Chapter 9 #2
“Betty Lou,” Duke says, handing over the pie. “You keeping well?”
“I just like to keep an eye on everyone. You know that.” She pats Duke’s cheek like he’s a large dog who has performed a trick, then turns to me. “You sit wherever you like, honey. Unless it’s near Carl Benson, in which case consider that a cautionary tale.”
“Hey!” a man bellows from three tables over. “I heard that.”
“Good,” Betty Lou snaps back. “Then maybe you’ll remember to behave for once!”
Duke hides a grin. I, unfortunately, laugh.
And just like that, the room shifts.
Not all the way. I’m still aware of eyes turning toward me, of names being traded in low voices, of the subtle murmur of curiosity that follows any new person into a small town.
But Betty Lou has effectively announced me without making it feel like trial by casserole, and that counts for something.
Carrie Jo, bright eyed and energetic in a gorgeous floral blouse, pops up at my elbow.
“You made it!” she says, like I’ve achieved something profound. “I told Betty Lou she scared you off at the diner.”
“I do not scare people off,” Betty Lou calls from across the room, not even turning around. “I make them feel welcome with enthusiasm!”
Carrie Jo beams at me. “Come on, I’ll show you where to put your bag before someone ropes you into folding napkins.”
“That’s a real risk?”
“In this town? Absolutely.”
The next fifteen minutes pass in a blur of names, handshakes, and warm, mildly mental introductions.
Tommy Jones from the feed store nods at me over a tray of cornbread like we’re co-survivors of some event no one else fully understands. Terry waves from beside him, mid joke with someone I don’t know.
Millie from the bakery presses a lemon square into my hand on instinct, apparently having decided I look like someone who should never be allowed to stand still without sugar.
Sheriff Hank Miller gives me a dry, measuring look that lands somewhere between courteous and amused. Mayor Hannah Richards shakes my hand like she means it and tells me she’s glad Ironwood finally hired someone with “fresh eyes and awesome hair.”
And then more people catch my eye because of the way they enter the room with presence.
A woman with dark hair stands near the center of a crowd, one hand resting lightly on the shoulder of a little boy pressed against her side. He leans into her without thinking about it.
One man crouches in front of him, saying something low that makes the kid grin. Another stands just behind them, easy and watchful, like he’s keeping track of everything without making it obvious.
A third balances three paper plates like this is a completely normal amount of responsibility for one human being.
I frown. My gaze flicks between them, trying to map it so it makes sense.
Family, maybe. Except…
The woman glances up at something one of the men says, and the look that passes between them isn’t ambiguous. Not distant. Not cousin-level affection or longtime-friends energy.
It’s intimate.
Openly.
“Duke,” I murmur under my breath, not taking my eyes off them. “Am I reading that wrong, or…”
He leans in just enough that his shoulder brushes mine, following my line of sight.
Then, casually, like he’s pointing out the weather, “That’s Dakota Fletcher. High Ridge. And her boy, Charlie.”
I wait. He doesn’t elaborate.
I turn my head. “You’re going to need to give me more than that.”
His mouth twitches. “She’s with Clint, Sawyer, and Reid.”
I look back at the group.
At the little boy now reaching for one man’s hand while leaning into another. At the way the third passes a plate to Dakota without breaking stride, like he’s done it a thousand times.
At the complete and utter lack of weirdness from anyone around them.
“All of them?”
Duke huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. All of them.”
I stare. Because no one’s reacting.
“They’re just… out?” I lower my voice instinctively, even though apparently I don’t need to.
“Very,” Duke says.
“And no one cares?”
“Oh, people care,” he replies easily. “People in Colter Creek care about everything. But there’s caring and there’s mattering. Not always the same thing.”
I look back at Dakota.
She laughs at something the crouching man says and reaches down to brush her fingers through the kid’s hair, then glances between all three men with this unselfconscious warmth that hits me square in the chest.
Not because I’m judging.
Because I’m not.
