19. Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
Savannah
The boutique is exactly the kind of place I could spend an hour in without trying—reclaimed wood shelves, local art, expensive candles with names like Tennessee Rain and Sunday Morning, and racks of clothing spaced far enough apart to make everything look twice as expensive.
Wyatt disappears through a door near the back with the last of the honey crates, leaving me to wander.
I stop at a display of handmade greeting cards, then move on to a wall of watercolors—Stonebridge in every season, the old bridge, Main Street, farms tucked against the hills.
There are quilts folded over an old wooden ladder, hand-poured candles, pottery, and shelves of things made by people whose names I recognize.
The whole store feels like Stonebridge gathered into one place.
I move to the next section and find bags. Totes, backpacks, purses, a few larger weekenders, all beautifully made.
Then I see one I know.
I stop so suddenly I nearly run into the display.
A familiar leather duffel sits in the center of the display.
I know that bag.
I pick it up, turning it over in my hands. Deep cognac leather, soft without losing its structure. Heavy brass hardware. Reinforced handles. Perfectly even stitching.
There's a smaller crossbody beside it. And a backpack.
I know those too.
By the time Wyatt comes back through the doorway, I've got the duffel over one arm and the backpack in my other hand.
“Look at these.”
He stops. His eyes go to the bags before they come back to me.
“What about them?”
“We use these in our photo shoots all the time.”
I hold up the duffel.
“Look at this one. Isn't it perfect?”
He looks it over. “Looks pretty good.”
“Pretty good?” I stare at him.
“Wyatt, these are some of the best leather pieces I've found anywhere. Look at the stitching.”
“I'm looking.”
“And the hardware. This stuff lasts forever. We dragged one of these through mud for a shoot in Montana, cleaned it up, and used it again two weeks later.”
“Sounds like you got your money's worth.”
“We did.”
I turn the duffel over.
“We've used their bags in almost every fall campaign for years. Duffels, backpacks, crossbody bags. They photograph beautifully.”
His eyes light with amusement.
“What is so funny Wyatt?”
“Nothing.”
“Why are you smiling?”
“I'm not smiling.”
“You absolutely are.”
He rubs a hand across his mouth, which doesn't help his case.
“Fine. We actually get them from a company right here in Tennessee. Isn't that crazy? All those years in New York, buying leather from a little company outside Nashville.”
I find the small stamped mark near the bottom of the bag.
LANE LEATHER CO.
“There.” I turn it toward him.
“Lane Leather. I've always loved the name of the company.”
“Why?”
“Lane is my middle name. Do you remember that?”
He tips his head, studying me.
“I remember.”
“Of course you do. You knew me when my mother still used my entire name whenever I was in trouble.”
“Savannah Lane Blake.” He says it slowly, like he's pulling it out of some dusty corner of his memory.
“Usually meant you were about to get grounded.”
“Usually meant I already was.”
He laughs.
I run my thumb over the stamped name.
“The owner is apparently incredibly private. We've never dealt with him directly. Everything goes through his team.”
Wyatt scratches along his jaw.
“Maybe he doesn't like meetings.”
“Nobody likes meetings. He should still agree to one when a good customer asks.”
“I guess not.”
“Liv and I tried twice. His operations manager politely shut us down both times.”
“Sounds like a good operations manager.”
He's suddenly studying a display of leather belts with entirely too much interest.
“You're taking his side?”
“Just saying, maybe the man's busy.”
“Or weird.”
“Could be weird.”
“Definitely weird,” I repeat.
He presses his lips together.
I stare at him. “Why are you acting so weird?”
“I'm not acting weird.”
“You are. You've been acting weird since you came in from the back.”
“Maybe you're imagining things.”
“I'm not.” I pick up the backpack and unzip it to look inside.
“I've always wondered who owns it. Whoever he is, he understands leather that’s for sure. And he clearly doesn't care whether anyone knows his name.”
“Maybe he likes it that way,” Wyatt says.
“Maybe. Still seems strange. If I made something this good, I'd want people to know I made it.”
“Would you?”
“Absolutely. If I made something this good, you'd never hear the end of it.”
Before I can ask why he's looking at me with a little surprise, a woman comes through the doorway behind the counter carrying a clipboard.
She sees Wyatt and breaks into a grin.
