Keep Lahoma Small
Ashton
The house feels unnervingly still when I open the front door, Lottie passed out in my arms. She doesn’t even wake up as I carefully lower her into her crib—probably the only person in the whole town who’s going to get a good night’s sleep tonight.
With her door closed, the silence of the house envelopes me with its chilly breath, like a ghost bent on haunting me.
I’m so used to Jordy being here that her absence is almost louder than the thoughts barreling through my head—and yet, she’s everywhere.
Her sweatshirt lying over the back of the chair at the center island.
Her Vans cast beside the couch. A scarf lying on a side table, and the book she was reading a few days ago.
Each item mocks me, casting a spotlight on moments I thought were real.
Floating down the river. Soothing her trauma. Worshipping her body.
I was so stupid.
Grabbing her suitcases and a paper bag, I start tossing everything of Jordy’s inside.
It takes about a half hour, though every time I think I’m done, I find something else.
I’m meticulous in my search, wanting to guarantee that once I drop her belongings on my front porch, no part of Jordy will enter this house again.
But even that’s a stupid lie. The air in this house is now made up of her perfume. My hands still remember the softness of her skin. My mouth has memorized her taste, and I crave her all the same, despite the shock of tonight.
I can’t believe I was so stupid. I invited a woman I didn’t know into my house, around my daughter, fully trusting she was who she said she was.
I should have listened to the rest of the town when they blackballed her.
Instead, like a trusting fool, I took pity on her, brought her home to my chosen family, and let her care for my daughter unaccompanied. I’d been there for her when she cried.
Was any of it real, or had it all been a part of drawing me in and lowering my defenses? Am I just one huge joke to her, starting with selling The Till to that asshole, Alexander Winslow?
I can’t forget the way he kissed her on stage.
It was a gut-wrenching moment, one that twists my insides just thinking about it.
I thought I knew everything I could about Jordy, even in such a short amount of time.
But when he kissed her, it was like seeing her take off her mask.
The moment stole everything I felt for her these past few weeks.
It explains the chill between us these last few days.
It explains the phone call and the way she pretended I was no one.
As if everything we’ve been through was nothing. I mean, she didn’t even push him away when he kissed her in front of everyone.
I feel like a total idiot, and not just with Jordy, but with everything. Alexander Winslow basically spelled out how he’s performing a takeover of this town, and it all started with The Till. Now he has Lock & Key and the Lahoma Hotel.
If he can charm Bernie, the fiercest defender of this town, then no one else is safe. What other businesses is he after?
How much did Jordy know while she warmed my bed? Is this just a fucking game to her?
I drop Jordy’s things on the front porch and pause as I breathe in the cool night air.
It’s cool enough that I know tomorrow will be frosty, though it doesn’t snow in these parts.
Not like it did in Oregon. I don’t miss living in the snow, not with the amount of shoveling I had to do, or the way it killed off the crops if we didn’t cover them in time.
But I do miss the blanket of white that seemed to wash everything clean, allowing for a blank slate to start again.
I need that now.
Why am I always the last to know when it comes to women? Because it isn’t just Jordy who blindsided me.
I wish I could go back in time, back before Sasha left, so I could recognize the signs.
Maybe if I’d been a better partner, things would have been different.
If I’d noticed that she was unhappy, that she was falling apart.
Her moving into her parents’ house should have been a wake-up call.
The way she could barely look at Lottie?
That should have been the alarm. If I’d only talked with her about it, maybe she would have revealed her struggle.
Maybe I could have helped her through it.
Instead, I pushed her away. Once I realized she wanted nothing to do with our daughter, I wanted nothing to do with her. I mean, what kind of person hates children?
One who’s experiencing trauma, that’s who.
Now I’m watching the same pattern play out all over again—with Jordy.
As much as I want to believe everything about this woman is a lie, I can’t let go of that moment when Jordy’s walls came down.
She was falling, and she let me catch her.
Even if everything else is a lie, the pain in her eyes was real.
