Author's note: I had to rush this ending to get the story completed before the 2022 Watty's deadline. There's a lot more adventure that I had planned to write so I apologize for cutting it short. Someday, I hope to return to these woods and flesh everything out more.

29. || the one that got away.

Winter drew her cold breath early that year, exhaling a blanket of white over the mountainside. Slowly, but surely, River's strength began to return and with every day that passed Finley's belly grew rounder.

Each morning, she woke before the sun to tend to the chickens and goats. Then she followed the mended crick up to the springhouse to check the reservoir. The falling snow and rains of the seasons had replenished the spring with clear, potable water, but its healing magic had since dissipated. After that Halloween night, Finley had flushed the lines to clear the blood saturated water from the reservoir, hoping any remaining magic found the tongues and roots of those who needed it, the little thornberry especially.

Finley had trimmed back her raw splintered branches and tended to her wounded bark, but the little tree still weeped with a bend. The loss of her bright red berries left her with only her thorns, now brittle and susceptible to the looming deepfreeze. Finley had one more idea, though it was the worst time of the year to try it.

From the pocket of her jacket, she pulled out the bone handled knife and the sprig River had plucked from the other thornberry that grew out of Béla and the mine; its blossoms somehow still continued to bloom from the twig weeks later. Carefully, she carved its stem down thin, shaving away the bark to reach the green fleshy cambium.

She looked towards the thornberry and placed her palm on her trunk, feeling the deep groove of axe scars along the bark, some healed over, others still fighting to close. She found the worst open wound and slipped the blade of the knife inside, wedging it between the bark and the torn flesh of the wood and the little tree didn't like that one bit. The thornberry swatted at her, catching the skin of her palm with her woody needles as Finley tried to deflect the hit.

"I know, I know," she hushed, "but we gotta give it one more try."

And though she wasn't happy about it, the thornberry lifted her branches enough that Finley could get close again. As gently as she could, she slipped the shaved stem of the sprig between the thornberry's bark and wood, feeling the little tree shudder as she did so. Fresh blood dripped and stained the cut in the wood and she tried to wipe it away before she realized it was her own, shed from the thorn puncture in her palm.

Taking out a ribbon of rawhide, she wrapped it tight to graft the blooming twig to the little thornberry.

"There," Finley sighed, tucking the knife away. The winter would be long, but something powerful remained budded up in the graft. She could feel its energy still tingling the tips of her fingers, down to her belly. Some kinda life growing, despite the absence of it all around.

Two whole moons had passed since Samhain, but the roots had all gone silent and still. Nothing moved along the subterranean current. Finley kept River's rifle strapped to her back for hunting purposes mostly, but she knew to always be prepared in these woods just in case.

She started off hunting small game at first, like the pesky muskrat that turned into a tender stew, then an unfortunate woodchuck that hadn't yet gone to hibernate. She soaked him in an apple cider vinegar and spicewood brine for a good night and a day, then braised him in a white wine with garlic and onion. Then came the pheasant and the turkey and when last year's venison started running low in the freezer, Finley knew it was time to step up.

~

River had insisted they'd be fine to tag along and help track, but the day prior they'd barely made it to the barn before their lungs began to burn against the cold bitter air. The wound in their back had left them with a lingering limp and with the magic of the spring gone, it seemed maybe the Black Lung was finally catching up to them after all these years.

So they sat at the window in the cabin, watching as Finley disappeared up the mountainside along the gray trunks of bare trees and behind the sweeping branches of the evergreens. They hated the thought of her going out alone, but they also knew she wasn't ever fully alone in these woods for better or worse, not even with the waning magic.

The Ghost Cat had kept his distance since Samhain. Despite his duplicitous intentions, Finley still put a bowl of milk out for him every night and even though the milk never dipped below the line she filled it to, River knew Ignatius was still watching. Buckmouse too had yet to appear, but his bond with Finley went more than just bone deep.

River had just opened a book when the crunch of fresh snow beneath heavy wheels down the road pulled their attention back to the window. Driving up to the cabin, the sheriff's SUV slowly parked in front of the porch. River grabbed a walking stick from the corner and hobbled into their boots to meet him outside, but as they gripped the doorknob, the sound of two car doors shutting echoed through the woods.

River pulled a cardigan around themself and stepped outside. The sheriff stood at the bottom of the steps kinda glancing around, but beyond him a woman in a fur lined coat hung back.

"Evenin' Sheriff," River greeted him. Their eyes wandered over to the woman before drifting back to Holden. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"Well, Ms. Kennedy here has been tryin' to track down her sister. After some diggin' we found the address to her grandfather's camp just down the road from ya, but it looks to be empty, tree crashed through the roof. Figured I'd check in with ya. I told her, if there's a whisper in these woods, River Hawthorne's heard it."

"It's nice to see you again, River." The woman lowered her fur fringed hood and River realized it was the woman from the bar.

"Likewise," River replied, studying her closely. Finley hadn't ever mentioned a sister, though she hardly mentioned her family outside of her grandparents.

"River, ya haven't seen anyone prowlin' around up here in your woods, have ya?" Sheriff Holden restated his question.

"Oh," River laughed and slowly eased themself down the steps. The sheriff was still looking around, but the woman kept her eyes fixed to them. "No sir, it's been mighty quiet up here since the snow fell."

"I don't want to worry ya, but this woman is dangerous. Crashed that Mercedes, set fire to the drilling site. And I have every reason to believe she's behind the disappearance of them Williams boys." Sheriff Holden turned back to River and leaned in close. "Apparently, she's prostituted herself before, worked at Busty's, ya know."

"God bless them boys," River murmured, barely hiding their sarcasm.

"She's not well, River," the woman stated.

"I am awfully sorry to hear that." River winced a little as they shifted their weight. "But if I see or hear anything peculiar, I'll be sure to let you'ns know."

The sheriff rubbed at his beard, eyeing River up more carefully. "Haven't seen ya at the Deerjaw in some time."

"I'm just tryin' to give Blaire her space. Be respectful n'at."

With a nod, the sheriff took a beat. "Ya know, her mama died a couple weeks back."

"I uh, I hadn't heard." River dipped their head, sad for Blaire, but also relieved for her. For the first time in forty-five years, she'd finally be able to leave this town guilt-free.

The radio clipped to the sheriff's collar scratched with static as he turned away to listen. Something about a BMW covered in mud. Two months later and they were just now finding that damn vehicle.

Sheriff Holden hurriedly stepped back towards his SUV. "River, I'm gonna need ya to ride Ms. Kennedy back over to the lodge. Might have a break-through in the case."

"Sure thing, Sheriff." River leaned on the walking stick as Holden climbed into the vehicle. "Stay safe now."

The lights of the interceptor bled into the white snow and River just hoped Finley would see them and know not to come home just yet.

The woman caught them staring into the woods behind her, but she only smiled. "You never took me up on my offer. I've had the lodge all to myself for the last couple months."

"I didn't realize you were stickin' around," River replied carefully. "I'd love to go see it now."

But as they turned to walk to the jeep, another set of feet crunched in the snow behind the woman and River knew its doe-like gait. Before they could turn around, the slide of the rifle cracked against the cold mountain air, drowned quickly by a blast that dropped the woman to the ground.

River looked up, meeting Finley's eyes behind the sight.

"She's not my sister," she stated. "She's my wife."