My mother arrived two days later with two suitcases, a Tupperware full of lasagna, and an attitude.
I met her in the gravel lot by the grocery store because she’d refused to let Theo pick her up at the edge of cell range.
“I can handle a rental car,” she’d said on the phone. “I lived through the seventies.”
As she stepped out of the compact SUV now, sunglasses perched on her head, curls escaping her ponytail, I realized how long it had been since we’d been in the same physical space without a holiday or a funeral hanging over us.
Her eyes swept the town, then landed on me.
“Aurora,” she said.
“Mom,” I said.
We hugged, hard.
She smelled like home.
Fabric softener. Office coffee. The faint lingering scent of the candles she always burned in the living room.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
When we pulled back, she held me at arm’s length, scanning.
“You look…tired,” she said. “Skinnier. Also like you’ve been rolling around with hay bales.”
“Field surgery,” I said. “Don’t ask.”
“I’m going to anyway,” she said. “In excruciating detail. Later.”
She turned slowly in a circle, taking in Cutter’s Ridge.
“It’s cute,” she said, surprised. “I expected more…Hobbit and less…Hallmark.”
“Give it time,” I said. “The Hobbits come out at night.”
She shot me a look.
“Don’t start,” she said. “I brought you lasagna. That buys me at least twenty-four hours of minimal sarcasm.”
“I didn’t agree to those terms,” I said.
She sighed. “Fine. Eighteen.”
“Four,” I countered.
She rolled her eyes.
“We’ll negotiate later,” she said. “Now—show me the infamous cabin.”
I hesitated.
“Maybe we start with town,” I suggested. “Ease you in. Cabin’s…a lot.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“Is he there?” she asked.
“Who?” I played dumb.
“Hardware Boy,” she said. “Axe Man. Mr. Plumbing.”
“You really have to stop calling him that,” I muttered. “He does have a name.”
“I’m sure he does,” she said. “I’m also sure I won’t like it.”
“Theo,” a voice drawled behind us. “Short for Theodore. Nice to meet you, Ms. Lane.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
Of course he’d timed this perfectly.
My mother turned.
Theo stood by the pickup we’d parked next to her rental.
Flannel. Jeans. Stubble. The whole grumpy-mountain-man package.
He’d clearly come straight from patrol—there were pine needles in his hair and a smudge of dirt on his forearm.
Mom’s eyes did a once-over.
Then, to my utter horror, she muttered, “Oh, *hell.*”
“Mom,” I hissed.
“What?” she said, not taking her eyes off him. “I expected…less.”
Theo’s lips twitched.
“Less…what?” he asked.
“Less…everything,” she said frankly. “You’re very…much.”
He coughed.
“I can be less,” he offered. “If it helps.”
“Don’t encourage her,” I groaned.
He extended a hand.
“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I know this is…a lot.”
She eyed his hand like it might bite.
Then, slowly, she took it.
His fingers closed around hers gently.
“I’m here for Rory,” she said. “Not…this place. Or your magic mountain covenant. Or whatever you people are calling it this week.”
“We’re still workshopping the name,” he said. “Jordan wants to call it ‘RidgeCon.’”
I snorted.
Mom’s mouth twitched despite herself.
“You’re very…calm,” she said. “For someone who apparently turns into…a wolf.”
“Hyperventilating doesn’t look good on me,” he said. “Trust me, I’ve tried.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“You told her,” she said to me. “All of it.”
“Some of it,” I said. “Enough.”
“Enough to know you howl at the moon with your buddies and have…deals…with my mother,” she said, voice tightening. “Enough to know my daughter’s veins are apparently a town resource.”
Theo flinched.
“I’m…trying to fix that part,” he said quietly. “For what it’s worth.”
She studied him.
“Is it?” she asked. “Worth anything?”
“Yes,” I said quickly.
They both looked at me.
Heat crawled up my neck.
“Let me…show you the clinic,” I said. “Before anyone has an existential crisis in the parking lot.”
“Too late,” Mom muttered.
Theo caught my eye.
A question passed there: *You sure?*
I nodded.
He fell into step beside us as we walked down Main.
“Charming,” Mom said, peering into windows. “Quaint. So this is where she…ran to.”
Her tone was flat, but her knuckles were white where they clutched her purse strap.
“She didn’t just…run,” I said. “She…worked. Helped. Built things. Delivered half these people’s babies.”
Theo’s mouth softened.
“She did,” he said. “She also yelled at us a lot. Equal-opportunity.”
“I bet she did,” Mom said, voice brittle.
We reached the clinic.
