The place looks almost exactly as I left it. Maybe a little more snow and sunlight bouncing off the faded awnings and dented pickup trucks. The main street is still mostly empty, like the town’s holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
Maybe waiting for me.
Liam pulls the truck to a stop in front of a squat building with dark wood siding and a hand-painted sign above the door. Knot and Spur. The S is crooked. The T’s chipped. The whole place leans a little to the left, like it's been through a storm or has just decided it’s done trying.
I squint. “Why does this look like a bar?”
Sam smirks, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Because it is.”
“But it says it’s a store.”
He shrugs. “It’s also that.”
I blink at him. “So like a boutique?”
Phern pipes up from the front seat. “More like a honky-tonk that also sells flannel, belt buckles, and maybe a jar of pickled eggs if you’re lucky.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Interesting.”
“It’s not much,” Sam says as he opens the door and hops out, then turns to offer me a hand. “But you’ll find some clothes, and then we can get a drink.”
I take his hand and let him help me out. His touch lingers a second longer than necessary, fingers brushing my palm like he’s not ready to let go.
I’m not either.
“Alright,” I say, glancing at the sign again. “Let’s see what Knot and Spur has in store for me.”
Pun intended.
He groans as we head toward the door. “Terrible.”
“You love it.”
And I can’t help but feel it again. That hum under my skin. The quiet certainty that this place, these people, this man… they’re feeling like more than just a detour. They’re starting to feel like home.
The bell above the door jingles as we step inside Knot and Spur, and the scent hits me first. Leather, pine, aged whiskey, and something sweet that might be cinnamon or just the ghost of a candle long since burned out.
It’s dimly lit, part boutique, part western dive bar. One side of the space is lined with racks of clothing: denim, flannel, fringe, and the occasional rhinestone. The other side has a long wooden bar with a mirror stained by years of cigarette smoke, and three old men nursing glasses of amber liquid like it’s a religion.
A woman with teased blonde hair and turquoise earrings looks up from behind the register and breaks into a wide grin.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” she says, setting down herPeoplemagazine. “Sam Stone, back from the dead.”
Sam chuckles and tips an imaginary hat. “Just passing through, Sherry.”
Sherry eyes me over the top of her glasses, then shifts her gaze down to where Sam’s hand is still resting casually at the small of my back. “Mmm. You must be Charlotte Wilson.”
I blink. “Uh, yeah. How?—?”
Sherry winks. “Honey, word travels faster than a wildfirein August ‘round here. Heard all about you when you checked in at the B&B from Ruby, the owner.”
Behind me, Phern mutters, “God help us.”
Liam leans over. “Sherry runs theKnot. Her husband runs theSpur. Guess which half is which.”
Sherry flips him off with a bright red manicure. “Get on with you, Liam Stone. And Sam? Grab your girl some clothes before I decide to keep her here myself.”
Sam chuckles and tugs me toward a rack of jeans. “She likes you.”
