Appalachian Shadows

"Jiminy crickets, Hazel, what did you spray on you?" Scarlett frowned as she shoved the last rolled-up tent into the bed of the pickup, wrinkling her nose against the overwhelming cloud of vanilla and gardenia that seemed to cling to the air like fog.

"Enough to make sure I'm the only thing anybody remembers smelling out there," Hazel said, flipping her hair with a practiced flick of her wrist. The motion sent another wave of perfume rolling toward Travis, who coughed dramatically and batted at the air like he was swatting bees.

"No one will be forgetting you anytime soon," Chris mumbled as he loaded up the fifth cooler, his voice barely audible over the clatter of ice shifting inside. He shot Hazel a sideways glance, one eyebrow arched, but she either didn’t hear him or chose to ignore the jab. Brittany snorted, slapping a roll of duct tape against his shoulder as she passed.

Hazel's fingers trailed along the Ford's pristine side panel with deliberate slowness, her nails catching the sunlight like polished garnets against the Regatta Blue paint. "Seriously, Matty," she purred, leaning her hip against the fender in a way that made the hem of her shorts ride higher. "You don't see craftsmanship like this anymore." The scent of her perfume mixed with the mountain air as she tilted her head, her gaze sliding toward Scarlett who was tightening a bungee cord across the gear with more force than necessary.

Matthew wiped his hands on his jeans before tossing the last duffel into the cab. "Took me two years to restore her," he said, patting the truck's hood like it was a favored stallion. The roof clearance lights glinted as he moved, throwing sharp shadows across his cheekbones. Hazel's lips curled into a smile that didn't reach her eyes when Scarlett appeared beside him, her fingers lacing through his without looking down.

Matt grinned over at Scarlett, then looked at Hazel with that slow, knowing smirk that made Scarlett's stomach flip even after all these years. "Only thing is, the AC don't work right now, princess," he drawled, his thumb brushing lazily over Scarlett's knuckles.

Hazel frowned, her perfectly plucked brows knitting together. "But it's July—it's hot as hell out!" Her voice dripped with theatrical exasperation as she fanned herself with a manicured hand, the motion sending another wave of cloying perfume into the already thick air. The midday sun beat down on the gravel driveway, turning the truck's metal frame into a furnace, and even Travis had abandoned his usual wisecracks to wipe sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt.

Matthew smirked again and swung open the passenger door with a flourish, the hinges groaning in protest. "Well, you see this?" He tapped the glass with his knuckles, the sound hollow against the mounting heat. "This is a window. Revolutionary technology. You turn this little crank here"—he mimed the motion with exaggerated precision—"and *poof*, air comes in. Magic." His grin widened as Hazel's lips pursed into a tight line.

Brittany barked out a laugh, tossing a bag of trail mix at Chris, who caught it one-handed. "Damn, Matt, you should patent that," she said, elbowing Scarlett, who was biting her lip to keep from laughing.

"Oh, and guess what," Matt said, leaning against the truck's open door with a grin that made the sunlight seem dimmer in comparison. His fingers tapped the glass of the rear cab window. "There's a sliding one in the back too. Wow, it's *amazing* how windows work." The sarcasm dripped off his words like honey—thick, sweet, and entirely intentional.

Travis doubled over laughing, clutching his stomach as he staggered back a step. "Matt, I swear to God, you're gonna put AC repairmen outta business with that revolutionary window technology," he wheezed, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. Hazel shot him a glare that could have melted steel, but Travis only grinned wider, flashing her a wink that made her huff and turn sharply on her heel—her perfume swirling behind her like an offended ghost.

Matt ran his fingers along the dashboard’s woodgrain trim with the reverence of a man who’d sanded every inch of it himself. The Regatta Blue vinyl seats gleamed under the sun, their sheen unmarred by cracks or fading—a small miracle given the truck’s age. "Custom ordered the upholstery from a guy in Tennessee," he said, tapping the embroidered stallion head stitched into the headrest. "Hand-stitched. Took him six weeks."

Hazel grinned and pointed over at her pink Hummer parked under the shade of an oak, its chrome detailing glinting obnoxiously in the sunlight. "I have *this* beauty," she announced, flicking her wrist toward the monstrosity like she was unveiling a prize on a game show. The thing looked like a Barbie-mobile dipped in Pepto-Bismol, complete with custom rims that probably cost more than Travis' entire truck.

Matt coughed, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand like he was trying to scrub away the lingering perfume. "Hazel, I say this with all due respect," he drawled, gesturing vaguely toward the pink monstrosity under the oak tree, "but that thing looks like it got into a fight with a bottle of strawberry syrup and lost." The words were slow, deliberate, and carried just enough amusement to soften the jab—but not enough to hide the fact he meant every syllable.

"Our poor cows are even scared of it," Matthew laughed, tossing the last duffel bag into the truck bed with a thud. The metal groaned under the weight, but held firm. He wiped his palms on his jeans, shaking his head at the memory. "Caught Buttercup staring at Hazel's Hummer yesterday like it was some kind of alien spacecraft. Took ten minutes to coax her back to the barn."

Scarlett smiled as she cracked open her Mountain Dew, condensation dripping onto her fingers. "Which, by the way," she said, taking a sip before nudging Matthew with her elbow, "how'd you sleep in the guest house last night?" The question hung in the air like the scent of pine needles baking in the midday sun.

Hazel crossed her arms, frowning. "I slept like shit," she muttered, her perfectly glossed lips pursing as she flicked a nonexistent piece of lint off her cutoff shorts. "That guest house is *haunted*, I swear to God. Sounded like something was scratching at the damn walls all night." She shuddered dramatically, her nails—painted the same violent shade of pink as her Hummer—digging into her own biceps. "And the *air*, ugh. Smelled like mothballs and regret."

Scarlett laughed, her amber eyes crinkling at the corners as she took another sip of her Mountain Dew. "Oh, that was probably Billy tryin’ to get in," she giggled, wiping condensation from her fingers onto her cutoff jeans. "He’s Matt’s raccoon friend—thinks the guest house is his personal all-you-can-eat buffet." She nudged Matthew with her elbow, and he grinned, rubbing the back of his neck in that sheepish way he did whenever Billy came up in conversation.

