Chapter 3 #2
Betty Lou puts a hand to her chest. “I like everyone.”
“Not true,” Carrie Jo mutters. “You banned Carl for three days.”
“He deserved it.”
I hide a smile behind the mug.
Within three minutes, I have coffee, a plate of eggs and toast I didn’t technically order but don’t remotely regret, and the growing sense that this diner functions less like a restaurant and more like a civic nervous system.
People come in and out, calling greetings to each other across the room. A man in a denim jacket argues cheerfully with a woman over whether the mayor’s fundraiser will beat last year’s pie auction.
Someone near the counter mentions the rodeo grounds. Somewhere behind me, a baby starts crying and is immediately soothed by what sounds like a biscuit being offered as diplomacy.
It’s loud.
Warm.
Curious.
And beneath all of it, I can feel it… that shift in attention every time someone new walks into a small town and pretends not to notice being noticed.
“Ooh, you’re Annie.”
A male voice comes from my left, and I look up to find a man about my age leaning one shoulder against the neighboring booth, coffee mug in hand, a little rumpled in the way genuinely nice men always seem to be.
Dark hair. Open face. The kind of smile that probably talks people down off emotional ledges for fun.
“Sorry,” I say. “Should I know you?”
He grins. “No, we haven’t met. Jesse Murphy. Willow Ranch.”
“Annie.”
“Yeah, I know. Dakota described you last night after Abilene heard from Sherry that Ironwood hired someone new.”
I stare at him as I try to process all those names.
He takes a sip of coffee.
I stare harder.
He laughs. “See? Small town.”
“I’m starting to think you people are all in some kind of weird surveillance cult.”
“Probably.” He nods toward the empty seat across from me. “Mind if I take a seat?”
“Go ahead. Apparently my privacy died on Main Street.”
He slides in, easy as anything. “You’re settling in alright?”
“I’ve survived a trip to the feed store and secured caffeine, so that’s something, right?”
Jesse glances at my camera, then at the feed store bag by my feet, and his smile turns more amused. “First week in town and you’ve already hit the feed store and the Buckhorn. You’re integrating fast.”
“I’d call it errand-based survival.”
Carrie Jo passes by and tops off his coffee without asking. “You corrupting the newcomer already, Jesse?”
“Just doing community outreach.”
Betty Lou snorts from behind the counter. “Tell her the truth and save time.”
Jesse looks back at me, blue eyes dancing. “Okay. Truth?”
I take a bite of toast. “Hit me.”
He lowers his voice a fraction, mock serious. “Run while you can.”
I laugh before I can help it. “Oh, that’s my official welcome?”
“Well, the Harlan brothers, I love them and everything, but their ranch is intense, right?”
“I’ve seen worse.”
He narrows his eyes. “Have you met their aunt, Vivian?”
I frown. “I have not.”
Jesse winces theatrically. “Then your optimism is adorable.”
I laugh again, but his tone lodges under my ribs.
Not because I think he’s trying to be mean, I’m sure he isn’t. There’s an edge under the joke, the kind people use when they’re telling the truth and hoping humor will soften the landing.
“So what’s the actual issue?” I ask. “Other than the obvious one where everyone in town seems deeply invested in my employment status.”
Jesse blows across his coffee. “Ironwood’s… Ironwood. Big money. Big history. Big reputation. People talk.”
“People talk everywhere.”
“Not like here.” He meets my eyes. “Here, it sticks.”
“Well,” I say, dry as possible, “that’s not ominous at all.”
Jesse’s smile softens. “It’s not all bad. People show up for each other here. It just comes with… extras.”
“Extras,” I repeat.
“Questions. Opinions. Casseroles. Sometimes in that order.”
I laugh, and the tension in my shoulders eases a little. “Good to know.”
He nods toward my plate. “Eat while it’s hot. Betty Lou takes leftovers as a personal insult.”
“Noted.”
Jesse stands, draining the rest of his coffee. “You’ll be alright, Annie Wright. Just keep your chin up and don’t let Colter Creek convince you it knows you better than you know yourself.”
“That sounds weirdly wise for a man who opened with ‘run while you can.’”
“Both can be true.”
He flashes one last grin and heads toward the counter to pay.
I watch him go, then look down into my coffee.
That’s the thing about jokes. The good ones always have teeth.
By the time I get back to Ironwood, my mood has improved by exactly twenty-three percent.
The remaining seventy-seven takes one look at the main office and dies instantly.
Not because anything is wrong.
Because everything is normal.
Perfectly normal.
Sherry at her desk, typing with cheerful violence. The constant thrum of printers and central air and expensive efficiency. It’s like walking back into a museum where the exhibits are all actively judging me.
“Back already?” Sherry asks brightly.
“It certainly seems like it.”
She laughs. “Successful trip?”
“I now own sticky notes in six colors, which feels like ambition.”
“That’ll fit right in around here.”
I set the supplies down, slide into my chair, and wake my laptop. The screen glows to life with spreadsheets, vendor folders, payroll records, and the kind of financial ecosystem designed by people who love both order and unnecessary complexity.
Which, in fairness, is also me.
I spend the next hour working through expense categories and recurring vendor payments, building my own map of how Ironwood breathes. Feed, veterinary supplies, equipment maintenance, seasonal labor, fuel, legal, event overhead, property upkeep.
It’s all there.
Mostly.
My thumb taps against the side of my camera while I work, a small unconscious rhythm that usually means one of two things: I’m thinking, or I’m close to finding something.
Today it’s both.
I open the vendor ledger again, then cross reference it with the monthly expense summaries.
One line item catches my eye because it’s the exact kind of thing that likes hiding in plain sight.
Consulting Services – Dorsey Ridge Agricultural Solutions
The amount isn’t huge. Mid-range. Repeatable. Forgettable enough to skate by if no one’s looking too closely.
I click into the invoices.
Same vendor name appears again two weeks later.
And again the month before that.
Not on the same date, not in the exact same amount, but close enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck sit up.
I pull the corresponding approvals, and the descriptions are vague to the point of comedy.
Operational review support.
Ranch systems evaluation.
Administrative consultation.
Administrative consultation for what? Breathing near a filing cabinet?
I pull another spreadsheet over and start building a side list.
Date, amount, category, approver, related event.
The pattern doesn’t fully show itself yet, but there’s enough shape there to irritate me, which usually means I’m right.
“Sherry?” I call, swiveling.
She looks up. “Yep?”
I hold up one of the printed invoices. “Do we use Dorsey Ridge Agricultural Solutions often?”
She frowns, standing to come closer. “Dorsey Ridge… hmm.” I pass her the page and she scans it, lips pursing. “I don’t know, actually.”
“You don’t know the vendor or you don’t know the charges?”