Because I’ve spent the last few weeks bracing for scrutiny, for gossip, for the perception, and here’s a whole situation that should, by every rule I thought existed, be a problem.
And it just… isn’t.
I’m still trying to process that when Dakota looks up and catches me staring.
There’s a split second where I consider pretending I’ve suddenly developed a deep interest in the wall behind her.
Too late.
She smiles, and starts walking toward us.
Up close, she’s even prettier in that dangerous way some women are. She has a warmth that instantly captivates me. She’s the kind of woman you’d trust with your kid, your secrets, or a body.
“Annie, right?” she says, like she’s already decided I’m not a threat. “I’m Dakota.”
“Hi.” I suddenly become aware of my hands. “Yeah. Annie.”
Dakota’s smile deepens, and it feels like she can tell I’m approximately one social interaction away from bolting. “I’ve heard about you and your gorgeous hair.”
“That feels ominous.”
“It’s mostly from Sherry,” she says. “So only medium ominous.”
I laugh before I mean to.
Duke, traitor that he is, looks pleased with both of us.
One of the men, tall, muted, carrying a bowl of something that smells incredible, steps up beside her.
“Sawyer,” he says, offering me a small, easy smile. “Good to meet you.”
“Annie.”
“Hey, I’m Reid.” Another guy sidles up beside them, with a playful smirk playing on his lips. “You’re the Ironwood accountant, right? Good luck. Cody’s a menace.”
Duke snorts.
“I’m standing right here,” Cody’s voice says from somewhere behind me.
I spin so fast I nearly elbow Duke in the ribs.
Cody stands there with the same cool, measured expression he wears in the office, just softened around the edges by the fact that he’s not currently surrounded by ledgers.
Silas is beside him, broader, darker, hands in his pockets, already scanning the room with that instinctive watchfulness that seems baked into his spine.
Oh.
They came too.
Of course they did. It’s a town event. They live here. They aren’t, in fact, decorative office furniture that ceases to exist when I’m not actively perceiving it.
Humiliating thing to need reminding of.
“Good,” Reid says cheerfully. “Now I can insult you to your face.”
“That has never once stopped you before,” Cody replies.
Dakota glances between them all with the patient amusement of someone who’s watched this exact pattern of male stupidity unfold repeatedly and survived.
“Me neither.” Clint introduces himself last. Serious face. Protective energy. The kind of man who probably looks carved out of responsibility and weather.
But when Charlie tugs at his hand, he glances down with such immediate tenderness it almost takes me out.
“Nice to meet you, Annie. You really do need all the luck in the world.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
Charlie peers at me from behind Clint’s leg, solemn and curious.
I smile a little. “Hi.”
He studies my hair for a long second, then says, very seriously, “You look like a superhero.”
My face goes warm.
“That,” I tell Charlie, “is the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all month.”
Dakota lays a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Charlie, sweetheart, want to help Sawyer with the rolls? I want to introduce Annie to Abilene as well. I think you two will get along…”
More people? Yeah, this is way too much community.
So why don’t I hate it?
Charlie goes without argument, apparently “rolls” outranks “new person,” and Dakota turns, scanning the room.
“Abi?” she calls. “Come here. I’ve found Annie.”
A woman detaches from a nearby cluster and makes her way over, carrying a casserole dish like it’s an extension of her hands.
She’s absolutely stunning as well. Pretty as a wildflower… not that I’ll say that aloud. Might sound a bit weird.
“Hey Annie.” She tips her head, noticing, I think, more than I would prefer. “First potluck?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Oh yeah. I had the same panicked look on my face when I first came. But having friends here is—”
“Careful, hot…” a voice mutters, and I twist just in time to avoid becoming part of a beverage-based incident.
A man steps around me, broad and focused, carrying a tray of drinks like he’s defusing a bomb.
“Sorry,” he says, already scanning for somewhere to set it down.
“That’s Marshall,” Abilene says. “He’s with me.”
“Hi,” I offer.