Chapter 4
Saramaria
I’m hunched over a table on the patio of The Human Bean, a coffee cart that has somehow become the town’s social hub.
The cart sits right in the front corner of the lot, painted a deep, rustic red that matches the Feed and Seed’s branding.
On one side, there’s a clear lane marked for the drive-thru, where cars line up to place their orders without leaving their vehicles.
On the other side, facing the open expanse of the lot, is the patio.
It’s a pretty nice view, but my attention is elsewhere.
My screen is filled with property tax records and land valuation assessments, numbers and figures that blur together into a meaningless jumble. I’ve been at it for hours, my coffee long gone cold, the pastry I bought untouched.
I know I’m drawing attention. A woman in a tailored suit, typing furiously on a high-end laptop, sticks out in a town where most people are in jeans and work boots.
But the attention I feel most acutely isn’t from the curious glances of passersby. It’s from the older woman in the corner.
She’s impossible to miss. Dressed in a flowing caftan covered in what looks like every sequin ever made, she’s sitting at a small table, a book open in front of her.
But she’s not reading. Every time I risk a glance up, her knowing eyes are fixed on me.
The moment our gazes meet, she looks away a little too quickly, pretending to be engrossed in her book.
A small smile plays on my lips.
Muddy Creek hasn’t changed. Privacy is still a foreign concept.
My phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with my assistant’s name. I take a deep breath, bracing myself, before answering. “Brenda. Hey.”
“Saramaria,” she says, her voice a little too cheerful, a little too bright. “I was just calling to check in. See how things are... settling.”
Settling. That’s one word for it. “It’s a process,” I say, my eyes scanning a document about mineral rights. “What’s up?”
“Just the merger,” she says, and I can hear the click-clack of her keyboard in the background. “Richard sent over some revised figures this morning. I’ve flagged a few discrepancies, but I think we can get them approved by end of day if you give the go-ahead.”
My fingers tighten around my phone. Richard. Just his name is a stone in my gut. “Forward them to me,” I say, my voice flat. “I’ll look them over.”
“Of course,” Brenda says. There’s a pause, a beat of silence that’s filled with unspoken questions. “Saramaria... there’s something else.”
I lean back in my chair, the metal legs scraping against the patio stones. “What is it?”
“It’s just... there’s talk,” she says, her voice dropping. “Around the office. That you’re planning on resigning.”
I swallow the lump that forms in my throat. The truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing. What I’m going to do. The thought of going back to that sterile office, of walking the same halls where Richard and Penelope... no. I can’t.
But I can’t admit that to Brenda. I can’t admit that my entire life, the one I so carefully constructed, has imploded in less than a week.
“I’m just working out of office for the month,” I say, the lie tasting like ash. “Handling some family business. I’ll be back.”
“Oh,” Brenda says, and I can hear the relief in her voice. “Okay. Good. We just... we miss you, is all.”
“I miss you guys too,” I say, and it’s not entirely a lie. “Just forward all the work as soon as it’s approved. I’ll be on top of it.”
“Will do,” she says. “Talk soon.”
I end the call, setting my phone face down on the table. My thumb hovers over the screen, tempted, so tempted, to open my messages. To unblock the threads with Penelope and Richard. To see what excuses they’ve crafted, what lies they’re telling themselves.
They swore it was the first time. That it meant nothing. But I’d be stupid to believe that, wouldn’t I? I’d be a fool to go back for more.
With a frustrated sigh, I push the phone away and wave at the barista. “Another coffee, please!” I call out a little too loudly. I gather my phone, heading toward the small, single-stall bathroom marked with a hand-painted sign.
The bathroom is cramped and smells strongly of bleach and lavender air freshener. I do my business, then wash my hands, the water hot against my skin. I look up, meeting my own reflection in the mirror above the sink.
The woman staring back at me is a stranger. Tired. Her eyes, the same green as her father’s, are shadowed with exhaustion. There are fine lines around her mouth that weren’t there a month ago. My hair, usually so perfectly contained in a bun, is starting to frizz.
I should go home. But where is that? The pristine, empty house in Denver? It hasn’t felt like home in a long time. It was just a place to store my things, a place to wait for Richard to come home. Now it’s just a place filled with his things, his scent. A place I can’t bear to be.
I should head back to Meadowlark, but what if I run into them again? Knox? Rhett? Boone? Especially Boone. We have so much history, and of all the things I was bracing myself for in this town, he was the last person I expected to run into.
