Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Annie
By day four at Ironwood, I’ve learned three important things.
One: The coffee’s strong enough to bring a corpse back to life.
Two: Cody Harlan color-codes things very seriously.
And three: This ranch has the kind of silence that isn’t peaceful so much as expensive.
The kind that says every board has been replaced before it could creak, every problem polished before it could show, every mess handled behind closed doors by people with very white teeth and very careful voices.
It should be comforting.
Instead, it makes me itch.
Which is exactly why, by Friday morning, I’m standing in the staff parking lot with my keys in one hand, my canvas tote slung over my shoulder, and my camera hanging at my side.
I need supplies. Highlighters, sticky notes, a new calculator because mine decided to die in dramatic protest on Wednesday, and something sweet before I snap at someone who doesn’t deserve it.
Also, if I stay inside Ironwood one more minute listening to Sherry explain the payroll filing habits while Cody hovers like a suspicious accountant gargoyle, I may actually climb out the nearest window.
“Town run?”
The voice comes from behind me, warm and easy and unfairly good at making two ordinary words sound happy.
I turn to find Duke crossing the gravel with a mug in one hand and a dish towel slung over his shoulder like he’s an ad for domestic competence.
Which is rude.
“Is it that obvious?” I ask.
He glances at my bag, my keys, then the expression on my face. “You’ve got the look.”
“The look?”
“The I need out before I commit a felony look.”
I snort. “Oh good. Thought I was hiding it better.”
“Nah.” He takes a sip from his mug. “You want anything from town, you usually come back with it in a paper bag and a haunted expression.”
“That feels weirdly specific.”
“It’s experience.” His grin turns lazy. “Need recommendations?”
“For office supplies?”
“For survival.” He leans one shoulder against a fence post. “Feed store if you need practical stuff. Larsen’s if you need everything and also somehow things you never intended to buy.
Buckhorn if you need coffee, pie, or a reminder that people in this town can and will discuss your business over pancakes. ”
“Good to know.”
His eyes flick to my camera. “And if you take photos while you’re out, avoid getting Carl Benson in the background. Man sees a lens and starts posing like he’s up for office.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. Duke looks altogether too pleased by that.
“Anything else I should know?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He tips his mug toward me. “If Tommy Jones at the feed store offers you gossip for free, it isn’t free.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“That’s Colter Creek.”
With that, he pushes off the post and heads back toward the house like he didn’t just drop a warning disguised as flirtation into my morning.
I watch him go, then shake myself out of it and climb into my car.
Fresh air. Errands. No Harlans.
At least for an hour…
Colter Creek is exactly the kind of town people mean when they say everybody knows everybody.
It takes all of seven minutes to confirm this.
Main Street is all weathered brick and painted signs and old school charm trying very hard not to look curated for tourists.
There’s a bakery with flower boxes under the windows, a barber shop with a striped pole out front, a general store that looks like it’s been standing since horses were the cutting edge of transportation.
The feed store sits near the end of the street with a faded sign that reads Colter Creek Feed & Supply, and the second I step inside, the smell hits me.
Hay, leather, grain, and dust. That particular dry, earthy scent every ranch store in America seems to share like it’s in a union.
The bell over the door jingles.
A man behind the counter glances up from a ledger and gives me a look so immediate and assessing it feels like I’ve been scanned for criminal intent and social usefulness in the same breath.
He’s somewhere in his fifties and broad through the shoulders, with a sun-worn face and the kind of mustache that probably has opinions.
“Well now,” he says, setting the pen down. “You’re not from around here.”
“Is it the car, the hair, or the expression that says I deeply regret coming in here?” I ask.
The man barks out a laugh. “Bit of all three, if I’m honest. Tommy Jones,” he says, straightening a little. “I run this place. Been here, what, thirty years now? Give or take. Long enough to know when someone’s new.”
A younger guy appears from the back carrying a stack of feed tags, all loose-limbed energy and easy grin. “And I’m Terry. I mostly carry things and pretend I know what I’m doing. And you are…?”
“Annie. Annie Wright. Do you have any office supplies here?”
Tommy squints like I’ve just said something mildly offensive. “Office supplies… in a feed store…”
“We’ve got a shelf,” Terry offers, pointing. “It’s not impressive, but it exists.”
“Yeah, over there,” Tommy adds, still sounding faintly baffled. “Folks come in for all sorts now. Used to be feed, tools, done. Now it’s… paper, pens… one time someone asked for printer ink. Printer ink.”
He shakes his head like civilization is slipping.
