Chapter Fourteen
The Cult of Archer
T he Heart Springs farmers market isn’t big, but it’s got a kind of small-town charm I’ve never experienced before.
Each stall’s tucked between old brick shops and flower beds bursting with color.
It’s nothing like the sterile city blocks I spent years walking, and a world away from the wild, weedy patch around my rental.
I pass a table of homemade soaps shaped like celebrities. Chuckling, I pull out my cell phone and snap a picture, then flip to my texts and send it to Abby.
Witchling: If that’s Daddy Pratt, I’ll take five.
Chuckling, I buy her one—and Rip from Yellowstone for me. Something about a grumpy cowboy just does it for me.
Me: Done. But you’ll have to come visit to get it.
Witchling: Also done. How are you feeling, ginger tits? Thriving or just surviving?
I grin and tap out a response as I weave through booths, careful not to run into anyone.
ME: Alive-ish. A little wobbly. Sun and shopping help. Joints still hate me, though.
The truth is, I’m still lagging from yesterday’s flare-up.
But with celiac, sometimes it’s not about what you ate, but the damage that’s already been done. I have bad joints, get chronic migraines, and if I overdo it, I wind up exhausted, in pain, and stuck in bed.
The day after the infamous grocery incident, I powered through two home visits and a stack of case notes at the coffee shop.
I knew better, but I did it anyway. Adjusting from Heart Springs to Serenity Falls hasn’t been hard, but the workload’s heavier since it’s a bigger town, and I don’t want to fall behind.
By Friday, the damage caught up. My body crashed. Full-blown flare—fatigue, stomach misery, the works. So I stayed in. No makeup, no effort, no pretending. Just me, water, meds, broth, and my favorite cozy blanket.
But what I really wanted was a bathtub, my old bed in New York, and someone who would take care of me for once, without asking any questions or judging my bad days.
None of that happened, but today, I made it here, so I’m calling it a win.
Witchling: Don’t over do whatever you’re doing. Which is…?
ME: The farmers market. Fridge was giving dust bowl.
Because despite having just gone to the grocery store, I ended up walking out with only enough food to last a few days, and four jars of almond butter I’ll never be able to look at without thinking of Kade. I shoved them in the back of my cabinet, but that didn’t stop the cravings.
Not sure much will at this point.
Witchling : Are you secretly hoping to stumble across Walker family breadcrumbs?
I’d be lying if I said I’m not hoping for more than vegetables today. Maybe a clue about my family. A glimpse of the town through my mother’s eyes. Something that says I belong here too, or maybe this is the wrong place altogether.
Though, the longer I spend in Heart Springs, the more I fall in love with it.
Not just because of my familial history, but because I feel more myself here than I have in a long damn time.
Truth is, I’ve only been here a month, but the idea of leaving when my lease is up like I’d planned, makes me nauseous.
Almost as nauseous as the idea of not returning to Abby in New York at all.
Maybe that’s why I tell a white lie instead of the whole truth.
ME: I’m just exploring today.
Witchling : Right. And totally not hoping to run into a certain broody cowboy with biceps, a beard, and unresolved trauma.
I scoff out loud, cheeks burning, and type quickly.
ME: Hell no. He annoys me.
ABBY: Annoys your kitty. Nobody likes being wet and unfulfilled, babes. It’s maddening.
As if in answer, I lock eyes with a vendor.
“Cucumbers!” She grins at me as she holds one up. “We also have eggplants if you’re interested.”
I choke on my next breath and blush furiously, picking up my pace. “No, thank you! I’m all set!”
Witchling: You found him, didn’t you? You’re dry humping between the carrots and handmade jewelry!
ME: Gotta go. Eggplants are calling. And no, not his.
Chuckling to myself, I stop and buy a bunch of beautiful vegetables that smell incredible, then some fresh fruit for breakfasts. There’s an adorable stand selling macramé butterflies, and I pick one Abby will love, then browse for a bit, munching on grapes.
I’m contemplating walking to the library to peek at their yearbooks for some information about my mom when I run right into the last booth I’d expect.
I stop dead in my tracks.
Of course they’d be here.
It’s a farmers market. Farm is in their literal business name.
My swallow is all gravel as my eyes fly around, searching for a certain Archer in a cowboy hat who haunts my dreams—and a pair of too-tight jeans I’ve thought about way more than I should.
I hover a few feet away, watching who I can only assume are his twin sisters as they pass out golden plastic sticks to a line of little kids, all squealing and bouncing chaotically.
Someone bumps into me from behind, and I stumble forward, catching myself against one of the crates stacked beside their booth.