Hazel's face twisted like she'd just bitten into a lemon. "A *raccoon* as a pet?" Her nose curled so hard it nearly touched her forehead, and she took an exaggerated step back like Billy might materialize right there in the driveway, paws outstretched and dripping garbage juice. "Lord above, Matthew, that’s disgusting. Those things are just rats with better PR."

Matthew chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck where the sun had already started turning his skin pink. "Billy ain't a pet, Hazel. He's more like... a freeloadin' roommate who don't pay rent." His grin widened as Scarlett leaned into his side, her laughter muffled against his shoulder. "And before you ask—no, we ain't naming our first kid after him."

Hazel rolled her eyes, her glossy lips twisting into a pout that would've looked practiced on anyone else. "Wouldn't surprise me," she sniffed, flicking an invisible speck off her pink manicure. "That's why I *left* this godforsaken state. Y'all treat wild animals like they're kinfolk." The last word dripped with enough disdain to poison a well, and she punctuated it by tossing her hair over one shoulder—a move that sent another wave of vanilla-gardenia nuclear fallout wafting toward Travis.

"Jesus help her," Scarlett murmured under her breath as she twisted the key in the ranch house’s heavy deadbolt, the old brass mechanism clicking with finality. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the porch, stretching the shapes of the rocking chairs into grotesque, spider-legged silhouettes. Behind her, Hazel was still fussing with her pink Hummer, tossing designer luggage into the back of their truck like she was packing for a month-long yacht trip instead of a three-day hike. The perfume cloud around her was thick enough to choke a horse.

"Baby, did you give Colton the spare keys?" Scarlett spoke as she looked over at their ranch hand feeding the horses. The late afternoon sun caught the golden strands in Colton's straw hat as he tossed hay into the paddock, the horses nudging each other for the best spots like kids at a birthday party. Matthew paused mid-step, one boot hovering over the truck's running board, his forehead creasing in that way it did when he was mentally retracing his steps.

Scarlett didn’t wait for an answer—she knew that look. "Matthew James," she drawled, popping her hip against the truck’s fender with a metallic thunk. "Tell me you didn’t leave ‘em in your other jeans again." Her voice was syrup-slow, but the glint in her amber eyes said she already knew the truth. Matthew groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face like he could wipe away the memory of last night’s laundry pile.

She tossed him their keys "go get them before we leave" she smiled shaking her head, Matthew snatched the keys out of the air with the reflexes of a man who’d spent years catching halters thrown across the barn. The metal jangled against his palm as he shot Scarlett a sheepish grin—the one that made his beard crinkle at the corners and his eyes turn the color of whiskey in sunlight. "Yes, ma'am," he drawled, tipping an imaginary hat before turning on his heel. His boots kicked up little puffs of dust as he loped toward the ranch house, his stride loose and easy like a man who knew every inch of the land beneath his feet.

Matthew’s boots thudded against the porch steps as he disappeared inside the ranch house, the screen door slamming behind him with a familiar creak-and-bang rhythm. Scarlett leaned against the truck’s warm fender, watching the dust swirl in his wake. The late afternoon air smelled like sunbaked grass and the faint tang of pine from the woods beyond the pasture. She took a slow sip of her Mountain Dew, the cold fizz sharp on her tongue, and glanced over at Brittany, who was perched on the tailgate, meticulously reorganizing the first aid kit for the third time.

"You know you shouldn’t drink so much soda," Hazel said, sipping delicately from her designer water bottle, her pinky finger arched like she was at a damn tea party. The condensation dripped onto her manicure, and she wiped it away with a flick of her wrist, as if Mountain Dew was some kind of backwoods moonshine instead of Scarlett’s drink of choice.

Scarlett arched an eyebrow at Hazel, swirling her Mountain Dew in its bottle just to watch the bubbles fizz. "Sugar keeps me sweet," she said, her drawl thick as molasses. "What's your excuse?"

Hazel's lips twisted into something between a smirk and a sneer, her manicured nails tapping against her water bottle like she was counting down to an explosion. "Some of us *care* about our figures," she said, arching her back slightly to emphasize the curve of her waist.

Brittany snorted into the first aid kit, slamming the lid shut with more force than necessary. "Hazel, honey, if you cared half as much about your personality as you do about your *figure*, we might actually enjoy your company." She hopped off the tailgate, dusting her hands on her cutoff jeans before tossing Scarlett a conspiratorial wink. The fading sunlight caught the freckles across her nose, making them stand out like cinnamon sprinkled on cream.

Chris laughed, slapping his knee as he leaned against the truck’s tailgate. "Besides, Scarlett’s got a killer body and some long ass legs," he said, grinning as he gestured toward her with his beer bottle. The condensation dripped onto his jeans, but he didn’t seem to notice. "Ain’t no Mountain Dew gonna change that."

The screen door banged again as Matthew reappeared, dangling the spare keys from his index finger like a trophy. "Found 'em," he announced, tossing them in a high arc toward Colton, who caught them without looking up from the hay bale he was wrestling into place. The ranch hand nodded, his straw hat shadowing his face as he shoved the keys deep into his jeans pocket—the universal gesture for *I won’t lose ‘em this time*.

"Baby, do you like my body?" Scarlett pouted, trying not to smile as she twirled in a slow circle, the hem of her cutoff shorts riding up just enough to tease the tan line along her thigh. The late afternoon sunlight caught the gold in her hair, turning the chestnut waves molten for a heartbeat before she stopped, hands planted on her hips in a pose that was equal parts playful and lethal. Matthew's gaze tracked her movement like a wolf watching a firefly—sharp, intent, and utterly captivated.

Matthew’s breath hitched as Scarlett twirled, his throat going dry like he’d swallowed sand. “Lord, woman,” he muttered, striding forward in three long steps that kicked up dust. His hands settled on her hips, calloused thumbs brushing the bare skin where her shirt rode up. “You know damn well what you do to me.” The words came out rough, low enough that only she could hear them, and Scarlett’s pulse jumped under his touch.