I ushered Mom inside.
She stopped just past the threshold, scanning.
Exam tables. Shelves. The half-unpacked boxes in the corner. My diplomas on the wall.
Her gaze landed on the framed license with my name.
She swallowed.
“This is…real,” she said. “Not just…a long sabbatical with wolves.”
I bristled automatically.
“My work is real in Belleview,” I said. “It’s real *here,* too.”
“I didn’t say—” she began.
Theo cleared his throat.
“I’ll…let you two…unpack,” he said. “I’ve got…a leak at the diner to fix.”
I shot him a look.
His lips twitched.
“We’ll talk later,” he murmured, very softly, in a way that made my skin heat.
Then he slipped out.
Mom watched him go.
“I hate that he’s…hot,” she said. “That makes this harder.”
“Please don’t ever say that sentence again,” I begged. “My brain can’t handle you and my libido in the same thought.”
She made a face.
“Fine,” she said. “He’s…compelling. In a tragic-romance-cover way.”
“That’s somehow worse,” I muttered.
She walked slowly around the room.
Ran a finger along the edge of a table.
Peeked into a cabinet.
“So,” she said. “You’re…staying.”
It wasn’t a question.
“I’m…building something,” I said carefully. “That doesn’t necessarily mean…forever. But…I’d like to see it through. At least for a while.”
Her shoulders sagged.
“A while,” she repeated. “Define ‘a while.’”
“Three months?” I said. “Six? A year? I don’t…know, Mom. I can’t…plan that far when I have rogues and rituals and…term negotiations hanging over me.”
She winced.
“I hate that this is…all tied to her,” she said. “To my mother. That your life choices are tangled up in…deals…she made before you were born.”
“Mine too,” I said. “Trust me.”
She opened the lasagna Tupperware and shoved it into my tiny clinic fridge on autopilot.
“You said we’d talk,” she said. “On text. About…everything. So. Talk.”
I considered sugarcoating.
Lying.
Pretending this was just a quirky mountain job with some eccentric neighbors.
Then I thought about Malachi dying on my table. About rogue wolves sniffing around old bargains. About Hayes offering me options that weren’t really options at all.
“I’m…in the middle,” I said slowly. “Of…something big. Old deals. New ideas. People who want to keep things the same and others who want to burn it all down. And I…happen to be…a lever. Whether I like it or not.”
She pressed her lips together.
“I don’t want you to be…their lever,” she said. “I want you to be…you. Making choices because *you* want them. Not because some mountain hums at you.”
“I *am* choosing,” I said. “As much as I can. I told them I’d stay…for now. Help. Try to…untangle this in a way that doesn’t…break me. Or them. I told Theo I won’t let the bond make my decisions. I told Hayes if they use me as bait, it’s on my terms.”
Her eyes widened. “Bait?”
“Long story,” I said quickly. “He’s not thrilled. Theo. He’d rather…wrap me in bubble wrap and stash me in a volcano.”
“I’m agreeing with Theo,” she said. “Which is unnerving.”
“I’m not…eager,” I said. “I’m not…throwing myself in front of a firing squad for fun. But I also…can’t…pretend this isn’t about me. About…Dad. Margaret. You. Us. If I can…do something…to…change it…” My voice wobbled. “I have to at least…try.”
She looked at me for a long time.
“You always were…stubborn,” she said quietly. “Like him. Like *her.*”
“I know how to duck,” I said, trying for levity. “When people throw things.”
She didn’t laugh.
“You’re angry with me,” she said. “For not…telling you. About her. About this. About…magic wolves in the mountains making shitty bargains.”
I swallowed.
“Yes,” I said. “I am.”
She nodded once, accepting.
“I was…afraid,” she said. “That if I told you…about this place…you’d…hear what I heard, growing up. The stories. The…magic. The…freedom. And you’d…fall in love with it. The idea. The…myth. And you’d run. Like she did.”
“I didn’t run,” I said. “I drove. With a plan. And a dog.”
She smiled, small.
“I didn’t…trust you,” she said. “To be…stronger than her. That’s on me. Not you.”
My chest ached.
“You were…trying to protect me,” I said. “From…this.”
“And in doing so,” she said, “I left you…unprepared. That’s the bitter irony. I did to you, in a different shape, what she did to your father. Left him in the dark. Left you. You had to…stumble into it with no warning, no tools.”
“You couldn’t have warned me about…all of it,” I said. “Magic. Bonds. Blood debts. Ro—rogues.” I stumbled over the last word. “But you could have…told me about her. About…Rosie. About Dad. About why…you hate this place so much.”