He hates me.
He must hate me.
The thought sends a jolt through me, a confusing mix of anger and something else I don’t want to name.
He has no right to hate me, he doesn’t even know me.
I straighten my shoulders, pulling my professional mask back into place. I am Saramaria Cruz, lawyer. I am in control. I turn off the water and march back out onto the patio, ready to tackle the property tax records with renewed vigor.
Only to find the sequined woman standing at my table, peering at my open laptop.
I stop dead, my brief moment of resolve shattering. I walk up to her, my heels clicking against the stones. “Hello,” I say, my voice tight.
The woman turns, and a huge, genuine smile spreads across her face. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t prying, not really. It’s just... you look so familiar. You have her nose.”
I blink, caught off guard. “Her nose?”
“Angelina’s,” she says, and the name hits me like a physical blow. “You look like a woman who used to live here.”
A smile touches my lips, a real one this time. “Angelina? You knew my mom?”
The woman claps her hands together, the sequins on her caftan catching the light. “No fucking way,” she chortles, her laugh loud and uninhibited. “You’re her little girl, aren’t you? Saramaria, as I live and breathe.”
“Yes,” I say, my own smile widening. “I’m sorry, remind me of your name?”
Just then, the owner of the coffee cart comes over with my fresh coffee. Her name tag reads “Tessa.”
“Dot,” Tessa says, her tone playful but firm. “Stop disturbing my customers. You’re scaring people away.”
“She’s not disturbing me,” I say, taking the coffee from Tessa.
The woman beams at me, then turns back to me. “I’m Dorothy,” she says, extending a hand. “But everyone calls me Dot.”
Dot. Dorothy McClain. And just like that, it clicks. The church charity drives, the bake sales, the way she used to hand out peppermints to all the kids after Sunday service. I remember her now, younger, with her husband, a quiet Beta rancher with kind eyes.
“I remember you,” I say, shaking her hand. “From the church. You used to run the charity drives.”
Dot’s face lights up. “That’s me! Good to know I haven’t changed that much.” She sobers slightly, her gaze softening. “I was so sorry to hear about your grandfather. And your parents, of course. Such a tragedy.”
“Thank you,” I say, the words feeling inadequate. “How have you been? How is Mr. McClain?”
A shadow passes over Dot’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. “He passed, sweetheart. Six years ago now. Cancer.”
“Oh,” I say, my heart clenching. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay,” she says, waving a dismissive hand. “We had a good long life together. Can’t complain about that.”
I look up and see another elderly woman walking toward us. This one is a vision in rhinestones and bright pink, her hair perfectly coiffed, her lips painted a matching shade of red.
“Pearl!” Dot shouts, her face breaking into a wide grin. “Hey, my darling!”
Pearl glides across the patio, her movements graceful despite her age. She walks right up to Dot and kisses her soundly on the cheek. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to,” she says. “You left without saying goodbye.”
Dot closes her eyes, a soft sigh escaping her lips as Pearl’s lips brush her cheek again. The gesture is so intimate, so full of unspoken history, that I almost feel like I’m intruding on a private moment.
Pearl turns to me then, her hand outstretched, her rings—chunky turquoise and silver—catching the sunlight. “Pearl Ann Rodriguez,” she says, her voice a husky purr that seems out of place in the bright afternoon.
“Saramaria,” I say, taking her hand. Her grip is surprisingly firm.
Dot is practically vibrating with excitement, shaking Pearl’s hand like she’s just won the lottery. “Pearl, this is Angelina and Henry’s daughter... from Meadowlark!”
Pearl’s eyes, a warm, intelligent brown, light up with recognition. “No! Little Saramaria? My goodness, look at you! You’re all grown up.”
“I remember you. You were part of the rodeo weren’t you?” I ask.
She smirks, a playful, knowing expression, and leans in to kiss Dot’s forehead again. “It has been a long time since then, hasn’t it, darling?”
“We should sit,” Dot says, gesturing to the table I’d just vacated. “Join us, dear.”
We do. I slide back into my chair, and Pearl takes the one next to me, while Dot settles back in her original spot. Tessa, the owner, appears at our table almost instantly. “What can I get for you, Pearl? The usual?”
“Two iced lattes to go, please, Tess,” Pearl says, her eyes never leaving me. “But we’ll sit for a bit.”