Chapter 3
ISLA
BOOM! The steering wheel wrenches to the right, and the tires skitter across the pavement, barely clinging to the road. My heart races as I fight to keep the car steady, as it bumps along like Erin’s nineteen-year-old cat ambling to the food bowl.
I manage to guide the car to a complete stop on the gravelly shoulder. Climbing out, I squint against the sun’s glare and crouch beside the front tires. My jaw drops. The passenger side front tire is shredded, a deflated mess of rubber clinging to the rim.
I glance back at the road, where glistening shards of unidentifiable metal glint in the sunlight, strewn across my lane like a cruel obstacle course.
I had accepted that this trip to Wildhaven wouldn’t be a walk in the park.
The drive is a long, winding ascent into the mountains, and I’m running on a measly two hours of sleep.
I anticipated needing to stop for breaks and relying on dill pickle sunflower seeds and sour Skittles to keep my eyes open.
But I didn’t foresee having to change a tire just ten miles shy of Wildhaven, when my nerves are already stretched tighter than a guitar string.
Cursing under my breath, I pop open the trunk and begin the tedious task of unearthing the spare tire. The space is a mess—scrubs, unopened mail, a bag of stale Milano cookies.
So that’s where those went!
I finally find the spare, but the jack’s missing. Dammit! I lent it to my neighbor months ago.
My head pounds behind my eyes as I pull out my phone and tap open my insurance app, fingers tapping in my information. A series of automated messages flashes on the screen, chirping false cheer with wishes for a fantastic day as it notifies me that a tow truck has been dispatched.
Ace Towing. Fricken awesome. This is precisely the kind of return to Wildhaven I wanted to avoid.
I sit in my car, the engine silent, glancing at my phone repeatedly as thirty long minutes crawl by.
Finally, the rumble of a tow truck engine breaks the monotony. I spot the truck’s bulky frame rolling down the road and slide out of the car, standing in front of it with crossed arms.
The driver steps out, a man clad in an Ace Towing t-shirt that has seen better days, and a pair of worn, oil-streaked Levi’s. A faded baseball cap rests on his head.
As he draws closer, his features come into focus. It’s Greg Sanders. Ugh. Of course, I’m rescued by a guy I knew ten years ago. His biggest accolade in high school was making $20 for drinking a bottle of hot sauce on a dare.
“Hey!” he exclaims with a grin, striding my way with an easy confidence. “What can I help you with?”
I nudge my foot toward the sagging tire that looks pitiful under the car’s weight. “I’ve got a flat.”
“That you do.” He chuckles, and his eyes crinkle as he scrutinizes me. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”
“No, I don’t think so. Anyway, I have the spare. I just need to get it onto the car.”
He studies me with a hint of doubt lingering in his gaze, then shrugs it off. “Yeah, sure. I’ll get that done for you right away.”
I offer a tight, polite smile, watching as he crouches and begins to work on the tire.
A small cloud of dirt puffs up from the ground beside him, and he glances up. “So what brings you to this area?”
Wow, Greg is quite the “Chatty Cathy.” I hadn’t remembered that about him. “Just passing through.”
“You should stop and spend some time in Wildhaven.” He grabs the torque wrench to finish his task. “It’s a real gorgeous area. There’s plenty of hiking and exploring to do.”
“I’m not on that kind of trip.”
He finishes tightening the lug nuts, stands, and wipes his hands on his dirty jeans. “Well, maybe next time.”
I nod.
“Your tire’s all fixed. I just need you to sign so we can charge your insurance.”
I hadn’t thought of that. He clearly hasn’t bothered to read my name yet. He hands me the iPad, and I scribble my name above the printed letters.
As he takes the tablet from me, he turns to leave, but then glances down at the information, and when his gaze meets mine again, there’s a spark of recognition in his eyes.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “Isla. I thought you looked familiar.”
I exhale, forcing a smile but staying silent.
“You coming home for a visit?”
“Not exactly.”
“I haven’t seen you since high school graduation. What’s it been, ten years?”
“About.” I sidestep him, reaching for the car door handle and sliding into the driver’s seat.
“You get married?”
My brow creases.
“Your name. You signed Isla Rae.” He pauses. “But your name was Tanner in high school.”
I exhale heavily, resisting the urge to drive away, whether his foot is in the way or not. Instead, I simply say, “My name has changed.”
His mouth hangs open like he’s buffering, before he gives up with a shrug. “If you’re going to be here awhile, we should hang out.”