I smile despite myself and head for the office supply shelf jammed awkwardly between work gloves and horse supplements. Because apparently this town believes printer paper and wormer are natural neighbors.
“So,” Tommy says, as if we’re mid-conversation instead of thirty seconds into meeting, “what brings you to Colter Creek?”
I reach for sticky notes. “A desperate need for highlighters.”
Terry laughs. “That’s a new one.”
Tommy points a finger like he’s connecting dots out loud. “Ironwood, right? You’re the new one they brought in.”
Well, that didn’t take long.
I glance over. “I’m guessing this is the part where I ask how you know that.”
Tommy spreads his hands. “Small town.”
“Right.”
“Anyway,” Tommy continues. “Sherry was in yesterday, mentioned it while she was picking up, what was it, feed? No, straw. Anyway. Said they finally hired someone from outside, which, I’ll tell you, that doesn’t happen unless something’s off.
Those boys, good boys, but they keep things tight. Real tight.”
I tuck legal pads into my basket. “Comforting.”
Tommy leans on the counter again, settling in. “So what do you think so far? Place like that. Polished, isn’t it? Everything lined up just right, like it’s got somewhere important to be.”
“It’s definitely… put together.”
“Yeah, that’s one way to say it,” he mutters. “Too quiet, if you ask me. Places that locked up usually got something they’re not saying out loud.”
Terry winces. “Tommy…”
“I’m just saying,” he insists, then looks back at me. “Not bad. Just… a lot.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You do that.”
I find a calculator, a pack of pens, and, because I know myself too well, not one but two iced coffees from the cooler by the register. One for now, one for later, because self-care can be caffeinated and no one can stop me.
Tommy’s gaze drops to the drinks and then comes back up. “Cold coffee in this weather?”
“I make bold choices.”
“That’s one word for it,” he says. “Other word’s questionable.”
I offer him a one-shouldered shrug. “Both can be true.”
Terry laughs and turns away.
Tommy rings everything up, still watching me like he’s filing me away for later discussion. “You settling in alright?
“It’s a ranch,” I say lightly. “With spreadsheets.”
Terry smiles.
“Sure,” I continue. “It’s fine.”
“Mmhmm,” he says, not buying it. “You’ll figure it out. Or it’ll figure you out. Usually how it goes.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“No,” Terry agrees easily. “But it’s honest.”
Tommy hands over the receipt. “Well, Miss Wright, welcome to Colter Creek. Around here, people will know your business before you do, so my advice is get ahead of it if you can.”
“That’s terrible advice.”
“It is,” Terry agrees brightly. “But it’s very local.”
I sling the bag over my shoulder. “I’ll treasure that.”
As I head for the door, Tommy calls after me. “Tell Silas he still owes me for that fence wire.”
I turn. “Why would I do that?”
Tommy’s mustache twitches. “Because it’ll annoy him.”
I grin despite myself. “Now that feels local.”
Because I’m not quite ready to return just yet, I find myself drifting toward The Buckhorn Diner.
It’s impossible to miss. Red vinyl booths, big front windows, and a hand-painted sign promising pie and coffee like it’s both invitation and threat.
The second I walk in, warmth wraps around me along with the smell of bacon, syrup, and the kind of diner coffee that has probably dissolved at least one spoon.
A waitress with a dark braid and bright eyes looks up from balancing three plates on one arm and gives me a quick, efficient smile.
“Seat yourself, honey! Anywhere you like. We’ve got fresh coffee and I just pulled biscuits out of the oven!”
I slide into a booth by the window, setting my feed store bag beside me and my camera on the table out of habit before moving it again because not every object needs to announce my personality on sight.
An older woman with silver-streaked hair in a perfect teased set appears at my table like she’s materialized from hospitality itself.
“Well hi there, sweetheart…. new face, I would’ve remembered you. I remember everybody,” she says, setting down a menu. “I’m Betty Lou Winslow, and let me tell you right now, unless you’ve got something tragic going on medically, you’re having breakfast.”
I blink up at her. “Was that a threat?”
“Oh no, honey,” she says, beaming. “That’s hospitality.”
I like her instantly.
“Annie Wright,” I say. “And I’m not allergic to anything except unsolicited life advice.”
“Well, Annie Wright, welcome to the Buckhorn, where the coffee is strong, the portions are generous, and if you leave hungry, that’s a personal failure on my part and I will not allow it.”
“I feel very taken care of already.”
“Good!” she says brightly. “That’s the goal.”
The younger waitress swings by with coffee. “Carrie Jo Porter,” she says. “Don’t let her scare you. She only gets like this when she likes you.”