulation desk? He’d glanced up at Dew more than once.
Could this be S? Her heart thudded harder in her chest and her stomach did the kinds of somersaults she’d never been able to master as a kid.
If it was S, she had to admit, she’d be pleased with his appearance. She’d pictured S in all kinds of different forms—old and genteel, a dashing young rogue, or a middle-aged divorced dad. He’d mentioned a ranch once, so she often put him in a cowboy hat in her mind, in jeans with a belt buckle and no shirt. It wasn’t how the local ranchers dressed, but it was what the covers of western romances usually featured, and she’d decided she liked the look.
This guy, however, didn’t look like a rancher, and he didn’t wear a cowboy hat. Still, he was attractive, and if he was S, she’d consider herself very lucky to get to know him better. His skin was pale, reminding her of the vampire on that book Jillian had ordered, but he didn’t look sickly, just like he didn’t get out in the sun much. Definitely not a rancher, Dew decided. He had longish golden-brown hair, curling around his ears on the sides, bangs falling into his eyes. His eyes were the most noteworthy feature—an ice-blue that made her shiver. With delight or fear, she wasn’t sure which.
When he didn’t come to ask her a question, Dew decided she’d take her break, since the library was otherwise quiet. She usually relaxed at one of the tables nestled against a window if she didn’t have a snack to eat. Grabbing her handbag, she walked over and sat down. She spread out the old letter to S and her fresh sheet of stationery. One moment, she looked down to copy her letter to S, and the next, the man was standing right next to her. She quickly covered her papers and gave him a sheepish smile.
“Can I help you?” she asked. “I mean, I’m taking my break right now, but I’ll be done in ten minutes.”
“Sorry to disturb you,” he said.
“It’s not a problem.”
Was this S? If so, she could just hand him the letter now and forget about sprucing it up.
“I’m new to the area,” he said. “Just arrived yesterday. I’m looking for a local map.”
Dew’s heart plummeted. If he’d just arrived, he couldn’t be S. Swallowing her disappointment, she said, “We have some atlases, which won’t be much use for local sights. There’s a large map of the town behind the circulation desk, but it’s a historic map. Only the library and the feed store are still in place. Your best bet is going online, and we’ve some computers at the back of the room. Printing out a page costs fifty cents.”
His eyebrows rose.
“I know it’s steep, but we have to keep the printer working. You know what it’s like—or maybe you don’t—but a tiny library like this, well, funds are sometimes tight.” She was babbling. With effort, she closed her mouth.
“Maybe you could help me out,” he said, his handsome jaw moving slowly as he spoke. “I’m looking for an old dump or junkyard.”
Dew shook her head. “I’ve no idea. I just use the trash service.”
“This junkyard isn’t used anymore,” he said.
“Oh,” Dew said slowly, remembering one of the older patrons talking about it once. “I think there is one, out on Pedrick Road. I’ve never been there, but you could probably find it on that map.”
“Well, I’ll do that, then.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she said. “Good luck.”