Scarlett grinned and kissed him, her lips soft against his stubble as she whispered, "I love you," the words warm against his skin. Matthew's grip on her hips tightened for a heartbeat, his fingers pressing into her like he was memorizing the shape of her through touch alone. Behind them, Travis wolf-whistled loudly, followed by Brittany’s exaggerated gagging noise.

Matthew rolled his eyes and dipped her backward in a kiss that tasted like Mountain Dew and summer heat. "I love you, my long-legged sexy goddess," he murmured against her lips, his voice rough with the kind of affection that made her toes curl in her worn-out cowboy boots. Scarlett laughed, the sound muffled against his mouth as her hair fanned out behind her, chestnut waves brushing the dust-caked truck fender.

Scarlett yelped, more out of reflex than pain, and shot Matthew a glare that would've sent lesser men scrambling for cover. But Matthew just grinned like he'd won the damn lottery, his teeth flashing white against his sun-darkened skin. The sting of his playful swat lingered, a warm imprint beneath her cutoff shorts, and Scarlett couldn't help the traitorous smile tugging at her lips. "Matthew James, I swear—" she started, but he was already vaulting into the driver's seat, his boots kicking up a swirl of gravel dust.

"Daylight's burnin', darlin'," he called over the rumble of the engine turning over, the old Ford roaring to life like a stallion eager to run. The sound vibrated through Scarlett's bones as she hauled herself into the passenger seat, her thighs sticking to the vinyl where the sun had baked it into a furnace. Through the open window, she caught Hazel rolling her eyes so hard it looked painful before climbing in the backseat beside Brittany and Chris.

Scarlett didn’t so much sit as she did *claim* the middle seat between Matt and Travis, sliding in with the practiced ease of someone who’d spent years navigating the unspoken hierarchy of truck cab real estate. The vinyl seat creaked under her weight as she planted herself firmly, one knee brushing Matt’s thigh and her elbow bumping Travis’s ribs—a territorial declaration in denim and sun-warmed skin.

The engine’s growl softened to a steady purr as Matthew shifted gears, his forearm flexing beneath rolled-up flannel as they turned onto the old dirt road leading into the Appalachians. Scarlett leaned her head against Travis's shoulder, watching the ranch shrink in the side mirror—the white fences, the sway of the willow tree by the pond, the horses flicking their tails in the golden hour light. Then the trees swallowed the view whole, and all that remained was the winding path ahead, dappled with sunlight and shadows.

The truck jolted over a pothole deep enough to rattle Hazel’s teeth, sending her sprawling into Chris’s lap with a shriek that could’ve startled birds off their perches for miles. “Jesus, Matthew!” she snapped, shoving herself upright with a glare that could’ve melted steel. “You tryin’ to break my spine before we even get there?” Her manicured hand fluttered to her chest like she was checking for damage, her pink nails stark against the plunging neckline of her tank top.

Travis laughed, slapping his knee hard enough to leave a imprint on his jeans. "So damn dramatic!" he wheezed, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. "Hazel, honey, if you were any more dramatic, you'd have your own daytime soap opera." He mimed fanning himself with an imaginary script, batting his eyelashes in exaggerated distress. "Next episode: *The Perils of Potholes—A Hazel Montgomery Story*."

Scarlett laughed, choking on her soda as Travis mimed clutching his chest and staggering backward against the truck's window, his mouth twisted in a silent scream worthy of an Oscar. Mountain Dew fizzed up her nose, burning like liquid fire, and she gasped, pounding her fist against her sternum while tears blurred her vision. Matthew reached over without looking, his palm warm and sure against her back as he drove, his thumb rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades even as he kept his eyes on the winding road.

Hazel shook her head at the twins, her glossy lips pursed in that trademark pout that never quite reached her eyes. "Lord above, how did y'all's mama deal with you two?" she snapped, flicking a manicured finger between Travis and Scarlett like they were a pair of misbehaving hounds. The setting sun painted the truck cab in amber, catching the gold hoops in Hazel's ears as they swung with the motion.

Travis grinned as he looked over at Scarlett, his fingers drumming an absent rhythm against the truck’s sun-warmed door. "Lord, Scar, how *did* mama deal with us?" His drawl was lazy, the kind that came from years of shared memories and inside jokes. The question hung in the air like the dust swirling behind the tires, thick with nostalgia and the ghost of their mama’s long-suffering sighs.

Scarlett laughed, "Lots of beer, prayers, and cigarettes," she smirked over at her brother, her amber eyes glinting with mischief. The memory of their mama’s worn-out recliner creaking under her weight as she took a long drag from her Virginia Slims was as vivid as the scent of hay in summer. "Remember when we rigged that bucket of pond water over the barn door?" she added, nudging Travis with her elbow. "Lord, I thought she was gonna whoop us into next Tuesday."

Travis laughed and nodded, slapping his knee. "Oh, that time the four of us had our first drink of MD in the barn and she walked in!" His voice cracked mid-sentence, the way it always did when he was laughing too hard, and Scarlett could practically *see* the memory flickering behind his eyes—the dusty barn loft, the stolen bottle of Mountain Dew, the four of them passing it around like contraband whiskey.

Brittany snorted, shaking her head as she leaned against the truck’s window frame. “Shit, that was the time Chris couldn’t come ‘cause he was doin’ the Lord’s work for his mama,” she drawled, her voice rich with amusement. The memory unfolded like an old photograph in Scarlett’s mind—Chris, twelve years old and scowling, elbow-deep in soap suds as he scrubbed his mama’s porch under the watchful eye of a framed Jesus portrait.

The truck's radio crackled to life with a twangy country tune as Matthew twisted the volume knob with his free hand, his other resting casually on Scarlett's thigh. The warmth of his palm seeped through her cutoff jeans, a silent anchor as the forest thickened around them, ancient oaks leaning over the road like curious giants. Travis had started drumming his fingers against the dash in time with the music, off-beat but enthusiastic, while Hazel sighed loudly and pressed her forehead against the window like a sulking child.