Pain flickered across her face.
“I hated her,” she said simply. “For a long time. For leaving. For sending letters from the Ridge about moonlit runs and healing herbs and ‘finding herself’ while I watched my father drink himself to death and my brother—your father—pretend he didn’t miss her every Christmas. I didn’t want to…pass that hatred on. So I…ignored it. Packed it in a box. Labeled it ‘past.’ Put it on a shelf. That’s how I deal with things, Rory. I file them. I didn’t realize…they leak.”
Tears prickled.
“Mom,” I whispered.
She stepped forward and cupped my face.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “For not trusting you with the truth. For making you walk into this half-blind. For…being so afraid you’d choose her over me that I tried to keep you from choosing at all.”
I swallowed around the lump in my throat.
“I’m mad,” I said. “But I…get it. More now. Having…seen. This place. How it…pulls.”
Her thumbs brushed my cheekbones.
“And this…Theo,” she said, voice carefully neutral. “He’s…how much of that pull?”
Heat flared.
“He’s…some,” I admitted. “Not…all.”
“Be careful with ‘some,’” she said. “It can become ‘all’ very fast.”
“I have…terms,” I said. “Boundaries.”
“Good,” she said. “Stick to them. Don’t…let magic erode them. Or a pretty face. Or…howl orgasms or whatever happens up there on the ridge.”
“Please never say ‘howl orgasms’ again,” I begged, horrified.
She smirked.
“Okay,” she said. “Ground rule. You don’t talk to me in detail about your…mating rituals. I don’t imagine your father in a flannel.”
We both shuddered.
“Deal,” I said.
She took a breath.
“Can I…see it?” she asked. “The cabin.”
I hesitated.
“It’s…charged,” I said. “Full of…her. And now…me. And some wolf blood. You sure you’re up for that?”
Her jaw set.
“Yes,” she said. “If I’m going to…let you carve out a life here, I should at least…see the stage.”
“Dramatic,” I muttered.
She arched a brow.
“Where do you think you get it?” she asked.
***
Theo met us halfway up the mountain.
Not by accident.
He leaned against his truck at the turnout where the paved road ended and the private one began.
“Car doing okay?” he asked, peering at the rental’s tires. “Road gets rougher from here.”
“I can handle a little gravel,” Mom said briskly. “I drove a stick in college.”
“She also drove it into a lake once,” I stage-whispered.
“That lake should not have been there,” she said.
Theo’s lips twitched.
“I can…take her,” he offered. “Up the last bit. Let you ride with me. Save the shocks.”
Mom eyed him.
“You’re very…gentleman,” she said. “What’s your angle?”
“No broken axles on my land,” he said. “More practical than chivalrous.”
She huffed.
“Fine,” she said. “But if you try to brainwash me on the way up with tales of Pack glory, I’m jumping out.”
He opened the passenger door.
“No pamphlets,” he promised. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were not a Scout,” I said.
“For a month,” he corrected. “Long enough to know jumping out of moving vehicles is generally discouraged.”
They drove the last stretch ahead of me.
I followed, watching my mother’s profile in the rearview mirror, her posture stiff, her gaze forward.
At the cabin, she stepped out slowly.
Her eyes rolled over the porch. The wind chimes. The sagging flower boxes. The curve of the roof.
She swallowed.
“She lived here,” she said. Not a question.
“Yeah,” I said softly.
We walked up the steps.
I felt the Ridge’s hum shift under my feet.
It knew.
It *remembered.*
Inside, the cabin held its breath.
Mom stepped into the living room.
Her gaze snagged on the photo over the mantel.
She froze.
Color drained from her face.
“Mom?” I said, alarm spiking. “You okay?”
She walked forward slowly, like in a dream.
Her hand lifted.
Her fingers brushed the glass.
“Mom,” she whispered.
Not about herself.
About Margaret.
The word hung there, raw and small.
Tears filled her eyes.
I’d never seen my mother cry.
Not like this.
Not big, ugly, choking sobs.
Grief swallowed down and filed.
Now, it broke.
“It’s her,” she said, voice breaking. “She…hasn’t aged since the last picture I saw. She had that same…stupid stubborn mouth when she told me she was leaving.”
My chest ached.
Theo hovered in the doorway, uncertain.
“This was…her favorite chair,” he said quietly, nodding to the worn armchair by the window. “She used to sit there and yell at us from the porch.”
Mom laughed, a wet, disbelieving sound.
“Of course she did,” she said. “She always did like a good angle for a speech.”
