10. Violet
Chapter 10
Violet
“ H ow was everything out at Walker’s?” Maggie asks as she stocks the linen cart.
I stare at her dryly. “He didn’t know I was there, Maggie. You set me up.”
But I can’t be mad at her. She’s had a lot on her plate with the Dogwood, helping Walker, and I know she needed my help. It’s a lot easier to send me out there than it is for her to stay out there. And I didn’t mind it at all.
First, Walker lives in paradise. His home is the most beautiful home I’ve ever seen. It’s not at all what I was expecting. His words about privacy echo in my mind, and I’ll never talk about his home with anyone.
She shrugs. “I thought you’d like the animals. You always loved animals.”
“I still love animals. And I love his. His horses are beautiful. And the barn cats were pretty cute, too,” I admit.
“See? It all worked out,” she says as she nods at the linen cart.
“How many rooms do we have today?” I ask as I glance at my watch, planning out how long I have to get the rooms done before check ins.
“Just three, it’s a slow day,” she says.
“Not bad,” I say as I pull the cart behind me. I can do them quickly.
My phone buzzes and it’s my mom. I put it on speaker and answer, “Hi, Mom.”
“Hey, honey. How are things in Nashville? You get your album done?”
I suck in air through my teeth, “Well, Mom. Things changed. I’m actually in Bridger Falls.”
She’s quiet for a moment and then says, surprised, “At Maggie’s?”
“Yeah,” I say, matter of fact, like it’s no big deal, hoping she’ll just leave it and not ask too much.
It’s not that I want to keep things from her. I don’t. I just don’t want to disappoint her. She and my dad have been my biggest fans and supporters. And I don’t want to let anyone down by leaving Nashville and walking away from my dreams. They’ve always rooted so hard for me. Music has always been a big deal in my family.
“What happened? Are you okay?” she asks softly, worry in her voice.
My mind wanders as I start work on the first room, and I think about the songs I’m working on and if it’s even worth it to try to start over again. I had an entire album written and was so excited. Then everything was taken from me. The album was stolen and recorded by another artist, and my label dropped me. And I’m embarrassed. I went from an up-and-coming musician to hiding out in Bridger Falls, working at a motel.
Damn. Life can change in an instant. That’s for sure.
Instead of explaining everything, I don’t. I simply say, “I just needed a break, Mom. Hanging out here with Maggie for a while. She needed some help, so it all worked out.”
“I’m glad you’re visiting with her. How is she? I need to call her.”
“It’s been good. Really good, actually. Been working on new songs, enjoying the town,” I tell her, and that part is at least true.
“It’s such a neat town. Hey, your dad is calling me. I’m going to call you back tomorrow. Keep me updated on how you’re doing,” she says as she disconnects.
I’m relieved that I didn’t have to explain too much right now. I’m just not ready to get into it all yet.
My parents have a dairy farm in Indiana, and they’re both very busy, so it didn’t surprise me that she had to go so suddenly.
After I finish the final room, I return the cleaning and linen carts and restock them, switching over the laundry. The amount of laundry we do here is insane. I always try to stay on top of it for Maggie. I love helping her out.
I take a peek in the kitchen and see what she has that I can make for dinner and grab a few ingredients out of her pantry. Maggie’s out, and the office is quiet. She really needs help around here. A lot of things are broken and need to be updated and fixed.
I watch from the front window of the lobby of the motel as Walker’s truck pulls in and parks. He gets out and strolls up to the front door of the office, and he fixes some crumbling bricks out front before he comes in, holding the door gently behind him. He walks towards the desk and looks surprised when he sees it’s me instead of Maggie.
“Red,” he says with a smile.
“Walker.” I smile back and nervously tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. My stomach flips when he steps in closer. My chest feels warm, and I realize I’m happy to see him. He’s got such a pull on me.
“Just came over to help Maggie unclog one of her sinks,” he says as he sets down a battered tool bag.
Hot.
Instead of focusing on how hot he looks with his tool bag, I reach over and grab the keys to 102 and hand them to him. “Here you go. She didn’t mention you were coming, but I’m sure she’ll be happy to know you’re here fixing it.”
He snorts. “She’s at bingo. I passed her flying down the road on my way here. It’s her week to call the numbers. No way she’s missing that.”
He looks around. “Something smells good. Are you cooking?”
I nod. “I am. I have a cowboy casserole in the oven.”
He looks surprised. “I don’t think Maggie ever cooks in that kitchen.”
“She doesn’t. But I made plenty if you’d like to eat with me. Should be ready by the time you finish that drain, plumber boy,” I add with a grin, as I tilt my head.
He snorts at the plumber boy comment and turns to head out as he calls, “I might just take you up on that, Red.”
I hope he does.
