Chapter 4 #2
As Tessa walks away, I find myself studying them.
The way Pearl’s arm rests along the back of Dot’s chair.
The way Dot leans into her touch, a subtle, unconscious movement.
It’s a comfortable, easy intimacy—so different from the careful, calculated distance Richard and I maintained in the last months of our relationship.
“I had no idea you were back in town,” Pearl says, breaking the silence. “The last I heard, you were off conquering the world.”
“I just got here today,” I admit, my voice quieter than I intended.
She nods, her expression genuinely curious. “So tell us everything. How have you been? Where have you been all this time?”
“I’ve been... okay,” I say, choosing my words with the care of a lawyer cross-examining a hostile witness. “I live up in Denver now. I’m a lawyer.”
“Denver!” Dot beams, her eyes sparkling. “Oh, I’ve always wanted to go to Denver in the winter. All that snow, the city lights sparkling... Pearl and I were just saying we should take a trip, have a picnic in one of those big parks.”
Pearl blushes, a pretty pink that contrasts with her rhinestone-studded sweater. “Excuse my partner,” she says to me, though her eyes are soft as she looks at Dot. “She gets these grand ideas and I’m the one who has to figure out how to pack a picnic basket in a foot of snow.”
I can’t help but smile. “You should. Washington Park is beautiful in the snow. And the Denver Art Museum has a great restaurant. You could make a day of it.”
Dot’s smile widens. “See, Pearl? A plan!”
“Yes it is, dear.” Pearl laughs and then turns back to me. “So, how long are you in town for? We have to catch up properly.”
“A few weeks, maximum,” I say, the words feeling definitive. Final. This is just a trip. An errand. Then I’ll go back to my real life.
Dot leans forward, her expression turning conspiratorial. “That’s plenty of time,” she says, her voice dropping. “So, tell me, Saramaria. Do you like romance?”
The question comes out of nowhere, so random that I’m momentarily speechless. Romance? Right now, the thought of romance makes me want to set things on fire. But I see the expectant looks on their faces, the genuine interest, and I find myself nodding, confused about where this is going.
Dot claps her hands together, delighted. She pushes her chair back and walks over to her previous table, returning a moment later with a book. She places it on the table in front of me, and I stare at the cover.
It’s... something else. A muscular Highlander with a kilt barely containing his.
.. enthusiasm... is hoisting a voluptuous, red-headed lass over his shoulder.
The background is a misty Scottish moor, and the title is embossed in gold foil: Her Highlander’s Surrender.
The cover seems to shimmer with implied sweat and heaving bosoms.
I look from the book to their faces. Pearl is watching me with an amused, knowing smile.
“We run a kind of book club in town,” Pearl explains, gesturing to Dot. “And she’s always looking for new members.”
“It’s not just any book club,” Dot adds proudly. “We just got the new vet, Willa James, to join, so you should too! We read the most delicious books.”
I think of the stacks of legal briefs and contracts in my Denver apartment. The dry, dense language that fills my days. “I’m not much of a reader,” I say, which is a lie. I’m just not a reader of... this.
“Oh, it would be fun!” Pearl insists, her tone persuasive. “It’s a great way to meet everyone, to be reintroduced to the town. Everyone will be there. Mabel, and Winona from the antique shop...”
“It would be a shame to be here for a few weeks and not reconnect with anyone,” Dot adds, her voice gentle but firm.
I feel myself wavering. The idea of being alone in this town, with only my anger and my grief for company, is suddenly daunting. “I’ll... think about it,” I say, the words feeling non-committal even to my own ears.
Dot pushes the book across the table, stopping it right in front of me. “Good,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. “Read this. Then we can discuss it by the end of next week, before you leave. It’ll give you something to talk about.”
I nod, my fingers closing around the glossy cover. It’s surprisingly heavy in my hand. Pearl smiles, a look of victory on her face.
Just then, Tessa appears with their to-go cups. “Two iced lattes for the troublemakers,” she says, winking.
“Ah, perfect timing,” Dot says, standing up. “We have to run, darling. Mabel and Willa are waiting for us at The Dust Up.”
I stand up too. “It was nice to see you both.”
“You too, sweetheart,” Dot says, patting my arm. “Don’t be a stranger.”
I watch as they walk away, their arms linked, their heads bent together in conversation. As they round the corner, I swear I catch Dot reaching down and giving Pearl’s ass a playful squeeze. Pearl jumps, then laughs, swatting her hand away.
A small, unexpected smile touches my lips. Well, at least they have each other. I look down at the book in my hand, at the passionate Highlander and his surrendered lass. Maybe a little mindless reading is exactly what I need.
The drive back to Meadowlark is a journey through a painting.
The moon hangs full and heavy in the sky, casting a silver sheen over the rolling hills of Wyoming.
The clock on the dashboard reads 10:17 p.m. Late enough that the world should be asleep, but my mind is wide awake, buzzing with the day’s events.
On the seat beside me sits a bag from the one department store in Muddy Creek.
It contains a pair of jeans, a few T-shirts, and some practical boots.
A pathetic attempt to blend in, and I feel silly looking at it now.
As if a change of clothes could erase the eight years between the girl who left and the woman who returned.
As if it could make this place feel like home again.
I kill the engine at the top of the driveway, the sudden silence ringing in my ears.