Scarlett had just sunk her teeth into the jerky stick when Travis’s hand shot out like a damn rattlesnake, snatching it clean from her grip. The beef tore unevenly, leaving her with a pathetic scrap dangling between her lips as Travis brandished his prize with a shit-eating grin. “Mine now,” he announced, waving the jerky like a victory flag before taking an exaggerated bite. The truck cab erupted—Brittany’s cackle bouncing off the windows, Chris choking on his own jerky, and Hazel rolling her eyes so hard it looked medically concerning.

Matthew grinned into the rearview mirror, watching the chaos unfold with the smug satisfaction of a man who’d long since accepted that road trips with this crew were more rodeo than relaxation. The jerky skirmish had escalated—Scarlett lunged halfway across the cab, her hair a chestnut whirlwind as she tried to wrestle the stolen snack back from Travis. Their elbows knocked the gearshift, making the truck lurch, and Matthew’s boot slammed the brake just in time to avoid sending Hazel face-first into the dashboard.

Travis recoiled so hard his skull cracked against the window. "Jesus *Christ*, Scar!" he howled, frantically wiping his face with the hem of his shirt like she'd baptized him in battery acid. The jerky hung forgotten in his fist, forgotten in the wake of this new atrocity. "That's *nasty*! You—you *licked* me! Like a damn *dog*!"

Scarlett collapsed against Matthew's shoulder, laughter shaking her entire body. Tears streaked her sun-kissed cheeks as she gasped for breath, her fingers digging into his thigh for balance. "Shoulda—*shoulda seen your face*—" she wheezed, dissolving into another fit when Travis made a retching noise and scrubbed at his cheek again with theatrical vigor.

"You can have it since you're my favorite brother," Scarlett grinned, tossing the mangled jerky stick into Travis's lap like a peace offering. It landed with a greasy splat against his jeans, and he eyed it like it might bite him. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across his incredulous face as he slowly picked it up between thumb and forefinger.

Travis held the jerky stick aloft like it was Exhibit A in a court case. "I am your only brother, dingus," he smirked, his drawl dripping with the kind of sibling superiority that only twins could perfect. The late afternoon sun caught the grease glistening on the beef strip as he waved it between them like a conductor’s baton. "Which means by default, I *gotta* be your favorite. Ain't no competition."

The truck hit another pothole—this one sending Hazel's designer water bottle airborne in a slow-motion arc before it landed squarely in Travis's lap. Ice-cold water soaked through his jeans with an audible splash, and his yowl shook the cab worse than the pothole had. Hazel gasped, hands flying to her mouth in mock horror that didn’t quite hide her smirk. "Oh my *God*, Travis, I am *so* sorry—"

The truck shuddered to a stop as Matthew killed the engine, the sudden silence broken only by Travis squelching in his soaked jeans and Hazel’s poorly concealed giggles. Golden hour painted the clearing in warm hues—the tall grass swaying like a lazy sea, fireflies already blinking their first tentative signals in the gathering dusk. Scarlett kicked open her door before the dust could settle, inhaling deep. The air smelled like earth and wild bergamot, a far cry from Hazel’s cloying perfume still clinging to the upholstery.

The fireflies blinked like scattered embers as Scarlett stretched her arms overhead, her spine popping in satisfaction after hours in the truck. "Lord, I feel like one of them pretzels Brittany left in the sun," she groaned, rolling her shoulders until something cracked audibly. Behind her, Hazel was already fussing with her luggage, muttering about wrinkled linen and how her "weekend aesthetic" was ruined by Travis's impromptu water baptism.

Hazel knew he like her and would always use that to get him to do what she wanted "Travis" Hazel batted her eyes "can you help me put up my tent?" she pointed a huge pink tent folded up in the bag on the ground, Travis froze mid-step, his soaked jeans making a wet squelch as Hazel's eyelashes fluttered at him like malfunctioning windshield wipers. The pink tent bag at her feet looked like it had been designed by someone who'd never heard the word "subtle"—glitter accents catching the fading sunlight in obnoxious sparkles.

Travis swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly as he wiped his damp palms on his shirt. "Uh—" The word came out strangled, like he'd inhaled a mouthful of Hazel's perfume. Scarlett watched from the tailgate where she was unpacking supplies, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline as her brother visibly short-circuited. Brittany muffled a snort into a bag of marshmallows.

"Hazel, stop playing my brother like a goddamn banjo at a hoedown," Scarlett drawled, slamming the cooler lid shut with enough force to make the ice rattle inside. She straightened up, wiping her hands on her cutoff shorts as she leveled Hazel with a look that could curdle milk. The fireflies blinked lazily around them, their glow catching the steel in Scarlett's amber eyes.

The clearing erupted with the metallic *snick* of tent poles locking together as Travis fumbled with Hazel's pink monstrosity, his fingers slipping on the glitter-coated poles. Scarlett watched from the tailgate where she was unpacking supplies, her lips twitching as her brother’s ears turned steadily redder under Hazel’s critical gaze.

Matthew stared at Hazel's fully erected pink tent—if "tent" was even the right word for the monstrosity before him. The thing glittered under the fading sunlight like a disco ball, complete with tasseled tie-backs and what appeared to be *actual* lace trim around the mesh windows. His jaw worked silently for a moment before he managed, "Jesus, Hazel. Did it come with a chandelier too? Or just the matching vanity set?"

The smell of charred wood and roasting meat filled the clearing as Matthew poked at the campfire with a long stick, sending sparks spiraling into the twilight. Scarlett leaned against his shoulder, her fingers laced through his, watching as Travis—still damp at the knees—attempted to flip burgers without losing them to the flames.

The first embers of twilight had barely settled over the clearing when Hazel let out a shriek that sent a murder of crows scattering from the treeline. Scarlett nearly upended her plate of half-eaten burger into the fire as Hazel came barreling out of her pink tent, arms flailing like she'd been set upon by hornets. "Something *moved* in there!" she gasped, clutching at Travis's arm hard enough to leave crescent-shaped nail marks in his sunburned skin.

