Chapter 6 #2
The drive into town is a whirlwind of canine excitement.
Doggy sticks his head out the window, his ears flapping in the wind, his nose twitching as he takes in a thousand new smells.
I pull up in front of Muddy Creek’s one and only furniture store, a dusty shop called “The Home Place.” It smells of cedar and old fabric.
I need a bed. Not just any bed. A good bed. A statement bed. A bed that says, “I live here. This is my room. This is my house.”
I find one. A sturdy oak frame with a plush, pillow-top mattress.
It’s practical, but it’s also solid. Real.
It’s an investment in my own comfort, in my claim to this space.
The awkwardness of strapping the massive box spring and mattress to the back of the old pickup is almost comical, but I manage.
Doggy watches from the passenger seat, his head cocked to the side as if he’s helping.
Back at the ranch, I haul the new bed piece by piece into my old bedroom.
The storage closet. I clear out the paint cans and toolboxes, stacking them neatly in the hall.
I assemble the frame, my movements methodical, satisfying.
By the time I’m done, the sun is beginning to set, long, golden rays glowing through the window.
I stand back and look at it. My bed. In my room. In my house. It’s a small victory, but it feels enormous. It’s the first thing I’ve truly claimed since I’ve been back.
Doggy jumps onto the new mattress, his paws scrabbling for purchase before he collapses in the center, looking up at me with his big brown eyes.
I smile. “Yeah,” I say, scratching him behind the ears. “It’s ours.”
For the first time since I came back to Muddy Creek, the house feels a little less like a museum and a little more like a home. And as I think about the book club meeting Dot and Pearl invited me to, I realize that maybe I’m starting to build a life here. One piece of furniture at a time.
The Dust Up is exactly what its name implies: a chaotic, cluttered wonderland of forgotten treasures.
The air smells of old paper, cedar wood, and something faintly sweet, like dried potpourri.
Antiques are stacked precariously on every surface—china dolls with vacant eyes, tarnished silver tea sets, lamps with shades frayed into lace doilies.
In the back, half-hidden by a beaded curtain, is a small booth draped in velvet, where a crystal ball glints under a single, moody light. The tarot booth.
I feel like I’m walking into another dimension, one far removed from structured legal briefs and the sterile scent of my Denver office.
I clutch the copy of Her Highlander’s Surrender to my chest like a shield.
Doggy trots happily at my heels, his tail wagging, completely at ease.
He’s already made himself at home here, having been introduced to the group during a brief stop at the veterinary clinic.
“There she is!” Dot’s voice rings out, a beacon in the cluttered gloom. She’s perched on a plush, fainting-couch-style armchair, a glass of red wine in hand. Pearl is beside her, looking like a movie star who got lost on her way to a premiere.
The other two women turn to look at me. One has sharp, intelligent eyes and a no-nonsense bob. Dot introduces her as Josie, Willa’s best friend. The other, with a warm, welcoming smile and a kind face, is Baby Monroe, owner of The Salt Lick.
“Sit,” Josie commands, pointing to the only empty armchair, a monstrosity covered in a floral pattern that’s been out of style for fifty years. “You’re not escaping book club tonight.”
“I don’t even like romance novels,” I protest weakly, the words feeling flimsy in the face of their collective energy.
“Doesn’t matter,” Baby says, already pouring a deep red liquid into a glass and pressing it into my free hand. The rich scent of blackberries and oak fills my nose. “You’re one of us now. Resistance is futile.”
“I hate all of you,” I mutter, but I sit. Doggy immediately flops down at my feet, letting out a contented sigh. The wine is a welcome warmth in my hand.
“No you don’t,” Pearl says warmly, her eyes twinkling. “You’re just not ready to admit it yet.”
Josie grins at me. “Good to see you again. How’s the puppy?”
I can’t help but smile, looking down at the golden furball at my feet. “Really good, thanks. He’s not even mine, but he’s convinced himself that he is.”
“Sounds about right for dogs,” Josie says.
Then her tone shifts, becoming carefully, deliberately innocent. The kind of tone that signals a shift from pleasantries to the real reason for this gathering. “What about your houseguests?”
And there it is. My expression goes flat. The warmth from the wine vanishes. “They’re still squatting on my property,” I say, my voice tight. “Still refusing to leave.”
“Have they told you yet what their plan is?” Pearl leans forward, her sequins catching the light.
“Their plan is apparently to stay forever and make my life a living hell.” I take a long sip of wine, the liquid courage a welcome burn down my throat. “I filed eviction papers last week.”
“You what?” Baby sits up straighter, her eyes wide. “You’re actually trying to kick them out?”
“They’re trespassing,” I say flatly, my lawyer voice taking over. “My grandfather may have given them permission to stay, but he’s dead and I own the property now. They need to go.”
“And?” Josie prompts, her eyes gleaming with fascination. “What did they say?”
“They’re refusing to leave.” My jaw tightens. “Something about tenancy rights and needing proper notice. Apparently I can’t just kick them out overnight.”
“So what are you going to do?” Josie asks.
I set my wine glass down on a nearby stack of books, the clink sounding final in the quiet room.
The act of defiance, of stating my plan out loud to this unlikely audience, lights a fire in my chest. A fire I haven’t felt since I was eighteen, driving away from this town with nothing but a broken heart and a duffel bag.
“New plan,” I say, my tone brooking no argument.
“I move into the main house regardless and wait them out.” I look at each of them, burning with a determination that feels both foreign and familiar.
“It’s my property. If they want to live with the mice like stubborn assholes, fine.
But I’m not staying away from my own home because they refuse to leave. ”
And like the act of defiance itself is a catalyst, a fierce, almost feral smile crosses my face. “They have no idea what I can do when I’m pissed off. But they won’t take away what’s mine.”
The vehemence in my tone hangs in the air. It’s a declaration of war.
There’s a beat of stunned silence. Then, simultaneously, the four of them burst into laughter. It’s not mocking laughter. It’s the sound of delighted, surprised, and thoroughly impressed cackling. It’s the laughter of women who recognize a kindred spirit, a fellow fighter.
“Oh, honey,” Dot says, wiping a tear from her eye. “This is going to be so much fun.”
I sit back in my chair, a real smile finally touching my lips. The tension in my shoulders eases for the first time in days. I might be fighting a war of attrition with three stubborn Alphas, but I am starting to feel at ease in this town.