The only sounds are the chirping of crickets and the distant hoot of an owl.
I get out of the car, the cool night air raising goosebumps on my arms. I stand there for a moment, just looking at the land, and a memory hits me so hard it almost steals my breath.
I’m ten years old, sitting on this very hill with my father. He has his arm around me, and he’s pointing out constellations, his voice a low rumble against my ear. “See that one, Sar? That’s the Big Dipper. And right there, that’s the North Star. It will always guide you home.”
A wave of sadness washes over me, so profound it feels like a physical weight in my chest. If my parents were still here, everything would be different. I wouldn’t be a lawyer in a city that feels a million miles away. I’d probably be a chef right here in town, maybe with a little cafe of my own.
I can almost taste it— the scent of fresh bread, the warmth of the oven, the laughter of locals gathered around small tables. The thought brings a sad, wistful smile to my face. That dream, the one I thought I wanted, feels more like a home than the pristine, empty house I left behind in Denver.
I shake my head, as if I can physically dislodge the memory, and start walking toward the main house. The place has changed so much. The paddocks that once stretched out to the east are gone, the ghosts of fence posts the only evidence they ever existed.
And the house... my heart aches at the sight of it. The extension my grandfather built for my parents, the one with the big bay window and the separate entrance, is gone. In its place is a raw, scarred patch of wood and new paint, a brutal reminder of what’s been lost.
The front door creaks open under my hand. I expect to be hit with a wall of dust, the scent of decay and neglect. But I’m not. It’s clean. Well-maintained. Someone has been taking care of this place. The thought is both a comfort and an annoyance.
I walk through the quiet house, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors.
Furniture is draped in white sheets, like sleeping giants in the dim light.
I head down the hall, my hand trailing along the wall, until I reach the door to my old bedroom.
My hand rests on the cool metal of the doorknob, a knot of anticipation in my stomach.
My sanctuary. The one place that was truly mine.
I turn the handle and push the door open.
And stop.
My room is gone. The space where my bed used to be, where I had posters on the walls and a collection of river rocks on my windowsill, is now filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves.
They’re laden with cans of paint, coils of rope, toolboxes, and old ranch equipment.
My sanctuary has been turned into a storage closet.
A sigh escapes me, long and weary. Now where the hell am I supposed to sleep?
I walk back to the living room, my shoulders slumped.
I eye the sofa, a big, overstated thing in a hideous floral pattern that my grandmother loved.
With a grunt of effort, I push it away from the wall, creating a small space for my bag and myself.
It’ll have to do. I need a shower. I need to sleep. I can figure out the rest tomorrow.
I pull the plush white robe from my bag, the one I bought in a moment of optimism in Denver, and quickly undress, folding my suit and placing it carefully on a chair. Old habits die hard. Wrapped in the soft cotton, I walk to the bathroom, my bare feet silent on the cool floor.
I turn the faucet handle. Nothing. I try the other one. Still nothing. I twist them both, harder this time, the muscles in my forearm straining. The only response is a series of dry, hollow clunks from within the walls.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my head falling forward against the cool tile of the wall.
Of course. Why would anything be easy?
An image flashes in my mind—a man, naked and dripping, his face red and blotchy from pepper spray. Knox. His outdoor shower. The cabins have no lights on, and I didn’t see any trucks when I pulled in.
They’re probably out.
I could just run over there, take a quick shower, and be back before anyone knows I’m gone. It’s a risk, but the thought of going to bed gritty and tired after the day I’ve had is unbearable.
Mind made up, I tie the robe tighter around my waist and step back out into the night. The grass is cool and damp under my feet as I make my way toward the cluster of cabins in the distance.
The shower is just as I remember it from earlier – three walls of weathered wood, open to the sky.
It feels strangely intimate, a private stage under the vast, star-dusted ceiling of Wyoming.
A small, battered radio sits on a nearby shelf, and I fiddle with the dial until a classic rock station, faint and full of static, begins to play.
His things are here. A bottle of all-in-one wash, a bar of soap, a towel hanging on a hook. I pick up the bottle of wash, my fingers tracing the worn label. On impulse, I unscrew the cap and lift it to my nose.
The scent hits me instantly. Whiskey, black tea, and ginger.
It’s warm and spicy and masculine, and it’s so distinctly him that it sends an unwanted jolt through me.
I remember the way he smelled earlier, the way his scent cut through the chemical burn of the pepper spray.
I quickly screw the cap back on, my heart beating a little faster than it should.
This is a mistake.
I’m just here to shower. And then I’m gone.
I drop the robe on a dry rock, the cool night air raising goosebumps on my skin.
I turn the water on, the spray instantly hot, a welcome luxury.
I step under the stream, closing my eyes as the water cascades over my shoulders, washing away the day.
The music from the radio, the scent of his soap, the feel of the water.
.. it’s all too much. It’s overwhelming.
I try to focus on the practicalities. I need to wash my hair.
I need to use his soap. I need to get out of here as quickly as possible.
But even as I think it, I know it’s a lie.
A part of me, a part I thought was long dead, is enjoying this.
The recklessness of it. The intimacy of it. The forbidden nature of it.
I am in his shower. Using his soap. Surrounded by his scent.
And I hate that a small, treacherous part of me doesn’t want to leave.