Chapter 2
My flight leaves bright and early Monday morning.
Okay, who am I kidding? It leaves at ten. But for someone who considers anything before noon a personal attack, that still counts as early.
The flight’s going to take roughly five hours, give or take a layover. Once I land, I’ll be an hour ahead of LA time. Apparently, Wyoming doesn’t observe daylight savings. Honestly? Good for them. That’s the kind of rebel energy I can get behind.
I double check my boarding pass, then glance at the half-hearted sunshine bleeding through the airport windows. The terminal smells like burnt coffee and industrial floor cleaner. Somehow, that feels fitting.
On the flight, I pull out my notebook and flip through the pages. I’ve officially become a walking, talking encyclopedia of all things Sam Stone.
Ask me anything—I dare you.
Favorite color? Black.
Horse’s name? Goliath .
That one actually made me laugh out loud the first time I found it. Sam and Goliath. It sounds like a bad buddy comedy or the world's most ironic country duo.
But here’s the kicker. Sam isn’t short for Samuel. Or even Samson. Nope. Just plain old Sam.
There’s a mythos built around this guy—leather jackets, low growl of a voice, the brooding country outlaw with the smirk and the six-string—but the more I dig, the more it feels like smoke and mirrors. The question isn't who is Sam Stone ? It's who is he trying so hard not to be ?
I even know a lot about his hometown, Broken Heart Creek.
Population: 780. It’s nestled on the eastern slopes of the Big Horn Mountains and sits at the edge of high desert and alpine forest. It’s about 50 miles west of Sheridan and is surrounded by dramatic scenery.
Rocky ridges, pine-covered slopes, and winding creeks.
From what I can tell by photos, the main street and downtown area are rustic and old-fashioned.
The town is most known for the Love Lost Rodeo in June, which is a prelude to the Cheyenne Frontier Days a few cities over.
According to the internet, Lost Love Rodeo is a bittersweet festival that blends bronco busting with poetry slams and lost-letter readings.
Supposedly it started after a Civil War widow settled there and read aloud letters never delivered. Tragic and romantic.
The town itself was founded in the late 1800s as a mining and ranching stop and was named after a settler’s tale of losing his love to a blizzard while crossing the mountains.
Some say her ghost still walks the land at dusk.
There are hiking trails, historic buildings, and even an actual creek called Broken Heart Creek that runs through most of the town and is icy cold year-round .
I’m feeling confident with my research as I sit in Denver for my layover. That is until Frederick texts me.
Frederick
You coming to work today?
Seriously? I roll my eyes and sip my too-hot airport coffee that’s a tad bitter.
Did you not read my email?
There are three blinking dots like he’s debating how far to push.
Chasing a lead in Wyoming?
Care to tell me what this lead is?
I’d rather not. Not until I have something solid.
Another pause.
Char, this doesn’t look good.
Oh, we’re doing this again? I smirk and type back.
Freddy, you used to trust me. Have faith. I’ll be in touch when I know more.
I purposely use the nickname he hates . I mean, if he can’t be bothered to learn my name after four years, why should I worry about using his?
No response. But the dots appear again. Then vanish. Then reappear. Whatever. I close out of the conversation and slip my phone into my bag. My next stop is Sheridan and then onto Broken Heart Creek, where I will bring back something solid.
The plane touches down in Sheridan at four, local time.
The sky outside the tiny window is thick with clouds, the kind that hang low and brooding, like they’ve got something to say. The whole landscape looks muted, washed in grays and browns. It’s not at all what I expected.
As I wait for the flight attendant to open the cabin door, I overhear a guy behind me mutter, “Supposed to snow tonight.”
I snort under my breath. Snow? In April? Yeah, right. That sounds like the kind of thing locals say to mess with outsiders.
It’s definitely cooler as I step onto the tarmac.
Cool enough that I’m grateful for the jacket I almost didn’t pack.
But the denim isn’t lined with anything, so it doesn’t keep me warm.
Not like the lady in front of me who’s dressed like she’s prepared for a blizzard.
Fur coat, fur hat, and thick gloves. She can barely walk because she’s so well-insulated.
Once we’re off the tarmac, I bypass her. Luckily, I didn’t check a bag, so I skip the carousel chaos and head straight for the rental counter.
The woman behind the desk barely looks up as she hands me a key fob and says, “Spot twenty-three. Lot’s behind the building.”
