The simple recounting doesn't match the intensity in his eyes, the tightness in his voice. There's more to the story, much more, but I don't push.
"After that, neither of us had much stomach for it anymore," he continues. "I left first. Came back to Grizzly Ridge, took the game warden position. Six months later, Bill followed with you in tow."
"I remember the day we arrived." The memory is hazy but warm. "You were waiting on the porch of our new house with a welcome basket. Dad hugged you like he'd found his long-lost brother."
A ghost of a smile touches Elias's lips. "You were this tiny thing with pigtails and a stuffed rabbit. Wouldn't let go of it for anything."
"Mr. Hops." I laugh softly. "I still have him somewhere. Dad kept all my childhood stuff in that storage unit outside town."
The mention of Dad's belongings sobers us both. He's been gone over a year, but grief still lingers in the spaces between words, in the memories that surface unexpectedly.
"I never thanked you," I say after a moment. "For handling everything after he died. The funeral, the paperwork, the house..."
"You were in your final semester. It was the least I could do."
The least he could do. Such a simple phrase for a man who stepped in without hesitation, who handled the thousand details of death while I fell apart three states away. Who sold Dad's house and put the money in a trust for me. Who made sure I could finish college without worrying about anything else.
"It was more than that, and you know it." I meet his gaze. "You've always been there. Every time I needed someone, you showed up."
His eyes soften slightly. "I made a promise."
"Not about that. Dad couldn't have known he'd get cancer." I reach across the table, not quite touching him but offering. "You did those things because that's who you are, Elias. Not because of some deathbed promise."
He stares at my outstretched hand for a long moment, something raw and vulnerable crossing his face. For a heartbeat, I think he might take it, might finally bridge the distance between us.
Instead, he pushes back from the table. "You shouldn't be thanking me. If I'd been a better friend, I would have noticed the symptoms sooner. Would have made him go to the doctor before it was too late."
The self-recrimination in his voice makes my chest ache. "Dad was the most stubborn man alive. You know that. He wouldn't have gone even if you'd tied him up and dragged him."
"Maybe. But I should have tried harder."
I recognize the guilt he's carrying, I've carried my own version. The "what ifs" that haunt the survivors. What if I'd come home more often? What if I'd noticed the weight loss during our video calls? What if, what if, what if.
"He wouldn't want this," I say softly. "You punishing yourself. Us walking on eggshells around each other."
Elias's eyes, when they meet mine, are dark with something that makes my heart race. "What would he want, Riley?"
The question is loaded with meaning. There's only one truthful answer, but saying it feels dangerous, like stepping off a cliff without knowing how far I'll fall.
"He'd want us to be happy." My voice doesn't waver. "Both of us."
For a moment, just a moment, something shifts in Elias's expression. The walls come down, and I see everything, the wanting, the restraint, the battle he fights every time he looks at me.
Then his phone rings, shattering the moment. He answers it, tension returning to his shoulders as he listens.
"When?" His voice is tight. "I'll be right there."
He ends the call, already reaching for his jacket. "That was Sawyer. Poachers spotted near the north ridge. Shots fired."
"Now? It's almost dark."
"Best time for illegal hunting." He grabs his rifle from the rack. "Don't wait up. This could take a while."
Just like that, he's gone. The door closes behind him with a finality that feels like rejection, and I'm left alone with cold stew and too many unsaid words.
The fire has burneddown to embers by the time I hear Elias's truck returning. The grandfather clock in the corner shows nearly midnight, almost six hours since he left to chase poachers into the darkness.
I've spent those hours pacing, working on my laptop, and finally curling up on the couch with one of the books from hisshelves. An old copy of Jack London's stories, dog-eared and well-loved. The same stories Dad used to read to me as a child.
