Chapter 11
The afternoon passes quickly. We tackle the rest of Gloria’s list with methodical efficiency.
The storage area gets completely reorganized.
The soap dispensers are filled to the brim.
The kitchen gets a deep clean, and someone even washes all the windows inside and out until they sparkle like brand new.
A man named Rick, who apparently knows his way around HVAC systems, takes a look at the cooler and decides that it just needs a new compressor and some refrigerant.
By five o’clock, we’re done, and the bar looks better than since I arrived, maybe better than it has looked in years.
“We did it,” I say, looking around in wonder.
“You did it,” Wyatt corrects. “We just helped.”
People start packing up, loading tools into their trucks, and saying goodbye. Everyone refuses my offers of payment, reimbursement for supplies, or anything.
“Just keep the bar open,” a woman says. “That’s payment enough.”
When it’s finally just me and Wyatt standing in the cleaned and repaired bar, I feel tears threatening my eyes.
“Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”
“I don’t know why they did this, why they helped me.”
“Because you’re one of us now, whether you realize it or not.”
“But I’ve only been here for a few weeks.”
“Doesn’t matter. You showed up, you tried, and you let people help. That’s all it takes.”
I look down at my hands. They’re dirty, stained, and blistered from a day’s work. I don’t think I’ve ever had a time in my life when my hands looked like this.
“Come on,” Wyatt says. “Let’s take care of those blisters before they get worse.”
He leads me to the office, where he pulls out the first-aid kit from one of the desk drawers. Of course, he has a first aid kit, and he knows exactly where it is, even though I’ve been in the office for weeks and never saw it.
“Sit,” he instructs.
I settle into the desk chair. He kneels in front of me and takes one of my hands. His touch is gentle as he examines the blisters on my palm, his fingers surprisingly soft.
“These aren’t too bad,” he says, “but we should bandage them so they don’t get infected.”
He cleans the blisters with antiseptic, and I wince slightly at the sting. Then he carefully applies the bandages, his movements precise and practiced.
“You’re good at this,” I observe.
“Had to be. Combat medic training. Plus, you spend enough time building things, and you learn how to patch yourself up.”
He finishes one hand and moves to the other, his head bent over my palm. I watch him work, noticing details I haven’t allowed myself to notice before. The way his hair falls across his forehead, the concentration in his expression, the competence of his hands.
“There,” he says, finishing the second bandage. “Good as new. Well, almost.”
But he doesn’t let go of my hand. He just holds it, his thumb brushing across my wrist. He looks up at me, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my breath catch.
“Eleanor…”
His phone rings, shattering the moment. He pulls back, checks the screen, and sighs.
“It’s Boone. Probably forgot something.” He answers. “Hey, what’s up?” I can hear Boone’s voice, but not the words.“Yeah, no problem. I’ll bring it by tomorrow.”
Wyatt hangs up and looks at me apologetically.
“He left his good hammer. Did you know that men have a good hammer? Anyway,” he says, “he needs it first thing in the morning.”
“A good hammer is important.”
My voice sounds normal, which is impressive because my heart is racing.
Wyatt stands, offering me his hand to help me up. When I take it, he pulls me to my feet, and for a moment, we’re standing very close, neither one of us moving.
“Today was good,” he says quietly.
“It was.”
“You’re good at this, you know. The community thing. Making people feel welcome.”
“I’m just trying not to mess it up.”
“You’re not messing anything up.”
He reaches up, unexpectedly, and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary.
“You’re doing exactly what Mavis hoped you’d do.”
“What’s that?”
“Becoming yourself.”
The words echo what Harlan said weeks ago, and they hit me just as hard now.
Before I can respond, he steps back, breaking the spell.
“I should go. Early start tomorrow.”
“Right. Of course.”
He heads for the door and then pauses and looks back.
“I know I’ve said it before, Eleanor, but I’m really glad you’re here. Even if it’s just for six months. Even if you leave in October. I’m glad I got to know you. You’re getting to know this place and…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, just gives me one of those looks that makes my stomach flip. And then he’s gone.
