As she stepped onto the grass, a sudden cheer broke out from the crowd. The whole town had shown up. Oma waved from near the pie table, a Tupperware container tucked under her arm. Pastor Pete and Annie Cumberland manned the grill, smoke rising as they flipped burgers with easy, practiced motions. The Knit Wit ladies bustled between tables, their colorful skirts flapping, balancing plates piled high with deviled eggs and potato salad. Of course, Nicola Cavendish had made it, her enormous sunhat casting shade over her little dog Sweetpea, nestled in a pink sling across her chest, while she handed out tiny American flags to whoever would take one.
“You didn’t think we’d let you sneak out of town without a proper send-off, did you?” Annie hollered over the music.
Reva shook her head, her voice catching. “You are all something else.”
“You’re family,” Oma said firmly, pressing a cinnamon roll into her hand. “And we take care of our own.”
The air was thick with the smell of charcoal and baked peaches. Tables sagged under the weight of every comfort food imaginable—racks of ribs, piles of buttery cornbread, bowls of baked beans swimming with smoky bacon. Reva barely had time to set her plate down before the line of well-wishers started.
Pastor Pete gripped her hand. His voice was thick when he said, “Your faith helped build this town stronger than any ordinance ever could, Reva.”
Albie Barton, the town newspaper editor, handed her a framed front page. Big bold letters read: FAREWELL, BUT NEVER FORGOTTEN.
Fleet Southcott, his hands shaking slightly, pressed something into her palm. She opened it to find a battered antique deputy’s badge.
“Just in case Georgia needs another sheriff,” he said with a wink.
Reva glanced across the crowd to where Gibbs stood near the parking area, badge gleaming on his chest, arms folded as he scanned the crowd with quiet authority. He gave Reva a respectful nod—still getting used to the weight of the job but wearing it like he meant to earn it.
Each goodbye chipped away at her. But she smiled through it, her heart swelling and splintering all at once. This was love—the messy, generous, overwhelming kind. She had given her whole heart to Thunder Mountain, and the town had loved her right back.
She moved slowly through the crowd, pausing every few feet, not because she was being polite—but because she couldn’t rush this. Every hand she shook, every back she patted, held a memory. The librarian who’d slipped books into Lucan’s backpack without due dates. The rancher who once showed up in her driveway during a snowstorm with a cord of firewood and didn’t ask a single question. The high school kid who’d nervously handed her a homemade flyer about starting a skate park and now stood beside her, six inches taller, holding his toddler.
Near the edge of the lawn, she caught sight of the old wooden community bulletin board, sun-faded and covered in layers of curling flyers—lost pets, bake sales, prayer meetings. She’d once taped her very first campaign flyer to that board, fingers shaking, heart pounding.
Now, a fresh sheet of paper had been pinned to the top: “THANK YOU, REVA.” It was scrawled in a dozen different inks, covered in notes from townsfolk. She moved closer and scanned the words—some funny, some tear-stained. You made Thunder Mountain feel safe. We’ll miss you. Don’t forget who you are, even if you live where sweet tea is served cold.
Just then, Nicola Cavendish tottered over in a pair of heeled boots clearly not meant for grass. Sweetpea barked indignantly from her sling as Nicola thrust a small velvet pouch into Reva’s hands.
“This is for you,” Nicola said, her voice wobbling between theatrical and sincere. “It’s a Saint Christopher medal. It belonged to Wooster’s mother, and I’ve decided you’re worthy of it.”
Reva blinked. “Nicola…this is?—”
“Don’t make a fuss,” Nicola interrupted, waving a bejeweled hand. “Just wear it and don’t get too attached to those backroads of Georgia. And if you come home for a visit, bring a bag of those boiled peanuts I keep reading about,” she said.
Reva was still laughing when she turned and nearly collided with Jewel, who looked like she’d been trying her best not to cry. The girl threw her arms around Reva’s waist and held on tight.
“Are you really gonna go?” she whispered.
Reva crouched down so they were eye to eye. “I am, sweetheart. But guess what? You’re coming with me.”
Jewel’s brows knit together. “I am?”
“In stories,” Reva said, tapping Jewel’s chest. “In the way I talk about you. In every memory I carry. That means you have to keep doing amazing things, so I always have new stories to tell.”
Off to one side, Lucan had joined a circle of kids playing tag near the hay bales. His laughter rang out bright and unburdened. Kellen stood nearby, talking with Charlie Grace and Whit, his arms crossed but his smile easy. For a second, Reva let herself stop trying to memorize everything. She didn’t need to. The people she loved were not fading—they were anchoring her, steady as the Tetons.
Midway through the afternoon, Annie climbed up onto a small wooden stage and banged a cowbell above her head.
“Listen up, everyone!” she shouted, grinning. “We’ve got a few words before we let this woman escape!”
Capri and Jake nudged Reva forward. Capri leaned in and whispered, “Better get used to public adoration, Madame Mayor-for-Life.”
Rolling her eyes, Reva made her way up to the stage, shielding her eyes from the bright sun overhead.
Pastor Pete was the first to take the microphone. His usual booming voice softened as he scanned the crowd.
“I could stand up here and list Reva Nygard’s titles—attorney, mayor, advocate, friend. But titles don’t tell the whole story,” he said, pausing. “Reva didn’t just serve this town. She mothered it. She fought for it. She loved it when it was messy and stubborn and broken down the middle. She taught us that real leadership isn’t about power. It’s about love.”