Travis sighed like a man walking to his own execution and ducked into Hazel's tent. The pink fabric rustled for three seconds before he emerged holding a slender garden snake between thumb and forefinger, its body coiling lazily around his wrist like a living bracelet. "See?" His grin was all teeth, the firelight catching the mischief in his eyes as he dangled the creature toward Hazel. "Just a little fella. Probably came in ‘cause your tent smells like a damn Bath & Body Works exploded."

The snake's tongue flicked out, tasting the air as Hazel backpedaled so fast she tripped over a root and landed ass-first in the dirt. Her shriek this time could've shattered glass. "Get that *thing* away from me!" she screeched, scrambling backward like the snake was a live grenade. Travis's grin widened as he gently set the creature down near a patch of ferns, where it slithered away without so much as a backward glance.

The campfire crackled as Travis wiped snake-damp hands on his jeans, earning another dramatic shudder from Hazel. "Y'all act like I brought out a damn python," he muttered, kicking a pinecone into the flames. Sparks erupted like fireflies fleeing the heat, casting flickering shadows across Scarlett's face as she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

The night air thickened with the scent of burning cedar as the fire popped, sending up a flurry of orange sparks that spiraled toward the star-strewn sky. Scarlett stretched her legs toward the flames, her bare toes curling against the cool earth while the heat painted her skin gold. Matthew’s arm draped heavy over her shoulders, his calloused fingers absently tracing the strap of her tank top. Across the fire, Hazel was still brushing imaginary dirt off her shorts, her nose wrinkled like she could smell the forest’s wildness clinging to her.

Scarlett tilted her head toward Travis, her lips quirking at the corners as Hazel flounced back toward the fire, still brushing nonexistent dirt from her designer shorts. The flames painted half her face in flickering gold, the other half swallowed by shadows sharp enough to cut. "Guys," Scarlett drawled, slow as honey dripping off a spoon, "should we tell her the rules of the Appalachian Mountains?" Her voice carried just enough to make Brittany's head snap up from where she'd been rummaging in the cooler, her eyes glinting with mischief.

Travis took a drink of beer before speaking, foam clinging to his upper lip as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Never whistle in the woods," he said, the firelight carving shadows under his cheekbones, "especially at night." His smirk widened as Hazel's manicured fingers froze mid-air, her wineglass hovering an inch from her parted lips.

Brittany smiled, leaning back against Chris with her vodka bottle dangling between two fingers. The firelight caught the glass, casting amber reflections across her smirk. "If the woods go silent," she said, her drawl slow as dripping molasses, "leave immediately." She took a deliberate sip, her eyes never leaving Hazel's face. The silence stretched just a beat too long—no crickets, no rustling leaves, just the crackle of the fire and Hazel's shallow breathing.

Scarlett smiled as she leaned against Matt, her fingers curling into the soft fabric of his flannel shirt. The firelight painted half her face in flickering gold, casting long lashes against her cheek like spiderwebs. "If something calls your name," she murmured, her drawl slow and deliberate, "don't answer." The words hung in the air like smoke, curling around the group before dissipating into the night.

Chris took a breath and looked over at Hazel, the firelight carving his features into something sharper, older. "If you see something strange," he said, slow and deliberate, the neck of his beer bottle dangling between his fingers, "no you didn't." His voice carried the weight of generations—the kind of warning passed down through Appalachian bloodlines like a dark inheritance. The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Even the fire seemed to hold its breath.

Matthew's whiskey bottle glinted in the firelight as he took a slow swig, the liquid amber catching the flames like trapped sunlight. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze lingering on Hazel’s pink tent with its mesh windows still gaping wide open. "Don’t leave windows open or curtains unclosed at night," he said, his voice rough from the burn of liquor. The warning landed heavy, underscored by the way Scarlett’s fingers tightened on his knee. "That goes for tent windows too, unless y’all wanna wake up with something more than snakes in your sleeping bag."

Travis looked over at Scarlett like they knew this rule very well. His fingers tightened around his beer bottle, knuckles paling under the firelight, and for a heartbeat, the usual mischief in his eyes dimmed to something older—something carved into their bones long before they'd learned to laugh about it. "Never answer unseen voices or investigate strange sounds," he repeated, his drawl flattening into something deliberate. Across the fire, Hazel scoffed into her wineglass, but Travis's gaze never wavered from Scarlett's. The unspoken memory hung between them like the summer humidity: the barn loft at thirteen, the voice that hadn't belonged to any of them whispering *come here* from the pitch-black hayloft, and the way their mama's shotgun had felt cold and too heavy in Scarlett's shaking hands.

Hazel's wineglass paused halfway to her lips, the firelight catching the manicured arch of one eyebrow as she looked between Scarlett and Travis. "There's a story there," she said, her voice sharp enough to slice through the campfire smoke. "What is it?" The question hung in the air like the damp Appalachian night, thick with unsaid things.

Scarlett looked at Travis and he nodded. "We were out in the barn sneaking a drink of beer when—" She paused, her fingers twisting the frayed edge of her cutoff shorts as the firelight flickered across her face. The memory tasted like stolen Budweiser and adolescent sweat, sharp as the splinters in the old loft ladder. Travis took a slow pull from his beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing in the firelight, and Scarlett knew he was right there with her—back in that sweltering August night twelve years ago, the air thick with hay dust and teenage recklessness.

Travis sighed, rolling the beer bottle between his palms until the glass squeaked. "We heard our mom's voice callin' from the hayloft," he said, voice low like he was talking to the fire instead of Hazel. The flames painted shadows under his eyes that made him look older, haunted. "Which was weird as hell, 'cause we *watched* her taillights disappear down the driveway twenty minutes earlier—gone to pick up fried chicken from Dixie Lee."

Scarlett bit her lip as Travis continued to tell the story, her fingers digging into the denim of Matthew's thigh without realizing it. The fire popped, sending up a shower of embers that cast fleeting shadows across Travis's face—shadows that looked too much like the ones from that night.

He took a breath before continuing, the beer bottle sweating in his grip like the old barn wood had that night. "Called us by name—clear as Sunday mornin'—but it wasn't right." Travis's thumb traced the label's edge, peeling it back in strips the way Scarlett remembered peeling splinters from her palms afterward. "Voice was mama's, sure enough, but it had this...hollow place in it. Like when you shout down a well."

