Oma’s face lit up. “For the oyster fry?”
“Yup. Got anything you want to donate?”
“I’ll donate a couple of batches of cinnamon rolls. They’ll go faster than those oysters, I guarantee.”
Capri grinned. “You’re the best. Earl’s lucky to have you keeping him company with rolls like these.”
Oma laughed, offering one to Capri. “Have one for the road, dear.”
The last stop was Wylie’s Feed and Seed, where Wylie himself was fiddling with a display of lawn and garden equipment. When they asked for his contribution, he grinned.
“I’ll donate,” he said, scratching his beard. “But only if you make sure everyone knows it’s my secret recipe for the oysters.”
Capri smirked. “Your recipe? Since when do you know how to fry anything?”
“Trade secret,” Wylie said with a wink.
Reva laughed. “We’ll just put your name in lights then.”
“Deal,” Wylie said, shaking hands.
The sun was setting as the four of them gathered back at the town square, tired but satisfied. They plopped down on the steps of the Moose Chapel, reviewing the list of donations.
“Well,” Reva said, scanning the paper. “This is a good start. We’ve got a keg, pies, cinnamon rolls, and...questionable meat pies.”
Lila groaned. “Only in Thunder Mountain could we fundraise for an earthquake with Rocky Mountain oysters and mystery meat.”
Capri smiled, leaning back against the steps. “If this town can survive this oyster fry, it can survive anything.”
Charlie Grace chuckled. “Here’s to the fry. Let’s hope people come for the food and stay for the cause with checkbooks in hand.”
“And the keg,” Capri added, raising an imaginary glass. “Definitely the keg.”
30
The day of the Rocky Mountain oyster fry dawned clear and crisp, the blue Wyoming sky stretching endlessly overhead, unmarred except for a single white jet trail cutting across the expanse, a silent reminder of life beyond Thunder Mountain. A light breeze fluttered through the town square outside the community center, carrying with it the distinct tang of frying oil and the earthy scent of freshly mown grass. Tables lined with checkered cloths stretched across the square, heaped with homemade pies, casseroles, and of course, platters of crispy fried Rocky Mountain oysters.
Capri stood off to the side, watching the crowd slowly grow as more townspeople trickled in. Kids darted around, weaving through the legs of adults carrying plates piled high with food. Laughter and conversation hummed in the background, blending with the distant music filtering out from the speakers Reva had set up near the makeshift stage.
Capri scanned the crowd, her eyes falling on Charlie Grace, who was laughing with some ranch hands from the guest ranch. She looked more relaxed than Capri had seen her in weeks. Maybe it was the success of the oyster fry—or maybe it was Nick Thatcher, who stood beside her, looking as rugged as ever in his jeans and worn boots, a baseball cap shielding his eyes from the sun.
Capri couldn’t help but smirk. Who would’ve thought Charlie Grace would end up dating a big-shot production designer from Los Angeles?
As the smell of frying oysters thickened, Capri drifted closer to the food table, eyeing the thermometer display Reva had placed by the stage. A thick red line crept toward the top, but so far, the line was far from reaching their goal.
The donations had been pouring in all day, but despite the best efforts of the town, they were still short. She crossed her arms, feeling a knot of worry in her stomach. They had to make this work. The earthquake remediation mandate was breathing down their necks, and without enough money to retrofit the town’s buildings, Thunder Mountain would be in serious trouble and subject to possible fines—let alone if a much bigger quake ever hit.
“You look like you’re ready to wrestle a bear,” Reva’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. She stood beside Capri, holding a clipboard, her signature no-nonsense expression softening as she followed Capri’s gaze to the donation thermometer. “We’ll get there. People are still coming in.”
Capri sighed. “I hope so. I don’t know how much more we can do. The raffle’s just about wrapped up, and we’re still short.”
Reva tilted her head, glancing around. The square was packed with townsfolk—familiar faces that had been there through the ups and downs of Thunder Mountain life. Oma, as always, sat in her lawn chair with a thermos of coffee by her side, a tray of cinnamon rolls perched precariously on her lap. The Knit Wit ladies were huddled together, knitting needles clicking as they chatted between bites of pie. Pastor Pete and his wife, Annie, were making the rounds, shaking hands and offering words of gratitude. Even Albie Barton, the town’s newspaper reporter, was there, scribbling notes furiously as if the fry was the biggest event to hit the town in years.
Nicola Cavendish, Thunder Mountain’s self-appointed gossip queen, stood near the donation booth, her tiny Yorkie, Sweetpea, yapping incessantly at passersby. Capri cringed as Nicola waved a hand dramatically, her husband Wooster standing beside her, looking as though he’d rather be anywhere else. Nicola’s voice was loud enough to carry across the square, though anyone who knew her also knew that was part of the charm—or the curse, depending on the day.
“I heard Marjorie Pembroke’s niece is moving back to town,” Nicola announced, clutching Sweetpea under one arm as the little dog squirmed. “Word is she’s fresh out of a nasty divorce. Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s after Mayor Reva’s job next, mark my words!”
Capri caught Reva’s eye from across the square, and the mayor just sighed, shaking her head with a resigned smile. “At least Nicola’s consistent,” Reva muttered as she approached Capri, nodding toward Nicola, who was now shoving a fried oyster into Wooster’s mouth to quiet him. Poor man barely got a word in edgewise.