He’s gone for a half an hour, and I take out the casserole and take down two plates just as the front door opens. He comes in and heads to the bathroom to wash his hands.He’s at ease here as if he’s been in here countless times before, like he’s comfortable in Maggie’s space. I’m glad that Maggie has him to help her out around here.
I plate up the food and set it on the small table in the kitchen that Maggie mostly uses to play cards. He walks in and stands still in the middle of the room until I motion for him to sit and hand him a napkin and fork .
“Thanks, I forgot to eat lunch, and it hit me suddenly; I’m starving,” he says as he slides in and grins at me.
The fork in my hand feels heavier than it should. I take a bite, chewing slowly, my eyes flicking up to him across the table. Walker. Sitting here. Eating the food I cooked. I don’t know why it feels like a thing . But it does.
It’s just dinner. Just food. Just two people sitting at a table. Except… it isn’t.
Because the air is different. Thicker. The kind that settles in your chest and makes you hyperaware of every movement, every glance, every brush of a hand too close to the other.
I keep my head down and focus on my plate, but it doesn’t stop the heat curling low in my stomach. It doesn’t stop my mind from drifting into dangerous territory—wondering what this looks like from the outside.
Because this —this quiet, this shared meal, this small act of care —feels like something more than it should. It feels domestic .
I definitely can’t let myself imagine what it would be like if this were something real . But my traitorous brain? It’s already running ahead of me. Already painting the picture. Already whispering in my ear— what if?
What if this was a regular thing? What if I got used to this? To him sitting here, stealing bites off my plate like he has a right to them. To the sound of his deep, easy laughter rolling through my kitchen.
What if I got used to him ?
I swallow hard. Take a sip of water. Try to push down the sudden knot in my chest.
Because none of this is real.
It’s just a meal. Just a quiet night. Just an illusion of something that was never meant to be mine. He’s a friend. And Maggie’s friend. I can’t let anything get in the way of that.
But when I glance up again—when I catch him watching me with that unreadable look in his eyes, like maybe he’s feeling it too?—
I know, deep down, I’m already in trouble.
I clear my throat and smile. “Not a problem. I love to cook and rarely have people to cook for,” I tell him as I sit across from him, trying to play it cool.
But I’m not cool. Not even close to cool. I’m nervous as hell.
“I have a question,” I ask as he takes a bite, and his eyes widen in surprise.
He taps his fork on his plate. “This is really good.”
“Thank you,” I say as I clear my throat.
“What’s your question?” he asks as he looks over at me, his eyes warm and sweet.
Damn, why does he have to be so sweet? When he looks at me like that, I forget everything that I’m doing and thinking.
“I was wondering if you ever found a bartender. I saw you were looking for one,” I ask.
He clears his throat and says, “I haven’t.”
“Oh,” I say quickly, taking a bite and looking away.
“Why? Interested in bartending?” he asks as he studies my face.
“I am. I wanted to find a part-time job,” I admit. “But I’ll find something.”
He nods, and we eat quietly. He looks at peace and says, “Red, that was the best meal I’ve had in a long time. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Thanks for fixing the drain. I’ll take care of these,” I say as I take our plates and rinse them.
“Let me help,” he says as he reaches for the plates, and our fingers brush, sending a zing through my body. His touch is familiar, reminding me of our night together.
“It’s okay, I’ve got it,” I tell him as I finish putting the food away and take the dishes from him to dry.
“I insist. I always try to help Maggie, too,” he says as his eyes meet mine.
“I’m glad she has you,” I tell him as I hand him the dish towel.
“I’m pretty sure I’m luckier to have her. I’ll keep an eye out for anyone hiring around here,” he says as he searches my eyes.
“Please do,” I tell him as I tuck a piece of my hair behind my ear. “I’d appreciate it.”
He glances over at my guitar and the notebook with a pen tucked into it on top of the desk. An expression crosses his face, and he looks irritated for a moment, then says, “I gotta run. Thanks for dinner.”
“Have a good night,” I say as he heads out the door and doesn’t look back.
I watch him walk to his truck and wonder what that was about. Busying myself with a few guests needing things, I tidy up the office for the night.
Walker’s a man of mystery, that’s for sure.
I quickly get my work done for the evening and help a few customers, but I can’t help but feel like I’m floating on a cloud after spending time with him. It was a great evening.
The front door to the motel opens, and Cami and Poppy come in, their happy energies a welcome distraction. Cami smiles big and holds up a paper bag. “I brought treats.”
“Hi, ladies,” I smile.
“We just wanted to see how you’re doing and if you’re settling in, okay,” Poppy says as she sits on one of the couches in the lobby.
“And I brought some lemon blueberry scones,” Cami says as she sets down a bag and peels off her jacket.
“Did you guys eat? I have leftover cowboy casserole if you want some?” I offer as I nod to the kitchen.
