Chapter 2
Wren
The late-afternoon sun bathes my face in gold as I step out of the credit union, but it does little to thaw the chill in my chest. For three hours, I’ve been shuffled from the waiting room to loan officers to sign over legal paperwork from my mom’s name to my name, all while transferring my finances from my accounts in California back to Silo Bay.
I also took it upon myself to pay off some of the outstanding loans for Hannah’s Haven.
I’m fortunate enough to have a hefty account, so why not help out the farm?
My mind replays the faces of the people in pressed suits from the day’s meetings.
Their expressions were a mix of pity and polite superiority while questioning my financial decisions.
That’s the problem of being back in a small town; you’re forever remembered as the little girl and not the woman you’re growing to be.
“Oh, Wren, we’re so sorry about your mom.”
“It must be hard coming back after so long.”
“You’re so young. Do you understand what this will take?”
They meant well, but every word landed like a punch to my gut. Still, I smiled, nodded, and tucked away the sting, reminding myself I wasn’t here to win their approval. I was here to get things in order—for Mom, for Hannah’s Haven, for me.
By the time I slide into Dad’s ‘88 cherry-red Chevy pickup, my body hums with exhaustion. The cracked leather seat creaks beneath me as I sink back, the smell of dust and motor oil wrapping around me like a memory. I’d expected a newer farm truck when I asked to borrow one.
Instead, Dad handed me these keys with that familiar gruffness, like it wasn’t even a question.
The engine rumbles to life, steady and grounding.
As I rest my head against the seat, my phone rings.
Glancing at the screen, I notice another number from California, which I decline.
I should really change my number now that I’m back in Silo Bay, but it’d be a trip into the city, and I don’t want to take the time to drive two hours when it’d be a hassle to pass along my new number.
A restless energy washes over me. Curiosity, or maybe it’s seeing the places that used to welcome me with open arms. I’m not ready to head back to my childhood home and feel out of place.
Easing out of the lot, I’m hyperaware of every angle as I back the truck into the street.
No way am I risking a scratch on Dad’s prized possession.
Main Street cascades ahead of me, a strange mix of nostalgic and new.
The bakery I worked at in high school is now a boutique with chicly dressed mannequins in the window.
The hardware store wears a mural of the lake in sweeping blues and golds.
Change has crept in, but underneath it, I feel the weight of stares.
People know I’m back. They always know. Nothing stays a secret in a small town.
Before I know it, I’m pulling down a familiar street.
Gravel of broken blacktop crunches under the truck’s tires as I pull into the public parking lot across the street from The Spillway.
The bar sits on the same corner it has for more than a century—brick weathered to a deep russet, black-tinted windows glowing with neon beer signs, the bar’s name shining in red script.
The kind of place that never bothers to hide what it is.
Once upon a time, it was more than a bar.
It was the night my friends and I skipped homecoming to shoot pool.
The place where the town celebrated our state championship win.
We ate dinner with our parents after graduation before heading to the field for a party. It was messy, loud, and unforgettable.
A second home.
Now, in my blouse and pencil skirt, heels clicking on cracked pavement, I feel like a stranger about to trespass.
Okay, Wren. Deep breath. This is your town. You belong here.
Squaring my shoulders, I grip the handle and push open the heavy wooden door.
Blinking a few times, I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Heavy window tint keeps the fading sunlight out, leaving the glow of neon beer signs and low pendant light to cast the room in shadows. An old George Strait song croons, twangy and low, from the jukebox.
Sticky floors cling to my heels with each step, stale beer and fryer grease thick in the air with hints of cigarette smoke still clinging from years past. The place hasn’t changed.
Pool tables line the left wall, dartboards to the right, and mismatched tables fill the space.
At the back, the bar stretches wide and steady, the kind of anchor that holds a town together.
Quirky signs, hunting mounts, and faded football jerseys cover the walls, a shrine to Silo Bay’s history.
I don’t dare let my gaze wander for too long. I can feel the stares. The Drummond girl who thought she was too good for this town. The spoiled brat. The reality star who didn’t come home for her own mother’s funeral. Every whispered judgment clings to my skin like static.
And then I see him. Nate. My brother. My childhood protector.
I’ve let him down over the years, but in a twisted way, I was protecting him.