She sank into the chair.
For a second, her expression shifted.
Softer.
Like she could feel the groove Margaret had worn into the cushion.
“Why didn’t you ever…come down?” she whispered to the empty air. “Why didn’t you…call? Why did you let us…hate you?”
The cabin didn’t answer.
I crossed to the table.
Picked up the journal.
Brought it over.
“She…did write,” I said quietly. “Just…not to you. Or Dad. To herself. To…us. In here.”
Mom stared at the leather like it might bite.
“I don’t know if I…want to…” she began.
“You don’t have to,” I said quickly. “Not now. Not ever. It’s…a lot. But…you can. If you want. It’s…your…history, too.”
She hesitated.
Then, slowly, she took it.
Her thumb traced the worn edge.
She opened to the first page.
Eliza’s name stared up at her, underlined.
Her breath hitched.
She closed the journal abruptly.
“Later,” she said, voice tight. “If I start now, I’ll drown.”
“Okay,” I said softly.
Theo shifted like he wanted to leave us.
I caught his sleeve.
“Stay,” I murmured. “Please.”
He nodded.
We spent the rest of the afternoon in a strange, fragile bubble.
Mom walked the cabin room by room.
Bedroom. Kitchen. The little closet where I’d found the journal.
She touched things tentatively, as if they might dissolve.
Theo fixed a cabinet door that had been hanging off one hinge for weeks with quiet efficiency, giving us space and being a steady presence all at once.
At one point, Mom discovered the jar of honey on the table.
She picked it up, squinted at the label.
“‘For sweetening bitter days,’” she read aloud. Her mouth twisted. “That’s very…her.”
“You want some?” I asked. “It’s…good.”
She hesitated.
Then she unscrewed the lid and dipped a spoon in.
I watched her expression.
For a moment, a ghost of something flickered there.
Not anger.
Not hurt.
Something like…recognition.
“She used to…bring us this,” she said, voice rough. “When we were kids. Said the Ridge made the best honey. We thought she was making it up. Like everything else.”
“It’s real,” I said. “Sticky proof.”
She smiled weakly.
“Sticky proof,” she repeated. “Put that on a brochure.”
Dusk settled around the cabin.
Theo built a fire without asking, hands moving with that same contained grace that always made my stupid heart do flips.
Mom watched him from the chair, expression…complicated.
“You’re very…domestic,” she said eventually. “For a man who turns into a predator.”
He shrugged. “Predators like warm toes.”
She snorted.
We ate her lasagna sitting at Margaret’s table.
It tasted like home and something new all at once.
After, Mom stood abruptly.
“Walk?” she said. “I need…air.”
“Alone?” Theo asked, cautious.
She shot him a look.
“With my daughter,” she said. “You can…sniff from the porch if you’re worried I’m going to trip into a rogue den.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
“Stay close,” he said to me instead.
“Always,” I said.
We walked the perimeter of the clearing.
The trees loomed.
The air hummed.
“You love him,” Mom said suddenly.
I stumbled.
“What?” I squeaked.
She rolled her eyes.
“I wasn’t born yesterday,” she said. “You look at him like I used to look at your father when he’d come home with flowers he’d bought at the gas station because he thought it was romantic.”
“That’s…tragic,” I said.
“It was,” she said. “And sweet. And infuriating. And…real.”
“I’m not…” I began, then stopped.
I wasn’t ready to say that word.
Not yet.
Not when the bond wrapped around my ribs like a too-tight shirt, making it hard to know where my feelings ended and the Ridge’s began.
“I’m…pulled,” I said. “To him. To…this. It’s…messy. And…strong. And sometimes I don’t know if it’s…magic or me.”
She nodded.
“That’s the danger,” she said. “Magic…can feel like love. Love can feel like magic. Untangling the two is…hard.”
“How did you…know…with Dad?” I asked quietly. “That it was…you. Not…her. Not…this place. Not…some old story.”
She smiled, small and sad.
“He was…boring,” she said. “In the best way. He loved me in ways that had nothing to do with mountains or destiny. He loved me when I was sick and cranky and my hair was falling out because the water in our first apartment was terrible. He loved me when I burned dinner and when I turned down sex and when I cried over commercials. That…wasn’t magic. That was…choice. Every day.”
I blinked back tears.
“That’s…what I want you to have,” she said softly. “Choice. If you love this man—if you come to love him—let it be because of the way he…shows up when the toilet leaks. Not because the moon hums a certain note.”
“He does show up when the toilet leaks,” I muttered.
She smirked.
“Then that’s a start,” she said.