“Oh, I bet Maggie loves having you here,” Cami says as she stands to head to the small kitchen.
“Maggie does love having her here,” I hear Maggie tease as she comes through the back door and hangs up her coat.
“How was bingo?” I ask as I take a scone out of the bag.
Cami, clearly comfortable with Maggie’s kitchen, returns with a plate of reheated food. “This is so good. Did you have any?” she asks Maggie.
“No, I’ll be making a plate. That smells really good,” she says as she heads to the kitchen.
“Weird to have home-cooked food from your house, Maggie,” Poppy teases.
“Hey, I’ll have you know I’m excellent with a microwave,” she calls as she brings her plate to the desk across from where we’re sitting.
She glances at her watch. “Walker is supposed to come fix a clogged sink.”
“He already came,” I tell her.
All of their heads swivel at the same time to look at me. Poppy looks like she wants to say something, and Cami has a wicked grin on her face.
“Oh?” Maggie says curiously.
“He fixed the sink and had some dinner, too.” Then after I say it, I realize I just added fuel to the fire.
The three of them stare at me and then exchange smirks.
“So, you had a little dinner date?” Cami asks.
“No, I just had dinner ready when he arrived, so he had some, not a big deal.” I shrug.
“Oh, no,” Poppy says.
“Right?” Cami adds.
“Denial,” they all say at once.
“The chemistry between them is insane. You guys see it too, right?” Poppy adds .
They have a mini conversation about me as if I’m not here, and I don’t know whether to laugh or tell them to shut it. But I smile because I know they mean well.
“Just friends,” I protest, as I cross my legs and tap my foot.
“Yeah. Sure,” Cami says as she watches me and takes a bite.“Damn, girl. You can cook,”
“I love cooking,” I admit.
“Are you good at baking?” she asks.
“I’m decent,” I admit.
“Well, if you ever want to help me with baking for my coffee trailer, I’d love it,” she says.
“Say when.”
“When. Come out tomorrow afternoon. That work?” she asks.
“I’ll have to check with my boss. But usually I’m free in the afternoons,” I tease.
“She’s free,” Maggie says with a laugh, shaking her head.
I usually get all the rooms done by then, so it shouldn’t be a problem.
We all sit together and then play a few hands of cards, and I look around and take in the fun conversation and delicious pastries and think this is how friendship should be. And I’m thankful to be here in Bridger Falls, making friends with people like Cami and Poppy. I love getting invited to girls’ night and getting asked to help bake. I smile at Maggie, and she’s too busy laughing and laying down a card. She looks really happy, too.
Bridger Falls is starting to feel like a real home, something I was missing.
I plug in the navigation to make the drive out to Cami’s ranch, which is thirty minutes outside of town in the opposite direction of Walker’s. There are so many ranches around here, and they’re breathtaking with the tall, looming mountains in the distance.
It’s beautiful out here, and it would be a dream to call a place like Bridger Falls home. Sometimes, I think about leaving music altogether and starting over somewhere. I love songwriting, but I’m coming to terms that my career is done. And part of me feels angry and defeated about that, and then another part of me feels sad. Rejected. Like I want to make an epic comeback and show the people who took everything from me that I’m not done. Far from done. Sometimes I think about what that kind of comeback would feel like.
But we’ll see. I don’t know what is going to happen with my music career, but I’m happy right now in Bridger Falls. It is strangely comforting to be here in a place where people don’t know the music side of me, and I don’t have to talk about what happened. I’m dreading having to answer my mom’s questions when we eventually talk again. But that’s tomorrow's problem. Today, I get to bake and hang out with Cami.
I pull into Wilder Ranch, my tires kicking up a soft cloud of dust as I slow to a stop beside Cami’s red truck.
The place is breathtaking.
The long gravel driveway winds through endless rolling pastures, stretching wide under the open Wyoming sky. Golden fields sway in the late afternoon breeze, dotted with sturdy wooden fences and grazing horses. A few cows linger lazily near the fence line, their tails flicking at flies, while further back, a small herd of goats playfully headbutt each other near a weathered old tree.
The main barn stands proud, red paint slightly faded but still charming against the backdrop of the mountains. A few smaller outbuildings sit nearby—a shed, a workshop, a little chicken coop with a white picket fence that looks like something out of a storybook.
It smells exactly like a ranch should—earthy, sun-warmed hay, rich leather, and the faintest hint of horses and fresh-cut grass.
I step out of my car, stretching my legs, taking it all in.
Before I can shut the door, Cami strides out of the barn, sliding off a pair of work gloves and shoving them into her back pocket.
She’s wearing ripped jeans, boots, and a faded T-shirt that probably started black but is now more dirt than fabric. Strands of hair have escaped her messy ponytail, sticking to her forehead. She looks like she’s been working since sunrise—but somehow, she still has that effortless ‘badass cowgirl’ aura.