If he knew the truth of my life in LA, he would’ve gone off the rails.
Now that I’m home, I’ll find the time to tell him everything.
He deserves to know, my entire family does, but I’m not quite ready to bleed my secrets.
But I am ready to mend the fences I destroyed in my absence.
He’s at the bar, back toward me, Rachel tucked close to his side. My chest tightens with a mixture of emotions at seeing them. And for the first time today, my body relaxes as my legs carry me forward.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask, stepping between their barstools and wrapping my arms over their shoulders.
They both startle at my voice, their wide eyes finding my beaming smile.
On the outside, I’m happy and hopeful, but deep inside, I’m nervous about their reactions.
Nate’s expression shifts from startled to surprised, a glimmer of something passing through his eyes, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.
Rachel, on the other hand, greets me with a kind smile.
“Wren,” Rachel turns on her seat to face me. “Nate said you were home.”
I nod. “I am. It’s good to be home.”
Rachel leans into Nate, her hand sliding down his arm until her fingers hook around his. “Nate’s super happy you're back. It’s all he’s been talking about.” Her eyes soften on him like he hung the moon, and for once, my brother doesn't fight it. He shrugs, a rasp roughening his voice.
“It’s been too long,” he says, giving me that half-smile I’ve missed.
I stare at the two of them. I believe he’s happy I’m home, but there’s an uneasiness between us. Of course, there is, and I only have myself to blame for it. I squeeze his shoulder in a gesture I hope translates everything I can’t say.
Nate shifts, and I back away as he stands from his stool. He shrugs on his Marshall County Sheriff’s jacket. “While I’d love to stick around, I have a special duty shift tonight.”
“Oh gosh, I’m sorry I interrupted your evening.”
Rachel shakes her head. “You didn’t interrupt anything.”
Nate sticks his hand out toward Rachel, and her gaze bounces from his hand to my face as I stand awkwardly. “Actually,” she begins. “I think I’m going to sit with Wren. That’s if you don’t mind?”
“I don’t, but are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I have a little while before I need to relieve the sitter.”
“Text me when you’re ready, and I’ll have someone from the station give you a ride home,” Nate tells her.
She waves him off. “I’ll walk. It’s not that far.”
Rachel and Nate have a stare-off, some weird silent conversation. But whatever he sees in her expression must satisfy him because he relents. Digging in his wallet, he pulls out a fifty-dollar bill and slides it on the bar. “You two have fun.”
Wrapping his arm around me, he offers me a side hug. I squeeze him a little harder than necessary, but I’ve missed him.
Then he bends and kisses Rachel, her hand curling at his jaw. They’ve fought for this happiness—I know enough of their story to see the battle scars beneath their smiles.
And God, I’m glad he has her.
When he leaves, the air around me feels thinner.
But I don’t have long to ponder the change.
The kitchen door swings open, broad shoulders appearing, a dish towel tossed over his shoulder.
Russ Mueller. His expression is all business at first—stern, focused, the way I remember him on the football field.
But the moment his gaze lands on me, his face fractures.
Shock, recognition, something unreadable flashing before he schools his features back into neutrality.
Of course, he’s here.
This bar has been in his family since the town was still horse-and-buggy. Him behind the counter fits in a way that makes my chest ache. Like puzzle pieces sliding into place.
He doesn’t call out. Doesn’t rush over. Just grabs a glass and starts pulling a draft beer like I’m no more than a ripple in the water. After placing the freshly poured ale in front of a customer, he moves closer, his eyes locked on mine.
“What’s your poison these days?” His voice is deep, carrying the weight of quiet authority. “Something fancy from LA? Or are you still a whiskey sour girl?”
I don’t hesitate. “Whiskey sour.”
His mouth quirks. “Good. Would’ve hated to waste a good top shelf on you.”
I laugh, the sound foreign. Russ moves smoothly, efficiently, swapping bottles and ice like he was born to do it. And knowing the Mueller family, he probably was.
He reaches for a glass, and I watch him make the drink with precision. A long pour of Jim Beam over ice. A little more than a splash of sweet and sour. Topping it off with four cherries. I smile as he slides the glass toward me.
I pluck one of the red globes from the glass and pop it into my mouth. “You remembered.”