“Well, look who finally decided to come inside.”
“Hey, Olivia,” Wyatt smiles and moves to give her a hug.
“I thought I heard you back there. You usually stack my honey in the storeroom and disappear before I can catch you.”
“I have a friend with me today.”
Her eyes come to me.
I smile. “I’m Savannah.”
“Olivia. Nice to meet you.”
Then she notices the duffel in my hands.
“Oh, good. You found them.”
“I did. I'm a little obsessed with Lane Leather.”
Olivia laughs.
“You should ask Wyatt about them.”
I turn to Wyatt and ask what that means.
He puts his hands in his pockets.
Olivia looks from him to me.
“Oh,” she says. “She doesn't know.”
“Olivia,” Wyatt says.
“What? You didn't tell her?”
“Tell me what?”
Her eyebrows shoot up.
Wyatt immediately puts a finger to his lips.
Olivia clamps her mouth shut, but I've already seen it.
And suddenly I'm very interested and mildly annoyed.
“Tell me what? What is going on here?”
Olivia points at the duffel in my hands.
“That's his.”
I look down at it.
Then back at Wyatt.
“What do you mean, his?”
“He designed it.”
I laugh.
Neither one of them laughs.
My laugh dies.
I look at Wyatt again.
He's watching me now.
“Wait.”
I look at the duffel.
At the stamp.
Back at him.
“No. Not possible.”
Now he smiles.
“Wyatt.”
“Savannah.”
“You designed this?”
“I did.”
My attention goes back to the backpack on the table. The crossbody beside it. A weekender I personally own and approved for at least two Blake Co. campaigns.
“You work for Lane Leather?”
He rubs the back of his neck.
“I own Lane Leather.”
For a second, all I can do is stare at him, my mouth hanging open in a thoroughly unglamorous way.
“You own Lane Leather.”
“I do.”
“The company I've been buying bags from for years.”
“The same one.”
I glare at Olivia and shake my head.
She nods enthusiastically. “Best leather in the USA, if you ask me.”
“Thank you, Olivia,” Wyatt says.
“You're welcome, Wyatt.”
Then she turns and walks back toward the register, practically patting herself on the back for uncovering the best-kept secret in the store.
I turn to Wyatt.
“You've been standing here for the last ten minutes listening to me tell you how amazing your own bags are.”
“You seemed pretty enthusiastic. I was enjoying it.”
“I was enthusiastic.”
“It's not every day a famous New York fashion designer stands here praising my work.”
“You could've stopped me.”
“I could have.”
“Why didn't you?”
His smile gets a little bigger. “It was an honor.”
I stare at him.
Then I pick up the duffel and swat him with it.
He catches it before I can do it again, laughing.
I let go of the bag.
“I have been buying your bags for years.”
“I know.”
“What do you mean, you know?”
“Blake Co. is one of our wholesale accounts. Your company name is on the purchase orders.”
I stare at him.
“For how long?”
He gives that some thought. “Seven years? Maybe eight.”
“And you never once thought maybe you should call me?”
His smile fades.
“I thought about it.”
That stops me.
“You did?”
“Sure I did.”
“Then why didn't you?”
He takes a second before answering.
“Because you were in New York building your life, Savannah. I was here building mine. I didn't figure a wholesale order was a good enough reason to step back into yours.”
For a moment, I don't know what to say.
I look down at the duffel between us.
Seven or eight years.
All that time, our names had been passing each other on purchase orders and invoices while he never said a word.
“You knew it was my company.”
“I did.”
“You could've called.”
He looks at me for a moment. “Would you have wanted me to?”
The question catches me completely unprepared.
I honestly don't know.
“Maybe,” I say.
He gives me a small smile. “That's about the answer I figured I'd get.”
I hate that he's probably right.
I pick up the duffel again.
“I once got into an actual argument with a distributor in Italy over these bags.”
“Did you win?”
“Of course I won.”
“Good.”
“I told him American leather could be every bit as good as Italian leather.”
“Smart woman.”
“I was defending your leather.”
“You have excellent taste.”
I laugh. “You're enjoying this way too much.”
“A little.”
I shake my head, still trying to fit this version of Wyatt into everything I already know about him.
Sheriff.
Farmer.
Uncle.
Beekeeper.
