CHAPTER 1
EVELYN
The bellabove the door jangled as I stepped into Dutch’s general store at precisely 7:58 AM. Two minutes early, which meant I was late by Dutch Henderson standards. The smell of coffee and old wood greeted me, as familiar now as the scent of Emma’s—Sophia’s—hair after her bath. Six months in this tiny Montana town, and sometimes I still forgot we had new names, new lives. My daughter was now called by her middle name, Sophia, and I had become Evie.
A fresh start. That’s what Trent had called it when he left us here, his eyes not quite meeting mine as he’d made promises about checking in, about making sure we were safe. Promises that had faded like footprints in snow.
“If you’re not early, you’re late,” Dutch called from behind the counter without looking up from his newspaper. His weathered face remained hidden behind the pages of the Garnett Gazette, but I knew every crease and line by now, the permanent squint of suspicion that softened only around my daughter.
“Good morning to you, too, Dutch.” I hung my coat on the wooden peg behind the counter and tied the forest green apron around my waist. “Coffee’s already brewed?”
He grunted, which I’d learned meant yes. Dutch Henderson was a man of few words and fewer smiles.
Like Trent.
Nope. I absolutely wasn’t obsessing over him today. I refused.
Dutch had hired me without asking too many questions and pretended not to notice when I sometimes brought Sophia to the store after school.
I poured myself a mug of coffee—black and strong enough to strip paint—and started my morning routine. First, the front display needed refreshing. I arranged jars of local honey, refilled the bread shelf, and straightened the stack of handmade quilts that Mrs. Hill, wife of the town’s only doctor, insisted on selling on consignment. I don’t know why Dutch kept accepting them from her. We’d only sold one since I started working here.
The rhythm of the work was soothing. Stack, arrange, dust, repeat. I moved on autopilot while my mind stayed alert, always watching, always aware of my surroundings. An old habit that had kept me alive during my marriage to Langston, that had kept me functioning during my time at the Hope’s Embrace compound, that still woke me at the slightest sound in our little rental house at night.
Dutch folded his newspaper with a loud rustle. “Order coming in at ten. Hardware and feed mostly.”
“I’ll make space in the back,” I replied, moving to the window display of fishing lures and tackle. The glass was clean enough to offer a perfect view of Main Street, but I still wiped it down again.
Garnett, Montana, consisted of exactly three blocks of businesses, the heart of a ranching and mining community thathad seen better days. Most of the side streets were unpaved, and half the businesses had “Closed” signs that had been hanging for years. The nearest city was Billings, a hundred miles through a whole lot of nothing to the south. The nearest town was fifty miles to the west.
We were in the middle of nowhere, which was the way most of Garnett’s two hundred residents liked it.
On Main Street, the old church steeple poked above the Garnett Bar and Grill two blocks down. There was a post office-slash-bank, Dr. Hill’s clinic, Ellen’s Cuts and Curls—nobody knew who Ellen was, as it was owned by Iris Hollenbeck—and Prairie View Central School, which had one tiny class for every two grades, kindergarten through twelfth. At the edge of town, where Main Street intersected with the two-lane state highway, was the gas station, the Stop Over Motel, and a salvage yard. Beyond that, the rimrocks rose against the morning sky, cradling our little town in weathered stone arms.
It was beautiful in its way.
Remote. Forgotten. Safe.
Or so I hoped.
The sheriff’s cruiser rolled slowly down Main Street, Wade Parker’s cowboy hat visible through the windshield. He lifted two fingers from the steering wheel in a lazy wave as he passed. I returned it automatically, the gesture now part of my carefully constructed small-town persona. Friendly but not too friendly. Present but forgettable. Just another single mom trying to make ends meet in a dusty prairie town.
“Careful. He’s sweet on you,” Dutch commented without looking up from the inventory list he was now scowling at.
I snorted. “Sheriff Parker is married. And old enough to be my dad. He’s just being friendly.”
“Mmm.” Dutch made that sound that meant he disagreed, but wouldn’t push. “New shipment of those paperbacks you like came in. Romance stuff. In the box by the register.”
My cheeks warmed. “They’re not for me. They’re for Beth.”
That was a lie. The romance novels were definitely for me—a small indulgence, a tiny escape when reality pressed too close. But it was easier to pretend they were for someone else than admit I spent my nights alone, reading about fictional men who would never abandon the women they claimed to care about.
Someone ran past the window in a blur of wild auburn curls and mismatched clothing, and I smiled. Speak of the devil. Beth Morris, late as usual for her kindergarten class. She carried an oversized tote that threatened to spill its contents with every step, a coffee cup clutched precariously in one hand, her ponytail already escaping its elastic.
And her left sneaker was completely untied, the laces dragging on the sidewalk.
I darted to the door and pushed it open. “Beth! Your shoe!”
She skidded to a halt, nearly sloshing coffee over her bright yellow cardigan. “What? Oh!” She looked down, laughed. “Thanks, Evie. I swear, one day I’ll actually leave the house with both shoes tied and matching socks.” She wiggled one foot, revealing a purple sock, then the other, sporting neon green. “Today is not that day!”