Travis took another pull from his beer, the bottle trembling slightly in his grip. The firelight caught the sheen of sweat on his forehead—whether from the heat or the memory, Scarlett couldn’t tell. "Scar had mama’s shotgun," he said, his voice rougher now, "‘cause we never went to the barn at night without it after what happened to Pawpaw." The unspoken detail lingered like gunpowder in the air. Their grandfather had vanished from that same barn fifty years ago, leaving nothing behind but his overalls folded neat on the milking stool and a single boot sunk in the creek mud.

Travis frowned into the firelight, the lines around his mouth deepening as he spoke again. "It called our names *again*—real slow, like it was tastin' the words—and we hightailed it back to the house when all the horses started losin' their shit." The beer bottle creaked in his grip, the glass protesting under his tightening fingers. Scarlett remembered the sound—hooves slamming against stall doors like thunder, the whites of their eyes flashing in the dark as they screamed through bared teeth. The kind of fear that turned prey animals into battering rams.

The fire popped again, louder this time, scattering embers like fleeing fireflies. Hazel’s wineglass trembled in her grip, the liquid inside catching the firelight like diluted blood. "That’s—that’s bullshit," she stammered, but her voice lacked its usual razor edge. The forest pressed in around them, the trees leaning closer as if listening. Even the crickets had gone quiet.

Scarlett took a slow sip of beer, the glass slick with condensation against her fingers. The firelight painted gold streaks through the amber liquid as she lowered the bottle, her voice dropping to something low and deliberate. "Respect old cemeteries," she said, the words weighted like river stones. "Especially the ones without names."

Brittany cracked open another beer with a hiss of foam, her fingers glistening with condensation as she took a slow sip. The firelight caught the silver rings on her fingers—the ones she never took off, not even to shower—as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "Be mindful of the woman with silver glasses," she said, her voice dropping into that storytelling register that always made the hair on Scarlett's arms stand up.

Chris shifted beside her, his arm draped over her shoulders tightening slightly as if he could feel the weight of the words before they landed. Hazel scoffed into her wineglass, but Scarlett noticed how her fingers had gone white-knuckled around the stem.

Brittany smiled—the kind of smile that didn't reach her eyes—and traced the rim of her beer bottle with one chipped nail. "There's old folk lore about this woman," she continued, her drawl slow as molasses dripping off a spoon. "Hiking attire, gray hair in a braid down her back, but it's the glasses that give her away—silver frames so polished they look like mirrors." The fire popped, sending up a shower of sparks that cast fleeting shadows across her face. "She shows up when you're good and lost, asks real polite if you can help her find the trail."

Matthew's whiskey bottle paused halfway to his lips, the amber liquid catching the firelight like trapped lightning. Scarlett felt the minute tension in his thigh beneath her fingers—the same tension that meant he was listening harder than he let on.

Brittany tilted her head toward Hazel, the firelight catching the silver rings on her fingers as she gestured with her beer bottle. "Thing is, she *knows* where she's going—always leads lost hikers right to safety. But then..." She took a deliberate sip, letting the word hang in the humid air. "Once she's got you where you need to be, you turn around to thank her..." The bottle glinted as she turned it slowly in her hands. "And she's gone. Like she was never there at all."

Hazel's wineglass clinked against a rock as she set it down too hard, her laughter thin and brittle. "That's the dumbest campfire story I've ever heard." But Scarlett didn't miss how Hazel's gaze kept darting toward the tree line, where shadows pooled thick between the oaks.

Travis smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes—those dark twin mirrors of Scarlett's own that usually sparkled with mischief now looked like tarnished coins in the firelight. "Never go into the woods from dusk till dawn," he said, slow and deliberate, like he was reciting a verse from some backwoods bible. The beer bottle dangled between his fingers, forgotten, condensation dripping onto his jeans in fat, silent tears.

Scarlett leaned forward, the firelight catching the gold flecks in her amber eyes as she slipped into storytelling mode—the same slow, deliberate cadence their granddaddy used when recounting Cherokee legends on sticky summer nights. "Don’t Focus Your Gaze on a Single Tree," she began, her drawl thickening like molasses. The words settled over the group like smoke, heavy with unspoken warning. Hazel’s wineglass paused halfway to her lips, her manicured fingers tightening around the stem.

Matthew’s calloused thumb traced idle circles on Scarlett’s knee, his touch grounding as she continued. "Cherokee tradition holds that certain ancient trees in these mountains..." She gestured vaguely toward the black silhouette of oaks behind Hazel, "...serve as dwelling places for spirits." A log cracked in the fire, sending up a shower of sparks that briefly illuminated the way Hazel’s shoulders stiffened.

Travis picked at his beer label, the paper peeling away in damp curls. "Fixin’ your stare too long on one," he interjected, his voice dropping to a murmur, "is like knockin’ on a door and waitin’ to see what answers." His grin was all teeth, the firelight carving shadows under his cheekbones that made him look older, stranger.

Travis rolled the cold beer bottle between his palms, condensation darkening his jeans as he leaned forward into the firelight. "And never stack, or paint rocks," he added, his voice dropping into that grave tone that made the fine hairs on Scarlett's arms prickle. The flames licked shadows across his face as he tilted the bottle toward Hazel. "Rearranging, stacking, or marking rocks in these mountains ain't just bad for the ecology—though the park service'll skin you alive if they catch you at it." A log shifted in the fire, sending up a spiral of embers that illuminated the sharp set of his jaw. "It's about respect. Things get placed certain ways out here for reasons older than our granddaddy's granddaddy."

Matthew cracked open his beer with a slow hiss, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet that had fallen over the group. The fire popped, sending up a shower of embers that illuminated the hard set of his jaw as he took a long pull. "The Old Man at the Campfire," he began, his voice rougher than usual—like gravel dragged through honey. Scarlett felt the shift in him immediately, the way his thumb stilled against her knee. This wasn't just another campfire story; this was something older. Something with teeth.