I stand in the office, surrounded by Mavis’s notebooks and the smell of paint and cleaning supplies, touching the spot behind my ear where his fingers were.
Oh, this is dangerous, I think. This feeling growing between us. This pull I feel whenever he’s near. The sense that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
In less than six months, I have to make a choice. Stay or go. Build a life here, in this place I never expected, or return to Atlanta and figure out what comes next.
And the longer I stay, the harder that choice is going to be.
I sink into my desk chair and let myself sit with it for a moment.
Tomorrow I’ll worry about the follow-up inspection, whether that Rick guy can really fix the cooler for $1,500, and all the other million things that need my attention.
But for tonight, I’m going to let myself feel grateful. Grateful for this new community that showed up. Grateful to be in a place that’s starting to feel like home. Mostly grateful for a man with kind eyes and gentle hands.
* * *
The week after the workday, everything feels different. Maybe it’s because I’m not constantly panicking about the health inspection anymore. A guy named Rick, Boone’s friend and an HVAC pro, came on Tuesday, fixed the cooler for $1,500, and had it running perfectly by the end of the day.
Then Gloria came back Thursday for her follow-up inspection, walked through the place, and finally said the words I desperately needed to hear, “You’re in compliance.”
I might have cried a little bit after she left. Just a little.
But passing the inspection doesn’t mean my problems are solved.
Thursday evening, I’m in my office trying to make sense of Mavis’s files again, which feels like a full-time job, when an email notification pings on my laptop. The sender’s name makes me pause.
Gary Allen, Ashby and Associates.
I stare at it for a moment before clicking it open.
Dear Ms. Whitfield,
My name is Gary Allen, and I represent Ashby and Associates, a development firm specializing in mountain resort properties. We’ve been watching the Copper Creek area with great interest, and we believe your property, The Rusty Spur, would be an ideal acquisition for our clients.
We understand you recently inherited the property and may be weighing your options for the future. We’d like to discuss a potential purchase that would be mutually beneficial. Our clients are prepared to offer significantly above market value for the right location.
As you know, the Copper Creek region is poised for significant growth and development, and we believe this property has great potential as a part of a larger resort and hospitality project.
The location on Mountain Road is ideal, with excellent visibility, ample space for expansion, and the kind of authentic mountain atmosphere that attracts high-end tourism.
We envision transforming the area into a destination experience: boutique accommodations, upscale dining, event venues, and spa facilities.
Your property would serve as an anchor for this development, and we are prepared to make it worth your while.
I’m talking about a number significantly higher than your current inheritance evaluation.
I’d welcome the opportunity to discuss this with you in more detail. Would you be available for a call this week? If you prefer, I’m happy to drive to Copper Creek to meet in person and present our full vision.
Best regards,
Gary Allen
Senior Acquisitions Manager
Ashby & Associates
I read it twice, then a third time.
A development firm wants to buy The Rusty Spur. Wanting to turn this weathered honky-tonk with its neon cowboy boot and string lights into some part of some upscale resort project.
My inheritance appraisal valued the property at two and a half million. If they’re offering “significantly above” that…
I close the laptop and lean back in Mavis’s office chair and stare at the wood-paneled walls covered with photos of smiling people, of community gatherings, and forty years of memories.
This should feel like good news. Like a solution. A way out if I need one.
But all I feel is sick.
I think about Dolly’s story from our workday when she talked about the developers who bought up Main Street five years ago with big promises, and then about the businesses that closed and the families who had to leave.
I think about the community that showed up last Sunday to help fix a bar they don’t even own.
And I think about what The Rusty Spur would become in the hands of developers.
Probably torn down. Replaced with something sleek, modern, and expensive. Something that doesn’t belong here.
I should delete the email. I should respond with a firm “not interested.”
But I don’t.
I just close the laptop and try not to think about why I’m keeping it.
* * *
“You okay in here?”
Wyatt appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame in that casual way he does. He’s in his usual jeans and flannel, his hair slightly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it.
“You know, just finishing up some paperwork.”
He looks at me carefully. “You sure? You got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you’re overthinking something and trying to convince yourself that you’re not.”
I laugh. “I don’t have a look.”