13. Small Town Gossip #2
"Pearl Chen-Morrison's family started with just the grocery," she explains as Cole holds the door. "Then they bought the hardware store next door when it failed. Then the feed supply. Now it's this beautiful mongrel of a store where you can buy birthday candles and brake fluid in the same aisle."
The inside is organized chaos—or maybe chaotic organization.
Aisles stretch in directions that defy euclidean geometry, stocked with an impossible array of goods.
The smell hits me in layers: produce and motor oil, fresh bread and leather goods, cleaning supplies and what might be incense from a display of "Local Artisan Crafts. "
"Willa James."
The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, and then a woman materializes from between shelves like she's been summoned.
Pearl Chen-Morrison is compact energy wrapped in a floral apron, her black hair streaked with silver and pulled back in a no-nonsense bun. Her eyes are sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses, and she's looking at me like I'm a puzzle she's just solved.
"I'd know you anywhere," she continues, closing the distance with quick steps. "You have your grandmother's eyes and your grandfather's stubborn chin. William showed me every picture you ever sent him. Kept them in chronological order in a photo album he carried everywhere."
The words hit unexpectedly hard. Grandpa, carrying my pictures like a talisman. I swallow past the sudden tightness in my throat.
"Mrs. Chen-Morrison?—"
"Pearl," she corrects, reaching out to clasp my hands in hers. They're small but strong, calloused from decades of work. "Just Pearl. And you're our girl, finally come home."
Our girl.
The possession in it should rankle, but instead, it wraps around me like a blanket. Cole shifts closer, and I feel rather than see his satisfaction at Pearl's welcome.
"Your grandfather was very specific about your preferences," Pearl continues, still holding my hands. "Vanilla creamer, not plain. Sharp cheddar, never mild. That organic peanut butter that costs a fortune but you loved the texture. I've kept it all in stock, just in case."
"You..." My voice breaks slightly. "You stocked things for me?"
"Of course." She pats my hands before releasing them. "William said you'd come when you were ready. My job was to make sure you'd find what you needed when you did."
Wendolyn makes a soft sound beside me, and when I glance over, her eyes are suspiciously bright.
Cole's hand finds my back again, steady and warm through my sweater.
"Thank you," I manage. "That's... thank you."
Pearl waves off the gratitude.
"You need anything for that ranch, you call. I know every supplier in three states, and most of them owe me favors. We take care of our own here."
Our own.
There it is again, that casual claim of belonging.
We make our purchases— Cole insisting on paying despite my protests —and Pearl loads us down with extras.
"Samples," she calls them, though the bag of homemade cookies and jar of local honey seem excessive for samples.
The veterinary clinic sits two blocks down, a converted craftsman house with a modern addition that somehow manages not to look grafted on.
The waiting room smells like disinfectant and the peculiar musk of nervous animals, but it's clean and calming with its pale blue walls and thriving plants.
"Can I help—Cole!" The receptionist, a young man who can't be out of college, practically lights up. "Is Luna okay? Did something happen?"
"Just showing Willa around," Cole assures him. "Is Elena available?"
"For you? Always." The receptionist's eyes dart to me with curious intensity. "I'll let her know you're here."
Dr. Elena Vasquez emerges within minutes, and I understand immediately why River chose to work with her. She carries authority like a second skin, silver threading through dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Her handshake is firm, professional, but her eyes warm when they land on me.
"Ms. James. I've been waiting to meet you." Her accent carries traces of somewhere farther south, softening the formal words. "Your grandfather spoke of you often. He was very proud."
There's that tightness in my throat again.
"The ranch animals are all in excellent health," she continues. "River's exceptional with preventive care. But if you need anything—emergencies, routine visits, or just advice—we're here."
Cole hovers throughout the interaction, not quite touching but close enough that his presence is unmistakable. Claiming space around me like he's drawing invisible boundaries. Dr. Vasquez notices— her lips twitch with what might be amusement —but says nothing.
The Rusty Spur squats on Main Street like a watchful toad, all weathered wood and neon beer signs that probably haven't been turned off since installation. Even in mid-afternoon, the parking lot holds a respectable collection of trucks and motorcycles.
The kind of place that serves as office, therapy couch, and social club for half the town.