Hazel scoffed into her wineglass, but Matthew didn't so much as glance her way. His gaze stayed fixed on the flames, as if the fire itself might morph into the figure he was about to describe. "My grandpa told me this one," he continued, the words measured. "If an old man appears at your fire—just *appears*, like he's been standing there all along—takes a seat without introducing himself, and begins to speak?" The beer bottle glinted as he turned it slowly in his hands. "The protocol is strict."

Brittany leaned forward, her rings catching the firelight like tiny mirrors. Even Hazel had gone still, her wineglass frozen halfway to her lips. The forest around them seemed to hold its breath—no crickets, no rustling leaves. Just the crackle of the fire and Matthew's steady voice weaving through the dark.

"Don't ask who he is." Matthew's thumb traced the label's edge, peeling it back in damp strips. "Don't interrupt the story for any reason—not even if your buddy's bleeding out next to you." A log shifted in the flames, casting fleeting shadows across his face that made him look stranger, older. Scarlett's fingers tightened on his thigh without meaning to. "Don't walk away before he finishes," he continued, his voice dropping to something near a whisper, "even if you *need* to. Even if every instinct in your body is screaming to run."

Travis exhaled sharply through his nose, his beer bottle sweating in his grip. The condensation dripped onto his jeans like tears, darkening the denim where Hazel's water had spilled earlier. Matthew took a slow pull from his beer, the liquid amber catching the firelight like trapped lightning. "And above all?" His gaze lifted, scanning the circle of faces illuminated by the flickering glow. "Don't challenge or question anything he says. Not even if he tells you the sky's green and pigs can fly."

Chris tipped his whiskey bottle toward the firelight, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. "Y’all ever hear ‘bout the off-gridders out here?" His words carried the lazy slur of good bourbon and campfire confidence. The flames painted his sharp cheekbones in flickering gold, casting shadows deep enough to drown in. Brittany snorted into her beer, but Chris just wagged the bottle like a professor with a pointer stick. "I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout them hippie communes with their solar panels and compost toilets."

Matthew’s fingers stilled on Scarlett’s knee, his calloused thumb pressing just shy of painful as the fire popped loudly. Travis set his beer down with deliberate quiet, his eyes locked on Chris like he already knew where this was going—and didn’t like the destination.

Chris took another swig before continuing, his voice dropping into the register reserved for deer stands and deathbed confessions. "Real off-grid ain’t got no welcome signs. You’ll be hikin’ some godforsaken holler when you smell woodsmoke." He gestured vaguely toward the black wall of trees beyond their firelight. "Follow it, and you’ll find a camp so neat it looks staged—fire still smokin’, stew pot hangin’ over the coals, bedrolls laid out crisp as military corners." The whiskey glinted as he tilted the bottle toward Hazel, whose manicured fingers had gone bone-white around her wineglass. "Only thing missin’ is people."

Scarlett felt Matthew’s arm tighten around her shoulders, his breath warm against her temple. She didn’t need to see his face to know his expression—that same guarded stillness he got when checking fence lines for cougar tracks.

Chris leaned forward, the firelight carving deep shadows under his cheekbones. "Leave. Immediately." The words landed like stones in still water. "Don’t touch nothin’. Don’t call out. Just turn ‘round and walk the hell away." His fingers flexed around the whiskey bottle, the glass squeaking under his grip. "‘Cause they’re watchin’. Always watchin’. From the trees, from the rocks—hell, sometimes from right behind you."

Travis flicked the twig between his fingers like a cigarette before launching it straight at Hazel's cleavage. It hit its mark with a quiet *plink* against one of her gaudy rhinestone buttons.

Hazel shrieked like she'd been branded, wine sloshing over the rim of her glass as she flailed backward. "Jesus *Christ*, Travis!" Her chair legs scraped against stone as she nearly toppled into the fire, her free hand fluttering at her chest like she expected to find blood.

Scarlett stretched her legs toward the fire, the flames painting gold streaks across her bare toes as she curled them into the cool earth. The firelight caught the amber flecks in her eyes when she smiled—slow, deliberate—like she was savoring the last bite of something sweet. "Last one," she murmured, her drawl thick as honey in the humid air. "The Cottage in the Woods."

Matthew's fingers stilled on her knee. She didn't need to look at him to know his expression—the same guarded stillness he wore when checking storm clouds over the north pasture. Travis exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound almost lost under the fire's crackle.

Scarlett tilted her beer bottle toward the darkness beyond their circle, where the trees pressed close like silent spectators. "Hikers who've been lost a full day or more," she began, her voice dropping into that storytelling cadence that raised goosebumps even in July, "sometimes find a cottage. Just...appears. Like it grew there between heartbeats." The fire popped, sending up a spiral of embers that cast fleeting shadows across Hazel's face—her wineglass frozen halfway to her parted lips.

"Warm light in the windows," Scarlett continued, tracing the rim of her bottle with a calloused thumb. "Smell of fresh bread. Door unlocked, like they were expected." She leaned forward, the firelight carving her features into something older, stranger. "Hospitality so perfect it *itches*—mint on the pillow, bath drawn, stew simmering on the hearth. Exactly what you need, right when you need it."

Matthew's whiskey bottle glinted as he lifted it, the amber liquid catching firelight like trapped lightning. "Trouble starts when you wake up," he said, his voice rougher than usual. Scarlett felt the minute tremor in his thigh beneath her palm—the same one she'd felt twelve years ago in that godforsaken barn loft.

Travis peeled his beer label in damp curls, the paper sticking to his fingers like old scabs. "Morning comes," he muttered, eyes fixed on the fire, "and you're facedown in leaf litter five miles from where you went to sleep." His knuckles whitened around the bottle. "Boots laced tight. Coat buttoned neat. No cottage. No trail. Just...woods."

The fire popped violently, sending up a shower of sparks that briefly illuminated the blood draining from Hazel's face. Her wineglass trembled so violently a droplet rolled down her wrist like a tear.

The only sound was the crickets, and frogs—a chorus so thick it seemed to pulse through the humid air like a second heartbeat. Scarlett tilted her head, listening. Too loud. Like the forest itself was holding its breath between notes. Even the fire had stopped its usual crackling, reduced to glowing embers that painted the group's faces in flickering crimson.