Before I have a chance to decline his offer, he continues. “Unless you’re here for Wild. I remember you two were pretty close back in the day.”
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel as the leather bites into my skin. “I’m just passing through. Like I said.”
“Yeah, uh, okay. Well, if you change your mind, I’m at The Rusty Nail most nights.”
Why doesn’t that surprise me?
“Take care, Isla.” With that, he turns on his heel and heads back to his truck. He’s nearly there when I step out of my car and call after him.
“Can you do me a favor and not tell anyone I’m here? I’d really appreciate it.”
He stops, turns toward me, scratching the back of his neck, looking a bit sheepish. “Yeah. Sure thing, Isla.”
He’s definitely going to tell someone.
Approaching the southern edge of town, the barbed wire fencing of Wildhaven Ranch comes into view. My heart beats faster, a rhythm that signals that I’ve arrived.
Beyond the fence, a herd of cattle grazes. Dandelions and scruffy brush pepper the roadside, swaying as the breeze dances through them.
Without thinking, I roll down the window, allowing the gust of wind to rush in. The aroma of cow manure mingles with the scent of blooming weeds, filling the car as birds chirp overhead.
The town smells like rain and regret, like it’s been waiting for me to come back and apologize for leaving.
The sensory overload is almost too much, and my chest tightens. The urge to cry wells up inside me, the tears threatening to spill over, but I swallow them back, feeling the lump in my throat.
Once I leave the ranch behind and turn onto Main Street, the changes over the past 10 years become more apparent.
Wildhaven still holds onto its small-town charm. The hardware store stands just as it did, its paint peeling and the old sign teetering, ready to drop at any moment. But it’s the new developments that catch my eye; a few modern shops and an upscale bistro with outdoor seating.
The gas station on the corner is a welcome sight. It remains unchanged, and adjacent to it stands the place I’ll call home for the brief days I’m here—the Mountain View Inn.
The building has a rustic-looking exterior and a charming porch. After scanning online, there weren’t many options, but this place had everything I needed: a bed and a sturdy lock on the door.
I check in without encountering anyone familiar, which is a small victory. I sit on the bed, its patchwork quilt colorful and new, and let myself absorb the room’s quiet for a moment before reaching for my phone to call Alan.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Alan. This is Isla Rae.” I twist a corner of the bedspread absently between my fingers. “Can we meet this afternoon?”
“I’m happy you made it here safely, Isla. Unfortunately, I’m tied up for the rest of the day. How about tomorrow at 9 AM?”
My shoulders slump, but I offer false cheer. “Sure. That works.”
“I’ll see you here at the office.”
“Thank you.”
I wander to the window and gaze at the mountains etched against the horizon. I had almost forgotten how beautiful this town is. My awe is interrupted by a low growl in my stomach, reminding me that the junk food I relied on during my trip has exhausted its usefulness.
Heading to the diner or trying the new bistro sounds appealing in theory, but I doubt I’d be able to sit still long enough to eat. Since fast food isn’t an option here, I walk over to the gas station and grab something there instead.
The electronic bell chimes as I step through the threshold of Stagecoach Gas and Liquor.
A nostalgic grin spreads across my face as memories rush back—sticky summer afternoons with Luke, sharing Frosty Icees until our tongues turned blue, and that one disastrous attempt at buying beer that earned us a lecture from Mr. Witherspoon and a warning he’d call Luke’s father.
Though the store has seen some updates over the years, the essence of its layout remains unchanged. I wander past the rows of snacks.
The cold egg salad sandwich in its plastic wedge container looks as unappetizing as ever, and the greasy pizza slices languishing under a heat lamp seem no more appealing.
Ignoring the protest of my empty stomach, I grab an iced tea and a bag of trail mix and slide them across the counter to the cashier, who barely glances up.
With my makeshift dinner in hand, I exit the gas station and turn towards the inn. Yet, an inexplicable force tugs at me, urging me to move in the opposite direction. It’s a pull from deep within, an intense curiosity to rediscover the town I left behind.
Just down the road from the post office, the air becomes a symphony of scents that are too tempting to ignore.
The hearty aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the buttery fragrance of pies straight from the oven.
As I draw closer, the unmistakable and musty scent of old books marries with the food.
Unable to resist, I meandered toward a quaint little shop named Pages and Pastries. As I push open the door, my jaw drops.
To my left, rows of books stretch across the shelves, a spiral staircase leading to a loft scattered with oversized floor pillows.
Warm light glows against a stone fireplace, where a few mismatched tables and chairs invite lingering.