Inside, the atmosphere is pure honky-tonk trying to age into respectability. Peanut shells crunch underfoot despite the "Please Use Provided Receptacles" signs. The air tastes like decades of cigarette smoke that no amount of deep cleaning can fully exorcise.
A jukebox in the corner plays something twangy about trucks and heartbreak.
The man behind the bar looks up from polishing a glass, and his face splits into a grin that transforms his weathered features. Buck Jennings is exactly what a saloon owner should be—handlebar mustache, vest that's seen better decades, and eyes that miss nothing.
"Well, I'll be damned," he says, already reaching for a glass. "Henry James's granddaughter, as I live and breathe."
He slides a sweet tea across the bar before I can even ask, the glass sweating in the afternoon heat. It's perfect—not too sweet, plenty of ice, with that particular restaurant quality that can't be replicated at home.
"How did you?—"
"Know your order?" Buck's mustache twitches. "Girl, your grandpa talked about you every time he came in. How you liked your tea, how you took your steak, how you could out-stubborn a mule when you set your mind to something. I'd know Henry James's granddaughter anywhere."
Henry. Not William. It takes me a moment to realize he's using my middle name, the one Grandpa insisted on despite my parents' protests. "Henry after my father," he'd said. "So she'll always know she comes from strong stock."
I sip the tea to hide the emotion threatening to spill over.
It tastes like summer afternoons on the porch, Grandpa teaching me to play poker while Grandma pretended not to notice.
"Your money's no good here," Buck adds when Cole reaches for his wallet. "First drink's always free for family coming home."
Family.
Home.
The words keep hitting like stones in a pond, each ripple spreading further.
We don't stay long— we need to bring back the formula for Luna before dinner time —but Buck makes me promise to come back "when you can stay awhile and tell me how you really are."
The walk back to the truck takes us past the Sweetwater Falls Hotel, and I can't help glancing through the window. The same sour-faced clerk from my arrival sits behind the desk, but what catches my eye is the policy binder open on the counter.
Even from here, I can read the bold type:
"Omegas unaccompanied? No."
My steps falter.
After the warmth of the other welcomes, this reminder of systemic prejudice hits like cold water. Cole sees it too—his whole body goes rigid, jaw clenching with the kind of anger that reshapes atmosphere.
"Archaic assholes," Wendolyn mutters. "That policy's been illegal for twenty years, but Harold keeps it on the books because 'tradition.'"
"We'll deal with it," Cole says, and something in his tone suggests 'dealing with it' might involve more than strongly worded letters.
Back in the truck, I process the afternoon's whiplash of experiences.
The judgment at the hardware store versus the welcome everywhere else.
The signs of progress are next to policies from another century.
A town that held space for me while simultaneously clinging to prejudices that would see me as less than.
"It's a lot," I finally say, watching storefronts slide past. "The town, I mean. Some people act like I've always belonged here, others look at me like I'm an invasive species."
"That's small towns for you," Wendolyn sighs from the backseat. "Everyone's in your business, everyone has opinions, and God help you if you don't fit their narrow definitions. But the good ones, the people like Pearl and Buck? They make it worth it."
"The judgmental ones are just louder," Cole adds, navigating around a tractor that's decided Main Street is the perfect place for a leisurely drive. "Doesn't make them the majority."
"Still," I mutter, thinking of the hotel's policy, the hardware store women, all the micro-aggressions that death by a thousand cuts. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm just trading one type of cage for another."
Cole's hand moves like he's going to reach for me, then returns to the wheel.
The almost-touch burns more than contact would have.
The feed store bags thump against the truck bed with each pothole, a percussion section to Wendolyn's endless monologue about which families have been feuding since the Nixon administration.
I try to focus on her words, on the mundane gossip that should ground me in normalcy, but my thigh still burns where Cole's hand rested, even though it was hours since we arrived and got down to business.
Even through the denim, I swear I can feel the exact outline of his fingers, branded into my skin like a claim I'm not ready to examine.
I swear I’m going insane…
"—and then Margaret's prize heifer got into Paul's alfalfa field, and well, you can imagine the fireworks after that," Wendolyn continues from the backseat, apparently unbothered by my minimal responses. "Though personally, I think they're both being ridiculous. It's been three years!"