“Hey, Violet,” she calls, wiping her hands on her jeans. “How are you?”
I step forward, glancing around again at the picturesque ranch, the golden afternoon light spilling across the fields, the mountains standing like silent guardians in the distance.
“Great,” I say, meaning it. “Thanks for having me out here. It’s beautiful.”
Cami grins, propping a hand on her hip, her face softening just a little.
“Yeah,” she says, glancing out over the land. “It really is.”
And in that moment, I can tell—this place isn’t just a ranch to her. It’s her whole world.
“Thanks,” she says as she walks with me towards the house. “I’m glad you’re here. I have a few dozen special orders that I need to make, and it would have been a very long night without your help. So, thanks for coming.”
“I love baking. Happy to help,” I say as she holds the door.
The farmhouse is older but looks beautiful and maintained. We step inside and walk through a doorway to the kitchen, which is big and looks like it’s been updated. The island has a stainless-steel cooking space, and it’s set up more like a professional kitchen.
“Wow, this is amazing,” I tell her as I take in the tall cooling rack on wheels and huge double oven.
“Thanks, I do all my baking here for Steamy Sips, my coffee trailer,” she says as she washes her hands in the sink to the side of the kitchen.
I follow her and do the same. After I dry my hands, she hands me an apron with a cup of coffee on it, and I slip it over my head, tying it around my waist.
“Do your mom and brother live here, too?” I ask as I look at the recipe sheet she hands me.
“No, my mom moved to town a few months ago, and Ollie is living above Poppy’s dad’s shop in town.”
“So, it’s just you out here?” I ask as I start grabbing ingredients from the shelf.
“I have my dog, her name is Love. She’s a blue heeler,” she says as she nods to the back porch where a dog sleeps in the sun.She gets up and stretches and trots toward me when she sees me.
“Oh,” I say as I look at her and realize how much she looks like my dog. Well, my dog I don’t have anymore.
“What?” she asks, searching my face.
“I had a blue heeler, too. Mine was named Rip Heeler,” I tell her.
She chuckles, “That’s cute. I loved Yellowstone .”
“Me, too,” I admit, as I measure out the dry ingredients.
A hollow ache settles deep in my chest, one I’ve tried to ignore for weeks. I swallow hard, blinking at the ceiling, willing away the sting of tears in my eyes.
I miss him. He wasn’t just a dog, he was my best friend. And now I’m trying to pretend it doesn’t hurt as much as it does .
Rip should be with me. And I hate that he isn’t. I don’t even know if he’s okay.
“What happened to him?” she asks, looking up.
I open my mouth to form the words and honestly don’t know where to begin. I exhale a deep breath. “My ex still has him. He wouldn’t let me have him. But he was my heart dog. You know? That once-in-a-lifetime dog that you bond with. He was my best friend.”
She asks me, “Why didn’t he let you take him?”
I shake my head. “He was being spiteful. If I’d taken him, he’d have ruined me even more than he did.”
“Where’s he at now? Just so you know, I’m not above dog napping.” She shakes her head, looking mad. “And ruin you? What did he do?”
“He’s back in Nashville. My ex has the apartment we shared and, to be honest, he never even liked Rip. He knows he belonged with me,” I say. “I’d steal him back in a heartbeat if I could.”
“Wait, what happened? Why did he ruin you?” she asks again as she mixes up her ingredients, pausing to heat up the ovens.
I want to tell her. I want to open up to someone and have a friend. But the last time I did that, it blew up in my face. I don’t know what to say, so I just settle on partial truth. “He cheated on me and messed up my career. I had to take off and get out of Nashville. I don’t really like talking about it.”
She nods. “That’s fair. But if you want to talk about it, Violet, I’m here. Poppy, too.”
I bite my lip and smile. “Thanks.”
We work in silence for a while, the music playing softly on the radio, both of us singing along to it and mixing up scone ingredients, and by the time we slide our first batch in the oven, I feel better.
“Okay, you might just be a better baker than me,” she laughs. “Where did you learn all this?”
“I grew up on a farm. My mom makes nearly everything from scratch, and I grew up helping out in the kitchen,” I tell her as I get the next pan ready to switch out.
“I’m impressed. You have so much talent. You can sing, bake, and cook. Is there anything you can’t do?” she asks, shaking her head in amazement.
I laugh. “I’m sure I can think of a lot of things.”
We take a break, and she pours us big glasses of sweet tea, and we have scones. After all, we have to test the products.
“So good,” she says as she bites into mine.
“Yours are great too,” I smile.
“Are you sure you don’t want to be a baker? I think you might have found your calling,” she says.
I already found my passion. I just lost it all. Maybe I can be a baker if I can’t get my crap together with music again.