We walked in silence for a bit.
“Are you…mad at me,” I asked, “for…letting myself get pulled into this? For staying? For…considering…”
“Tying yourself to a wolf?” she finished.
“Yeah,” I said.
She sighed.
“I’m…scared,” she said. “For you. For…me. For…all the ways this could hurt. But mad? No. Not really. Not anymore. Because for the first time, I see you not just…following in her footsteps. You’re…arguing. Questioning. Negotiating. You’re not letting them write your part for you. That’s more than she did. More than I did, in some ways.”
My throat closed.
“So,” she said, linking her arm through mine. “If you’re going to…jump off a cliff, at least you’ve packed a parachute.”
“Medical metaphor?” I asked. “Or…romantic?”
“Parental,” she said. “We’re all about risk management.”
We reached the edge of the trees.
The forest watched.
“I’m not…deciding tonight,” I said.
“You don’t have to,” she said. “Just…don’t forget you can. Decide. At all. That’s…what I need from you.”
“I can do that,” I said.
She squeezed my arm.
“Good,” she said. “Now, let’s go back inside before your wolf gets twitchy.”
“Please never call him *my* wolf again,” I begged.
She grinned.
“No promises,” she said.
***
Later, after Mom had claimed Margaret’s bed with a muttered, “You owe me this, old woman,” and Rufus had wedged himself between us on the couch for a movie (downloaded by Jordan, bless him), Theo lingered by the door.
“You okay?” he asked softly, once Mom had retreated to the bathroom with her toothbrush.
“No,” I said. “Yes. I don’t know.”
He huffed.
“Same,” he said.
“How’d she do?” I asked. “On the ride up. With you.”
He smiled faintly.
“She grilled me,” he said. “About everything from my job and my mortgage to my shifting schedule and my intentions.”
“She asked your *intentions*?” I choked.
“In so many words,” he said. “She also threatened to gut me if I hurt you. In very few words.”
Warmth spread through my chest.
“That sounds like her,” I said, voice wobbly.
“She loves you,” he said simply.
“Yeah,” I said. “She does.”
“So do I,” he almost said.
I saw it in the way his mouth shaped the words before he caught them.
He swallowed them back.
Good.
Too soon.
“I should…” he began.
“Stay,” I heard myself say.
He froze.
“Not—” I rushed. “Not…in my bed. Not…like that. Just…on the couch. In the house. Tonight. With them—” I nodded toward the dark windows and the trees beyond “—sniffing around. With Mom here. With…everything. I…would sleep better. If you were…close.”
His eyes softened.
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”
We ended up in a ridiculous domestic tangle.
Mom in Margaret’s room.
Me in mine.
Theo on the couch, too big for it, legs hanging off the end.
Rufus alternating between my bed and the living room, clearly torn about which human needed him more.
At some point in the night, I woke.
The house was quiet.
The Ridge hummed, low and steady.
I padded to the doorway of the living room.
Theo slept on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. His t-shirt had ridden up, exposing a strip of skin and the hard line of his stomach.
His wolf-scent was stronger like this. Unfurling. Relaxed.
My fingers twitched.
I wanted to climb onto him.
Straddle his hips.
Sink my teeth into the spot where his neck met his shoulder and see if he’d growl or moan.
I shook myself.
Slow burn.
Terms.
My rules.
“Stop it,” I whispered to my libido.
It did not listen.
I took a deep breath.
The Ridge’s hum shifted.
Pleased.
Approving.
Watching me not do the thing it clearly wanted.
I padded back to bed.
As I slid under the covers, I heard Theo’s voice, low and rough, float down the hall.
“Rory?”
“Yeah?” I whispered back.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” I asked.
“For not running,” he said. “For…bringing her. For…letting me…be here.”
Emotion flooded my chest.
“Don’t thank me yet,” I said. “I’m about to volunteer to be bait in a werewolf turf war.”
His laugh was soft.
“We’ll cross that cliff when we come to it,” he said.
“Bad metaphor,” I murmured.
He huffed.
Silence settled again.
I lay there, listening to the overlapping rhythms: my mother’s soft snores, Theo’s deeper breaths, Rufus’s occasional huff.
The Ridge hummed under it all.
Not an order.
Not a command.
An invitation.
*Choose,* it whispered.
I closed my eyes.
For once, my dreams were just…dreams.
No biting.
No stones.
Just a quiet exam room, a sleepy cat on the table, and Theo’s hand warm on the small of my back as we laughed about something stupid.
Domestic.
Boring.
Dangerously real.
***