Chapter 4
The Farmers Market setup is usually my favorite kind of chaos.
Vendors chatting with each other from across stands, the smell of fresh bread and roasted chiles, and the early morning bustle of tables being dragged into place and canopies snapping open in the breeze.
I’ve been doing this every Saturday morning for three years, setting up my Wildflower Books booth between Maria’s salsa stand and Beth’s goat milk soap display.
Today, I can barely focus.
My phone buzzes for the hundredth time this morning. I pull it out while arranging the staff picks display. It’s Jess.
Stop spiraling. You’re going to be fine.
Easy for you to say. You’re in Portland.
Want me to come down there? I can be on a plane in 3 hours.
No. I’m fine. Just nervous.
Has anyone else said anything since book club?
No. But the BookTok videos are getting worse. Someone posted a whole analysis of the town layout yesterday. They’ve narrowed it down to “somewhere in Arizona.”
Arizona is huge. Breathe.
I set my phone down and finish arranging the books. Romance front and center, of course. Some cozy mysteries. A few local interest books about Southwest history.
No copies of Wildfire Summer. I still haven’t brought myself to stock my own book.
Maybe I should. Maybe it would look less suspicious if I did. Someone who doesn’t want to be found wouldn’t display their book at their own stand.
“Morning, Sadie!”
I look up to find Lin Mendoza setting up her produce booth across the aisle.
She waves, and I wave back, forcing brightness into my smile.
Next to her, Isabel Herrera is arranging hooks and fireplace tools at the forge stall.
Mateo must be working on a commission today.
She catches my eye and grins, holding up a new bottle opener shaped like a cactus. I smile back with a wave.
The market opens at nine. I’m straightening my display like it’s a set of book club chairs when I notice Judith Ashford, head of the local historical society and member of half the committees in Sierra Rose, browsing Maria’s salsa stand.
The world quiets a little as she glides through it wearing her typical crisp white blazer despite November’s warmth and a smile that never, ever, reaches her eyes.
I’m not even sure it reaches her upper lip.
Judith is the kind of woman who knows everyone’s business and isn’t afraid to share her opinions about it.
She’s talking with someone, gesturing with practiced authority. Then she glances my way.
She scares me, honestly.
My stomach tightens.
“Sadie.” She nods, examining my book display. “Romance, as always.”
“It’s what sells,” I say, keeping my voice light.
“Mmm.” Her finger trails along the spines. “I’m glad you haven’t stocked that book everyone’s talking about. Wildfire Summer, is it?”
My heart stops. “Oh?”
That was too squeaky. She’s going to know.
“Pure smut, from what I hear.” She picks up a different romance, examining the cover with distaste. “And it degrades Southwest towns, using them as backdrops for that kind of content. Some people have no shame.”
She sets the book down and moves on, leaving me frozen behind my table.
By nine-fifteen, Judith is out of sight, and I’m busy with customers. A tourist couple looking for books about Arizona hiking trails. A regular who comes every week to see what new romances I’ve brought. A teenager asking if I have anything “gay and fantasy.”
I’m ringing up a sale when I see her.
Carol Brennan.
She’s browsing the salsa booth, but her eyes keep drifting toward my table. There’s something in her expression—that same look she had at book club. Curious. Thoughtful. Deducing.
She catches me watching and smiles. Then she heads my way.
Why?
“Sadie! Beautiful day for the market.”
“It is.” I hand my customer their change. “How are you, Carol?”
“Good, good.” She picks up a romance from my display and examines the cover. “I’ve been thinking a lot about our book club discussion. Wildfire Summer. I can’t stop thinking about it, actually. I’m surprised you didn’t stock it yet!”
My stomach clenches. “It’s a good book.”
“It was a great book.“ Carol sets the romance book down and pulls out her phone. “In fact, I’ve been doing a little investigating. Like I said the other night, I love a good mystery.”
Oh no.
“Oh?” I try to sound casual.
“Figuring out who Sienna Saguaro is.” Her eyes are bright with excitement. “This is the best mystery I’ve had in years.”
A customer approaches, and I use the interruption to breathe, to think, to panic silently while I ring up their purchase.
When they leave, Carol’s still there. Waiting.
“The author’s website is so minimal,” she continues, showing me her phone. “No photo, barely any bio. Just ‘Southwest romance author.’ Social media is the same—book quotes, cover reveals, nothing personal.”
“Maybe she’s just private,” I manage.
“Maybe.” Carol scrolls through something on her screen. “But then I started looking at the book itself. Making lists.”
She pulls a small notebook from her purse, actual paper and pen, filled with her neat handwriting.
“The town layout in Wildfire Summer matches Sierra Rose Ridge almost exactly,“ she reads. “The town square. The farmers’ market, which happens on Saturday mornings, is just like ours. The winery’s Sips & Stars event, though she calls it ‘Starlight Sipping’ in the book…”
My hands grip the edge of the table.
“Even the cliffs in the story carry an air of the Red Rock Cliffs here in Sierra Rose. She even wrote in the abandoned mine and the ghost town.”
Breathe. Just breathe.
“The legend about star-crossed lovers,” Carol continues. “In the book, it’s a missionary’s daughter and a Native American man. Here, it’s Rosa Delgado and the ranch hand. Same tragic ending, same ‘doomed love’ theme. Different names, but the bones of the story are nearly identical.”
“Carol, lots of Southwest towns have similar—“
“Then there’s the architectural details.
” She’s not listening to me, too caught up in her detective work.
“The way she describes the adobe buildings, the wrought iron details, the blend of Spanish, Native, and Western influences that are a tapestry for the town. Even the type of wildflowers that grow here. Desert marigolds, brittlebush, globe mallow. That’s very specific to this region, this elevation. ”
My phone buzzes on the table. I can’t answer it. I can’t even look. All I see is Carol’s notebook.
And she just keeps talking.
“But here’s the thing that really got me thinking.” Carol leans in, lowering her voice like we’re conspirators. “The dedication in Wildfire Summer… ‘to S.R.—you gave me a home.’”
My heart stops.
Probably not literally, since I’m still standing here, but this is the closest to an out-of-body experience I’ve ever had.
“SR,” Carol repeats slowly. “I started thinking about what that could mean. “Most people probably think it’s a person. Sarah, Sam, whoever. But combined with everything else...” She watches my face. “What if S.R. stands for Sierra Rose?”
I can’t breathe.
I don’t even remember how.
Shouldn’t it be instinctual?
It’s not. Not currently.
Everything is imploding.
“Lots of places have those initials.” The words come out too fast. “It could be anything. And the architectural details, the legends, the markets—those are common in small Southwest towns. Authors research. They visit places. They combine elements from multiple locations. It doesn’t mean—“
I’m talking too much and defending too hard.
Carol goes very still.
I watch it happen. Watch the pieces click into place behind her eyes. The way her gaze sharpens. How she is really looking at me for the first time in this conversation.
The bookshop owner in Wildfire Summer. The heroine, who moved to the Southwest five years ago to escape her controlling family. Who has a best friend in the Northwest. The one who loves romance novels and keeps to herself.
“Carol—“ My voice cracks. “Please.”
“It’s you.” Not a question. A realization. Quiet. Certain.
I can’t deny it. I won’t confirm it. I can only stand here behind my booth, hoping it offers enough shade and cover to protect me from the impending doom, like a beautiful underground Cold War-era bunker.
I look around for Mateo. I wish he were here. The thought comes unbidden and makes no sense—what would he even do? But somehow, having him nearby always makes the noise in my head go quiet.
But I’m exposed and terrified, and Carol Brennan has connected every single dot I thought I hid.
“Please don’t say anything,” I whisper.