A sudden gust has me clutching my jacket tighter and hurrying across the lot. I find spot twenty-three, toss my bag in the backseat, and climb in behind the wheel. The interior smells faintly of pine air freshener and something lemony, like a well-intentioned attempt to cover up months of fast food and spilled coffee. I try not to think about it too much as I plug in my phone, open the map app, and take a slow breath.
Broken Heart Creek. Fifty miles west of Sheridan. According to the map, it’ll take about an hour to get there, but only because the route winds through a series of narrow back roads that look like they were drawn by someone with a shaky hand and a grudge against pavement. No highways. No shortcuts. Just the long, quiet stretch between me and whatever answers I’m hoping to find.
I shift the Prius into drive, ease out of the lot, and start the journey. When I glance in the rearview mirror, the city’s already behind me vanishing into the distance like a place I only imagined. That means the story’s ahead. I press the gas just a little harder.
Forty-six minutes later, I roll into Broken Heart Creek.
Did I drive faster than necessary? Absolutely. Was it worth it? Hard to say.
I pull up to the edge of what looks like the main street and slow to a crawl. It’s quiet.
A single pickup truck rumbles down the opposite lane, and a teenage girl with a coffee in one hand and a leash in the other crosses the street like she owns it. Half the storefronts look closed, the other half look like they’ve been opensince 1963 and see no reason to change. There aren’t even any stoplights. Just one stop sign where the main streets intersect.
I look both ways down the nearly empty streets. Maybe the story’s here. Maybe it’s not. But I didn’t fly a thousand miles and risk my job just to turn around now.
I come to a stop in front of the town’s one and only option for lodging. A bed and breakfast with more personality than curb appeal. Broken Heart Creek is so small it doesn’t even have a hotel or motel. Just this place. A hand-painted sign above the front door reads:Heart’s Inn — Est. 1944.
The lettering is slightly uneven, the kind of homemade charm that says we don’t care about stars, we care about biscuits. The house itself is an old two-story Victorian, faded blue paint peeling slightly around the shutters. A pair of white rocking chairs sit on the porch, angled just so, as if they’re waiting for someone’s grandma to return from baking something warm.
I put the car in park, eye the place for a beat, and sigh. This is it. My glamorous home base for however long it takes to find out what happened to Sam Stone.
I grab my bag, step out into the cold, and make my way toward the front door, wondering if they even take credit cards or if I’m about to be asked to pay in pie.
An elderly woman is behind the counter. Wait—scratch that. She’s technically behind the counter, yes, but she’s actually sitting in a recliner that looks like it’s been there since the inn’s “Est. 1944” days. The leather’s cracked, the armrests are threadbare, and she’s nestled into it like royalty on her throne.
“Good afternoon,” I say, stepping up. “I’m here to check in.”
Without looking away from the tiny TV perched on the counter, she waves a hand at me. “Quiet. I can’t hear my story.”
I blink. Her story turns out to be a soap opera with dramatic music, hospital beds, a man with a conveniently timed coma. I didn’t even know soap operas were still a thing. But judging by the rapt attention on her face, they are very much still a thing here. I stand awkwardly, wondering how long until someone fake-dies and I can actually get a room key.
I’m saved by a commercial break. The screen cuts to a cheery ad for denture cream, and the woman finally looks up at me with a warm smile.
“You must be Mrs. Wilson.”
Mrs. Ugh.
“It’s Miss.”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “How nice. You must be one of those girls who doesn’t care about getting married.”
Her voice might be kind, but those words are laced with judgement. I force a tight smile as she reaches under the counter and produces an honest-to-God actual key attached to a heart-shaped plastic tag. I didn’t even know this was a real thing.
“You’re the last door on the left,” she says, sliding it toward me. “Dinner’s at six. We’re having stew tonight.”
I slip the key into my purse. “I was actually wondering how far away Stonewater Ranch is?”
That gets her attention. Her white eyebrows arch like I just asked if she’s seen a ghost.
“You a friend of Phern?”
Phern Stone is Sam’s younger sister. We’re the same age, according to the research I memorized somewhere between Denver and here, though I’m a bit older by a few months. Soyeah, I guess to this woman, it might make sense that Phern is why I’m here.
“Yeah,” I lie without hesitation. “That’s why I’m here.”
The woman beams like I just told her I make jam for church fundraisers.
“I knew it.” She gives a satisfied nod, like the universe just confirmed her lifelong intuition. “Stonewater’s about twenty minutes west, if you don’t miss the turn. Lotta folks do.”