I felt her fear. It explained everything up to that moment—how she eyed my daughter, the wall she put up between her and a toddler—and when she mentioned all her feelings about losing her child, it clicked into place. Then to see her overcome her fears…
Would Sasha have moved past her own fears had she been given the chance to heal? If I’d only paid attention and gotten over my resentments, maybe The Till would still be ours. Maybe Sasha would still be here, and Jordy Gallo would have been no more than a stranger passing through Lahoma Springs.
Two figures cut across the field in the moonlight, headed straight for my porch. I stand, recognizing Bob and Bec by their gait—the way Bob ambles due to an arthritic knee, and how Bec still rushes to keep up with his long legs.
“Griffin called,” Bob explains when they reach the porch. He glances down, eyeing Jordy’s suitcase and bag of her stuff, then back at me. “He and Bernie wanted to talk with us about that Winslow fellow, I presume.”
“Makes sense,” I say. “Though I wish they’d talked to us before she signed papers.”
“And what would you have said?” Bec asks, leading the way inside. “Bernie had to have been desperate before selling that hotel and her beloved antique shop, just like we were. You can’t talk someone out of something that seems like the only lifeline.”
“We can’t assume that’s what happened.” I open the fridge and grab a six-pack of beers, handing one to each of them before popping open one for myself.
“Come on, Ashton, that hotel is the heart of Lahoma Springs. Bernie’s great-great-grandfather helped build it stone by stone.
Her handprints are in the garden path, her grandmother’s quilts hang on the lobby walls.
She’s made cookies every day for guests, and she still works the front desk even though she owns the place.
Bernie lives for that hotel. You really think she’d give it up unless she had no choice? ”
Bec’s right, she has to be. It’s an echo of what happened to us, and the only reason Bernie would have folded.
“I still wish she’d come to us.”
Bec opens her mouth to argue, but is interrupted by a knock at the door. Bob crosses the room and opens it, revealing Griffin and his mom. But when they cross the threshold, Jordy is behind them, standing in the doorway, her eyes at the floor.
“What the fuck?” I turn to Griffin, and he shrugs.
“I think you should listen to her,” he says, and I shake my head.
“I’ve been the only one listening to her,” I say. Then I sweep my hand toward Bob and Bec. “We all have. We took her in when the rest of the town shunned her, and apparently, we’re the idiots because we trusted her.” I look to Jordy, who at least has the decency to look sorry.
Weeks ago, she was a stranger to our town, tripping over her heels on the cobblestone road. Now, she’s a stranger again, wearing the face of someone I thought I could love.
“I wish I’d let you fall,” I hiss.
I feel Griffin’s hand on my shoulder, and I shake it off. Jordy never looks up, but she doesn’t leave either.
“Come in,” Bob says. “You’re letting all the cold in.”
I glare at him, but I don’t argue. I may be the one living here, but it’s still their house.
Jordy eyes her things on the porch, but leaves them there as she steps forward and Bob closes the door behind her.
She gingerly sits at the far end of the kitchen island.
Griffin helps himself to one of the three remaining beers, then hands one to his mom, and finally one to Jordy, who politely refuses.
I snatch the bottle and crack it open, setting it down hard next to the unfinished beer in front of me.
She’s not going to drink my beer. Not this night. Not ever.
“We’ve been doing some research, and we believe Alexander Winslow has some long-term goals for Lahoma Springs.” Griffin unlocks his phone, then shows me the screen. On it is a website for a town in Wisconsin called Maisieville. I’m confused at first, but then start reading the description.
Nestled in the heart of southern Wisconsin, Maisieville was founded in 1670 by early settler John Corgan Green and named in honor of his mother, Maisie.
Originally a thriving agricultural community, Maisieville built its legacy on dairy farming, with local producers using the nearby Corgan Green River to transport milk and cheese to surrounding regions, earning the town its title as the unofficial cheese capital of the world.
Today, Maisieville blends its rich heritage with modern charm, evolving from a quiet farming town into a vibrant luxury shopping destination.
While the roots of its farming legacy remain, Maisieville now welcomes visitors from near and far to experience its boutique shops, curated experiences, and timeless appeal.