They stood in silence for a moment, the heaviness settling like a blanket.
Verna finally cleared her throat and stepped forward, placing the folder on Reva’s desk. “You did the right thing. For him. For the town.”
“I know,” Reva murmured.
But knowing didn’t make it easier.
17
The sharp jingle of the bell above the door rang out as Charlie Grace stepped into Wylie’s Feed and Seed, brushing dust from her jeans. The familiar tang of hay, rubber boots, and motor oil clung to the air inside the store—just the kind of place she’d grown up feeling at home. She gave a quick wave to the calico cat perched on a stack of mineral lick tubs near the register.
Wylie Martin stood behind the counter, rearranging seed packets with the slow precision of a man who’d owned the store since before Charlie Grace could ride a two-wheeler. “Morning, Charlie Grace. Let me guess—something broke, and you’re fixing it yourself instead of calling one of those ranch hands you keep on payroll.”
She grinned and hefted a heavy-duty posthole digger onto the counter. “The south fence line near the creek got flattened in the windstorm last week. Figured I’d replace a few posts and re-tension the wire before the horses figure out there’s an escape route.”
Wylie raised one white brow and gave the digger a skeptical once-over. “You know, most folks in your position don’t spend their morning digging in the mud. They write a check and call it good. Especially ones with bank accounts so full they burst.”
“I know.” Charlie Grace shrugged, brushing a strand of windblown hair from her face. “Old habits. Besides, it clears my head.”
“Mmm.” Wylie rang up the sale and slid the receipt across the counter. “Just don’t forget—there’s a difference between being capable and being stubborn. One makes you strong. The other just makes you tired.”
She chuckled, pocketing her change. “Story of my life.”
He leaned his elbows on the counter. “You ever think maybe it’s time to let someone else shoulder a little of it? Lot of good men and women around here who’d jump at the chance.”
Charlie Grace paused, her fingers tightening on the wooden handle of the posthole digger. “Maybe,” she said, but her voice carried the weight of a woman not quite ready to admit it.
As she turned to leave, Wylie called out, “You’ll have to learn sometime, Charlie Grace. Even the strongest horses need rest.”
She gave him a two-finger salute and pushed through the door, the bell jingling again behind her.
Outside, the wind had picked up, carrying with it the smell of damp earth and wild sage. Charlie Grace loaded the tool into the bed of her truck.
She had just tugged the tailgate shut when a familiar wedge of sleek black metal nosed into a parking space across the street. She straightened, squinting into the sunlight as Nick Thatcher stepped out of his SUV, tall and trim in a flannel shirt rolled to the elbows and worn jeans that still somehow looked designer. A camera hung from his neck, the strap worn from use, his dark hair tousled by the wind.
He spotted her and grinned—wide, easy, and just a little crooked—then jogged across Main Street, dodging a passing pickup and drawing more than one glance from the Knit Wit ladies congregated on the bench outside the bakery.
“Thought that was your truck,” he said as he approached, giving the posthole digger in the bed a curious glance. “You starting a landscaping business on the side?”
Charlie Grace leaned against the tailgate, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “Just doing repairs after the storm. South fence line took a hit.”
Nick rested a hand on the edge of the truck, close but not touching her. “Of course, you are.”
For the benefit of anyone watching—and more than a few were—he didn’t lean in for a kiss, but the warmth in his eyes made it clear he could’ve. Charlie Grace felt it, the way she always did.
They’d met the year before when Nick stayed at her guest ranch while scouting locations for Bear Country, a gritty wilderness television show that had since become a breakout hit. As the show’s production designer, Nick had every reason to move on after filming wrapped near Jackson—but he hadn’t. He kept showing up. Kept calling. And somewhere along the line, their story had gone from casual to something neither of them could quite define, but both were reluctant to let go.
“You here scouting?” she asked, nodding toward the camera.
“Sort of,” he said. “Thought I’d grab some shots of Thunder Mountain for an upcoming promotion campaign. You know I’ve got a soft spot for this place.”
She rolled her eyes, but her voice softened. “Still trying to sneak it into season two?”
“I’m a patient man,” he said, lifting the camera and snapping a photo before she could protest.
Charlie Grace gave him a look. “Delete it.”
“Not a chance,” he said. “You look like the kind of woman who knows how to handle a fence post and then take on the world.”