Scarlett's fingers laced through Matthew's with a proprietary squeeze, her nails scraping lightly against his calloused palm in that way she knew drove him wild. "Goodnight y'all," she drawled, already tugging him backward toward their tent, her hips swaying with deliberate exaggeration. The firelight caught the mischief in her amber eyes as she added, loud enough for Travis to wolf-whistle, "Seal your tents—*and* the windows—'cause I'm takin' this man to get me naked."

The moment the tent flap zipped shut behind them, Scarlett twisted in Matthew’s arms, her fingers already working the buttons of his shirt with practiced efficiency. The air inside smelled of nylon and the faint musk of his cologne, familiar as their own heartbeat. "Think Hazel’s still sulking?" she murmured against his collarbone, her lips brushing skin still warm from the fire.

Matthew smirked as he zipped the tent flap shut with a decisive *shhhhk*, sealing them into their private cocoon of nylon and shadows. His fingers lingered on the fabric, tracing the seam where the zipper teeth met—half-expecting, even now, to see Hazel's manicured nails clawing at the mesh window from the outside. "I think she's freaked out now," he murmured, the words warm against Scarlett's temple as she pressed into him. The firelight bled through the tent's thin walls, painting tiger stripes across their faces.

Scarlett blew out the lantern, plunging them into darkness so complete it felt like the tent had ceased to exist. The sudden absence of light left only the phantom imprint of flames dancing behind her eyelids, the afterimage fading as quickly as the scent of kerosene. Matthew's exhale warmed her temple—slow, steady, familiar—and she realized she was holding her breath. Outside, the fire popped its last ember into the damp earth, the sound as final as a coffin lid closing.

The nylon tent walls breathed with their movements, the fabric sighing as Matthew’s hands found Scarlett’s waist in the dark. She smiled against his lips when his fingers hooked into the frayed hem of her cutoff shorts, the denim rough under his palms as he peeled them down her hips with agonizing slowness. The shorts caught momentarily on the curve of her backside—that perfect, ample swell he’d spent all day pretending not to stare at—before surrendering to gravity with a whisper against her thighs.

His lips found hers in the dark, hot and insistent, tasting of whiskey and woodsmoke. Scarlett arched into him with a gasp as his hands slid up her bare thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh just shy of painful. "I need you," she breathed out, the words fraying at the edges when his teeth grazed her pulse point.

The moans slithered through the nylon walls of Hazel’s tent like something alive, curling around her ankles before crawling up her spine. She clutched the flimsy polyester blanket to her chest—the same garish pink one she’d insisted on bringing despite Travis’s mockery—and willed her heartbeat to quiet. It wasn’t the sounds themselves that pricked her skin with sweat; she’d endured worse in cheap motels with thinner walls. No, it was the *laughter* woven between gasps—Scarlett’s breathless giggles, Matthew’s low, satisfied chuckles—that made her jaw ache from clenching.

Hazel’s fingernails bit into the blanket’s synthetic fibers as another moan—low, throaty, unmistakably Scarlett’s—rippled through the campsite. The nylon walls of her tent might as well have been tissue paper. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the images came anyway: Matthew’s calloused hands mapping Scarlett’s body, that cocky smirk he reserved only for her, the way his muscles flexed under sweat-slick skin—

Hazel jammed the pillow over her face with enough force to bruise her own nose, the polyester filling smelling faintly of gasoline and the cheap floral detergent she'd used back home. Through the suffocating barrier, she could still hear the rhythmic creak of Chris and Brittany's air mattress—the same obnoxious squeak-squeak-squeak that had taunted her since high school sleepovers. Her teeth ground together so hard her molars ached.

Somewhere beyond the thin nylon, an owl hooted—three long calls that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Hazel threw the pillow aside with a frustrated groan, her fingers twitching toward the wine bottle she'd smuggled into the tent. The last dregs sloshed like swamp water in the firelight bleeding through the fabric. She took a gulp without wiping the lip, welcoming the acidic burn.

The forest had gone eerily silent except for—god, was that a *headboard* sound? Hazel's fingers clawed at the sleeping bag beneath her, nails catching on synthetic fibers. Twenty-seven years old and she was still the pathetic girl pressing her ear to Matthew's bedroom door at his sixteenth birthday sleepover, praying to a god she didn't believe in that he'd stumble out drunk and mistake her for Scarlett in the dark.

Hazel's fingers curled around the wine bottle neck like a noose. The glass was slick with condensation—or maybe that was her sweat—but she drank deep anyway, letting the cheap Chardonnay burn its way down her throat like acid. Somewhere beyond the thin nylon walls of her tent, Scarlett's breathless laughter skittered through the trees, followed by Matthew's low, satisfied groan. The sound coiled in Hazel's gut like a snake warming itself on hot rocks.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the gesture uncharacteristically rough. This trip was supposed to be different. Two weeks alone in the mountains with Matthew—well, *almost* alone—had been her last-ditch plan to make him see what was right in front of him. Scarlett didn't deserve him. Not when she treated their ranch like some hobby instead of the empire it could be. Not when she still acted like a reckless teenager instead of the wife Matthew needed.

The wine bottle hit the tent floor with a dull thud, rolling against her discarded heels. Hazel's fingers trembled as she unzipped her sleeping bag, the sound drowned out by another moan from Scarlett's tent—long and throaty and *filthy*. Her nails bit into her palms. She'd spent years perfecting her body, her wardrobe, her entire damn *life* to be everything Matthew could want. And yet he still looked at Scarlett like she'd hung the moon while barely glancing Hazel's way.

Hazel's fingers closed around the hunting knife in her backpack—the one she'd "borrowed" from Chris's truck without asking. The cold metal hilt pressed into her palm like a promise. Accidents happened all the time in the woods. Slippery rocks near cliff edges. Rotten branches giving way underfoot. Venomous snakes hiding in sleeping bags. Her breath came quick and shallow as she traced the blade's sharp edge with her thumb. One little "mishap," and Matthew would need comforting. *Her* comforting