Chapter 20
I sleep until four in the afternoon. When I finally wake up, my phone is full of messages.
From Presley: OMG Dolly told me! I’m so happy you’re staying!
From Boone: Good news travels fast. Glad you’re sticking around!
From Meredith: I knew you’d make the right choice. See you Saturday for gardening. Bring your appetite, I’m making pie!
And from Wyatt: Hope you slept well. Still picking you up at seven. Wear something comfortable.
I smile at the phone and type back. Slept great. See you at seven. Can I have a hint about the surprise?
His response is immediate. No.
Then another message pops up. But you’ll like it, I promise.
At seven o’clock sharp, his truck pulls up into the parking lot.
I’m waiting on the porch in jeans and a soft green t-shirt, comfortable like he said, but nice enough that I don’t feel underdressed for whatever it is he’s planning.
My hair is down, still a little damp from the shower, and I’m using just enough makeup to hide evidence of my sleepless night.
He gets out of the truck and stops when he sees me.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
“I look like a woman who slept for twelve hours.”
“You look beautiful,” he repeats.
He opens the passenger door for me, as he always does, and I climb in. The cab smells like him, cologne and something underneath that’s just Wyatt.
“So where are we going?” I ask as he pulls out of the parking lot.
“You’ll see.”
“You know I hate surprises.”
“No, you don’t. You hate not being in control. There’s a difference.”
He’s not wrong.
We drive through town, past Dixie Diner and the Sweet Tea Bakery and Grits and Grind, past the town square with its white gazebo and towering oaks, past the church where Pastor Dale preaches on Sundays.
And then Wyatt turns onto a road I haven’t been on before, a very narrow one that winds up into the hills behind town.
“Wyatt, where—”
“Patience.”
We climb higher as the trees press in on both sides until it opens into a clearing at the top of a ridge. And I understand.
The clearing is full of people.
Dolly is there, setting up a folding table laden with food.
Presley is stringing lights between two trees.
Boone is manning what looks like a portable grill, turning burgers.
Meredith is sitting in a lawn chair, directing everyone.
And beyond them, the view. The entire valley lies below us, Copper Creek nestled in the center like a jewel.
The sun is just beginning to set, painting everything in warm light.
“Wyatt,” I breathe, surprised.
He’s grinning so much. “This is the overlook. Best view in the county. We do picnics up here sometimes for special occasions.”
“And this is a special occasion?”
“You chose to stay. That’s about as special as it gets.”
I’m out of the truck before I can think about it, walking toward the group. These people who have become my family.
Dolly sees me and lets out a whoop. “She’s here! The guest of honor has arrived!”
And then I’m hugged by Dolly, who smells strongly of perfume and hairspray. By Presley, who squeezes me so hard I can barely breathe. By Boone, whose hug is gentle for such a massive man. By Meredith, who cups my face in her soft hands and says, “I’m so proud of you, my dear.”
“How did you arrange all of this?” I ask Wyatt when I finally pull myself away from the group.
“I made some calls while you were sleeping. Turns out people were pretty motivated to celebrate.”
“You did all of this in a few hours?”
“We did all of this,” he says, gesturing at the group. “This is what community looks like, Eleanor. People showing up for each other.”
I blink rapidly. I refuse to cry again.
“Thank you. All of you. I just don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything,” Dolly says. “Just eat. Boone’s been slaving over that grill for an hour, and he’ll be offended if you don’t try his burgers.”
* * *
The evening winds down around ten o’clock. People drift away in twos or threes, carrying leftover food, tired children, and calling goodbyes across the clearing. Meredith fell asleep in her lawn chair an hour ago, and Boone gently carries her to Wyatt’s truck as if she weighs nothing.
“I should help clean up,” I say, but Dolly waves me off.
“You’ve done enough. Go be with your man. Enjoy the stars.”
So I do.
Wyatt and I end up on the tailgate of his truck after he returns from taking his grandmother home, legs dangling, looking out at the valley below. The lights of Copper Creek twinkle in the darkness.
“Heck of a week,” he says.
“Heck of a few months.”
He laughs softly and pulls me closer. I lean into him.
“Thank you,” I say, “for all this, and for not giving up on me.”
“Couldn’t if I tried.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “You’re stuck with me forever now, Eleanor Whitfield.”
“Good.”