“Oh, honey, are you okay?” The voice is soft and warm—motherly in the kind of way that makes my throat tighten before I even see her.
A familiar face pops up from behind the crate, blue eyes kind and wide.
“Umm,” I breathe, startled. “Hi, Bea. Sorry. I wasn’t… uh… I didn’t mean to…”
Get it together, Georgia! You have to stop stammering in front of this family!
“Hush,” she chides, waving off my apology. “You’re allowed to look before you leap, though I don’t recommend leaping directly into the honey display. That stuff’s not as forgiving as it looks.”
I huff a small laugh, though my cheeks burn. “I was just… admiring from afar.”
“Why?” she asks, tilting her head with a knowing grin. “We’re perfectly friendly up close.”
Before I can come up with a graceful excuse, Bea slips her arm through mine like we’re old friends and drags me toward the booth. I tense for a split-second, then force myself to relax.
Apparently, not all Archer’s are born with sticks directly up their asses.
“Girls!” she calls. “Look who I found sneaking around!”
The twins turn at the same time. One’s got a golden stick in her mouth, the other a pair of shears in her hand.
“Georgia.” Bea beams, giving my arm a little squeeze before shuffling around the other side of the table. “These two cuties are my youngest daughters, Colby and Clementine.”
I smile, offering a small wave. “I love your names.”
They scoff in unison.
“You can say that”—the one with the curls sasses, shooting Bea a pointed glare—“because your mom didn’t name you after cheese.”
“Cheese?” I echo, grinning as I glance between the three of them. That must make her Colby.
“At least you weren’t named after a piece of fruit,” Clementine mutters dryly, adjusting a flower arrangement on the table.
Bea cackles, not the least bit sorry. “What can I say? I was pregnant, emotional, and extremely snack-driven. Couldn’t get enough cheese and oranges.”
She throws an arm around each daughter, hugging them tight against her sides as they squirm and roll their eyes.
“Honestly, I almost named them Brie and Tangerine. Their father had to stage an intervention in the dairy aisle.” Bea presses a wistful hand to her chest. “To this day, cheese is still my favorite food.”
“Plot twist,” Colby mutters. “We’re both lactose intolerant now.”
“We blame it on our mom,” Clem adds with a nod.
They dissolve into playful bickering again, fast and familiar, overlapping stories and mock-horror recounts about Bea’s pregnancy cravings and the time Colby tried to dye Clementine’s hair orange to match her name.
And I just… watch .
Listen.
Smile when I should and try not to let it show that something in me aches.
Not because they’re perfect, but because they belong to each other, loudly and unconditionally.
And I’ve never had that.
Not even once.
“So,” Bea says, brushing a bit of windblown hair from her eyes as the girls begin restocking a crate of mini honey jars. “How are you settling in?”
I tuck my hands into the sleeves of my cardigan and hope she doesn’t ask about where I live—or worse, my job. Does she know how I really met her son? Why he has contact with a social worker when he’s all but a self-proclaimed hermit?
What if I accidentally put my foot in my mouth and drop a bomb I have no right dropping?
Have you ruined anything else lately?
Maybe it’s the motherly tone in her voice or the panic swirling through me, but a little of the truth slips free without my permission.
“Oh. Um… slowly, I guess.” I shrug. “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind. Today’s actually my first full day off where I’ve felt well enough to explore.”
“Well enough?” The concern on her face is surprising.
“Nothing serious,” I say quickly. “I have celiac, and the last few days were just… a little rough.”
Her eyes soften. “You poor thing.”
“It’s okay,” I murmur. “I’m used to it. But I am really loving it here so far. Heart Springs is—” I break off, shrugging with an honest smile. “It's special.”
More questions are written all over Bea’s face, so I quickly change the subject and gesture toward the golden sticks in the twins’ hands. “What are those?”
More questions are written all over Bea’s face, so I quickly change the subject and gesture toward the golden sticks in the twins’ hands. “What are those?”
“Honey,” they say in unison, holding them between us.
A giggle slips free at their uncanny response. It’s a little Shining , but also adorable. When they don’t back down from their offerings, I reach out and snag the sticks. The sunlight hits just right, and the amber liquid glows in my palm like warm glass. I turn one over, mesmerized.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, voice quiet.
“I agree,” Bea says with a knowing little smile that makes me feel warm and squirmy all at once.
All three stare at me expectantly for long enough, my skin itches.
“What?” I ask, blinking.
“Well, aren’t you going to try it?”
“Wait—try it now?”