And the owner of a successful leather company, whose products I've been putting in national campaigns for most of the last decade.
“How big is Lane Leather?”
“Not huge.”
“That's not an answer.”
“I've got twenty-three people.”
My head comes up. “You employ twenty-three people?”
“Twenty-two this week. Paul's on vacation.”
I laugh. “That's not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“You have an actual manufacturing operation.”
“Shop and warehouse about fifteen minutes outside Stonebridge.”
I stare at him.
And suddenly, the last couple of weeks make more sense.
I've got some errands to do.
I’m busy till six.
Every time I'd assumed sheriff business. Or farm business. Or something else Wyatt somehow manages to fit into his day.
“You've been going to Lane Leather.”
“Some of the time.”
“Those afternoons when you disappear for two or three hours?”
“I don't disappear.”
“You become suspiciously unavailable.”
“I usually tell somebody where I'm going.”
“You tell them you're going to work.”
“Which is technically true.”
“Wyatt.”
He laughs.
I take it all in, still trying to wrap my head around everything I'm learning about him.
“Do you still make them yourself?”
“Some. Mostly prototypes now. New designs. Custom pieces when I have time. Grandpa taught me to work leather by hand, and I don't want to lose that part of it.”
“So you design everything?”
“Most of it. I've got a couple of people who work with me on new pieces now.”
I pick up the duffel again and study the stitching.
I've spent my entire adult life around people who make things. Designers. Pattern makers. Seamstresses. Craftsmen. I know what it takes to take something from an idea in your head to an object another person is willing to spend money on.
Wyatt has been doing exactly that. For years. And I never knew.
“Why didn't you tell me about any of this?”
He shrugs. “You never asked.”
“I asked what your story was.”
“And I told you.”
“You told me about bees.”
“I have bees.”
I laugh. “You are impossible.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep proving it.”
I turn the bag over again.
And see the stamp.
LANE LEATHER CO.
My thumb stops over the letters.
Lane.
I look at Wyatt.
He's already watching me.
“You said you remembered Lane was my middle name.”
“Of course I remember.”
I look back at the stamp.
Then at him.
“Wyatt.”
He doesn't say anything.
“You started this company.”
“I did.”
“And you named it.”
His eyes stay on mine.
I hold up the bag.
“Why is it called Lane Leather?”
For once, Wyatt doesn't have some dry answer waiting for me.
He catches Olivia listening.
Olivia immediately lowers her head and becomes extremely interested in her clipboard.
I take a step closer.
“Wyatt Stapleton.”
He picks up one of the empty honey crates.
“I'm hungry.”
I stare at him. “You're not getting out of this.”
“Didn't say I was.”
“You're going to tell me.”
“I will.”
“When?”
He starts toward the back.
“Lunch sounds good.”
I follow him.
“Wyatt.”
He looks back over his shoulder.
And smiles.
“Come on, Lane.”
I stop dead.
He keeps walking.
Oh, he is absolutely going to explain himself.
Wyatt does eventually explain himself.
Just not over lunch.
We find a little place a few blocks from the boutique with outdoor tables and more people waiting for seats than seems reasonable for a weekday afternoon.
Wyatt orders a burger, I order something that comes with sweet potato fries, and I spend most of the meal trying to get the Lane story out of him.
He spends most of the meal refusing.
“You're enjoying this,” I tell him.
“A little.”
“I can tell.”
“You waited eight years. You can wait another hour.”
“I didn't know I was waiting.”
“Still counts.”
After lunch, we hear music coming from down the block—a guitar, a fiddle, and a voice good enough to make me stop walking.
“Come on.” I catch Wyatt's hand and pull him toward it.
“We should probably get back.”
“Probably.”
Neither of us turns toward the truck.
We find the band playing outside a small bar, half a dozen tables scattered along the sidewalk. We stand at first, then find a spot near the back and stay through three songs. Then four.
Wyatt keeps my hand in his the whole time.
At some point, I realize I'm sitting in Nashville in the middle of a weekday, listening to a band with Wyatt Stapleton. And there is nowhere else I’d rather be.
I can't remember the last time I let an afternoon stretch simply because I wasn't ready for it to end.
Eventually Wyatt looks at his watch.
“We really should go.”
“I know.”
We stay for one more song anyway.