We sit there until the last car pulls away, until the clearing is empty and quiet. The only things we can hear are the sound of crickets and the distant murmur of the creek.
And I think, this is it. This is home.
It’s not just the place, but the feeling.
The weeks that follow settle into a rhythm.
Summer deepens into fall. Leaves begin to turn, splashing the mountains with color.
The bar stays busy with the last of the tourist season, and I find myself looking forward to the quieter months ahead.
Time to plan, improve, and dream about what The Rusty Spur could become.
Wyatt and I don’t talk about October fifteenth. We don’t need to. The decision has been made. The only thing left is the paperwork.
As the date approaches, I think about my great-aunt Mavis more and more. About the woman I never met who somehow knew me better than I knew myself. About the gift she gave me, not just the bar, but the permission to become myself.
I sure hope I’ve made her proud.
* * *
October fifteenth arrives on a Tuesday. The morning is crisp and clear, the kind of fall day that makes you want to go sit in a stack of hay and drink cider. I wake up early in my apartment above The Rusty Spur and lie there for a moment.
Six months ago, I drove into Copper Creek with no idea what I was getting into. Six months ago, I walked into a honky-tonk bar expecting to hate every minute of my time there.
And today, The Rusty Spur officially becomes mine.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Wyatt: Big day. You ready?
Me: Nervous, excited, all of it.
Wyatt: I’ll pick you up at 9:30. We’ll go to Harlan’s together.
Me: You don’t have to do that.
Wyatt: I want to. This is important. You shouldn’t do it alone.
I smile at my phone.
Me: See you at 9:30.
I shower and dress, not wearing the pencil skirt and pearls I arrived in, but nice jeans and a white t-shirt, complete with my new hiking boots. Something that feels like me, the real me.
At 9:30 sharp, Wyatt’s truck pulls into the parking lot.
I meet him outside, and he pulls me into a hug before I can say anything.
“You’ve got this,” he says against my hair.
“I know. I just…” I pull back and look at him. “It feels like the end of something, you know? And the beginning of something else.”
“And that’s exactly what it is.”
He opens the door for me. “Come on. Let’s go make it official.”
Harlan’s office looks exactly the same as it did six months ago. Same stacks of paper, same creaky stairs, the same smell of old books and coffee. But I’m different. Everything about me is different.
Wyatt waits in the truck. This is something I need to do alone.
I climb the familiar stairs one last time as a visitor. The next time I come here, whenever that will be, I’ll be a true citizen of Copper Creek. A property owner and a member of the community in every sense of the word.
Harlan is waiting behind his desk, a folder open in front of him.
“Ms. Whitfield,” he gestures to the chair across from him, “please sit.”
I sit, my heart pounding.
“Well,” he says, looking at me over the reading glasses sitting at the tip of his nose, “it’s been quite a six months.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Developers, health inspections, community workdays, apparently a relationship with Mr. Wyatt Rivers himself that has the whole town talking.” He chuckles. “Mavis would have loved every minute of that.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so. She never did anything the easy way. Why should you?”
He picks up a pen. “Now, are you ready to make it official?”
He slides a stack of documents across the desk. I read them carefully. Transfer of ownership, the final release of the estate, the confirmation that all conditions of the will have been met.
“Sign here,” Harlan says, pointing. “And here. And here.”
I sign. My hand is steady.
Eleanor Whitfield.
“Congratulations,” Harlan says when I’m done. “The Rusty Spur is officially yours, free and clear.”
I stare at the papers, at my name, at the reality of what I’ve accomplished.
“I did it,” I whisper.
“You did,” he leans back in his chair, winking. “Oh, there’s one more thing.”
He reaches into his desk and pulls out a cream-colored envelope, slightly yellowed around the edges, with my name written on the front.
“Mavis left this for you. Instructions were to give it to you on this day, if you made it through.”
My hands tremble as I take it. “She wrote me another letter?”
“She did. Left it with me for safekeeping.”
I turn it over in my hands, almost afraid to open it, because Mavis has been known for surprises. But whatever’s inside, it’s the final word, the last thing Mavis will ever say to me.
“You want some privacy?” he asks.
“Oh, no. You can stay.”
I open the envelope and pull out two sheets of paper covered in her familiar handwriting.
My dearest Eleanor,
If you’re reading this, you made it. You stayed. You fought through whatever challenges came your way, and I’m sure there were many. You became part of Copper Creek, just like I knew you would.