The car? A silver Prius. Of course. It’s the same model I drive in LA. I came all this way and somehow ended up with a carbon copy of my everyday life.
I haul my bag over one shoulder and head outside.
The air slaps me awake. It’s crisp and cold and carries the kind of silence you never get in the city.
No hum of traffic, no honking, no shouting.
Just open space, wind, and that thick, low sky pressing down like it’s keeping secrets.
And Broken Heart Creek is going to be even quieter.
A sudden gust has me clutching my jacket tighter and hurrying across the lot.
I find spot twenty-three, toss my bag in the backseat, and climb in behind the wheel.
The interior smells faintly of pine air freshener and something lemony, like a well-intentioned attempt to cover up months of fast food and spilled coffee.
I try not to think about it too much as I plug in my phone, open the map app, and take a slow breath.
Broken Heart Creek. Fifty miles west of Sheridan.
According to the map, it’ll take about an hour to get there, but only because the route winds through a series of narrow back roads that look like they were drawn by someone with a shaky hand and a grudge against pavement.
No highways. No shortcuts. Just the long, quiet stretch between me and whatever answers I’m hoping to find.
I shift the Prius into drive, ease out of the lot, and start the journey. When I glance in the rearview mirror, the city’s already behind me vanishing into the distance like a place I only imagined. That means the story’s ahead. I press the gas just a little harder.
Forty-six minutes later, I roll into Broken Heart Creek.
Did I drive faster than necessary? Absolutely. Was it worth it? Hard to say.
I pull up to the edge of what looks like the main street and slow to a crawl. It’s quiet.
A single pickup truck rumbles down the opposite lane, and a teenage girl with a coffee in one hand and a leash in the other crosses the street like she owns it.
Half the storefronts look closed, the other half look like they’ve been open since 1963 and see no reason to change.
There aren’t even any stoplights. Just one stop sign where the main streets intersect.
I look both ways down the nearly empty streets. Maybe the story’s here. Maybe it’s not. But I didn’t fly a thousand miles and risk my job just to turn around now.
I come to a stop in front of the town’s one and only option for lodging. A bed and breakfast with more personality than curb appeal. Broken Heart Creek is so small it doesn’t even have a hotel or motel. Just this place. A hand-painted sign above the front door reads: Heart’s Inn — Est. 1944.
The lettering is slightly uneven, the kind of homemade charm that says we don’t care about stars, we care about biscuits.
The house itself is an old two-story Victorian, faded blue paint peeling slightly around the shutters.
A pair of white rocking chairs sit on the porch, angled just so, as if they’re waiting for someone’s grandma to return from baking something warm.
I put the car in park, eye the place for a beat, and sigh. This is it. My glamorous home base for however long it takes to find out what happened to Sam Stone.
I grab my bag, step out into the cold, and make my way toward the front door, wondering if they even take credit cards or if I’m about to be asked to pay in pie.
An elderly woman is behind the counter. Wait—scratch that.
She’s technically behind the counter, yes, but she’s actually sitting in a recliner that looks like it’s been there since the inn’s “Est. 1944” days.
The leather’s cracked, the armrests are threadbare, and she’s nestled into it like royalty on her throne.
“Good afternoon,” I say, stepping up. “I’m here to check in. ”
Without looking away from the tiny TV perched on the counter, she waves a hand at me. “Quiet. I can’t hear my story.”
I blink. Her story turns out to be a soap opera with dramatic music, hospital beds, a man with a conveniently timed coma.
I didn’t even know soap operas were still a thing.
But judging by the rapt attention on her face, they are very much still a thing here.
I stand awkwardly, wondering how long until someone fake-dies and I can actually get a room key.
I’m saved by a commercial break. The screen cuts to a cheery ad for denture cream, and the woman finally looks up at me with a warm smile.
“You must be Mrs. Wilson.”
Mrs. Ugh.
“It’s Miss.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “How nice. You must be one of those girls who doesn’t care about getting married.”
Her voice might be kind, but those words are laced with judgement. I force a tight smile as she reaches under the counter and produces an honest-to-God actual key attached to a heart-shaped plastic tag. I didn’t even know this was a real thing.
“You’re the last door on the left,” she says, sliding it toward me. “Dinner’s at six. We’re having stew tonight.”