Ned tipped his chair back. “You ever been to Catch My Draft?”
Darcy shook her head.
“You should,” Ned said. “Live music Friday and Saturday nights. Good way to meet people. Loosen up a little.”
Color rose to her cheeks. “Maybe I will.”
With a wave, she headed toward town, the promise of warm bread and sweet pastries tugging her forward—along with the thought that maybe, just maybe, she was ready to start stepping into life again.
By late morning, she parked near the base of the courthouse hill, and the sight of it stole her breath. The Jackson County Courthouse rose high above Main Street—white columns gleaming against a bright sweep of blue sky. A stately line of stone steps led up the hill, bordered by railings and flowerbeds bursting with color.
The building was beautiful.
Still, she paused before climbing. The long staircase felt symbolic somehow—each step a test. By the top, she was breathless, both from the incline and from nerves she couldn’t shake.
Inside, cool air wrapped around her, carrying the faint scent of polish and paper. Sunlight spilled through high arched windows, glinting off marble floors. Her heels clicked softly across the marble, the sound swallowed by the vast, echoing hall. Voices carried faintly down the corridor.
She followed a sign toward the Clerk of Court, but something colorful caught her eye through an open doorway.
The Rotunda Gallery opened before her—light streaming down from the skylight above, the walls lined with framed paintings and photographs. A placard beneath a sepia-toned image read:Built 1914. Architect: Smith & Carrier. Builder: C. J. Harris, whose efforts brought the county seat from Webster to Sylva.
Darcy smiled faintly. She remembered reading about Harris—the man who’d helped shape this town. Her fingertips brushed the edge of a display case, her earlier tension easing.
She’d once worked in a museum back in Denver. Loved it—the quiet rhythm of cataloging art. It had been her sanctuary before Jason insisted she quit, saying,West Custom Homes needs you more.She’d told herself she was helping him, but the truth was she’d given up a part of herself.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” a gentle voice said.
Darcy turned. Behind the desk sat a woman with warm eyes and gray-streaked hair pulled into a twist.
“It really is,” Darcy said. “I’m sorry—I was just?—”
“Don’t apologize. Always good to see someone appreciate it,” the woman replied, smiling. “I’m Joann Palmer. We rotate exhibits every few weeks. Stop by again sometime.”
“I’d love that,” Darcy said, meaning it.
With one last look at the sunlit gallery, she moved on toward the metal detector.
The older deputy manning it gave her a friendly nod as she set her purse on the belt. “Afternoon, ma’am. You must be new around here,” he said, voice warm but teasing.
Darcy smiled. “Guess it’s that obvious.”
Before he could answer, the front doors opened behind her.
“Darcy—hold up a second,” came a familiar voice.
She turned. Sheriff Burke Scott stood in the doorway, sunlight haloing him as he crossed the marble floor. The deputy’s grin widened at the sight of Burke.
“How’s it going, boss?” he called, shooting Burke a knowing look that made Darcy’s cheeks warm.
Burke chuckled. “Thanks for the warm welcome, Carl.”
He stopped beside her, tipping his head. “What brings you up here?”
“Oh—just paying a fine,” she said, holding up the paper sheepishly. “Speeding ticket.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture saying what words couldn’t. “Yeah, I heard. Sorry about that. My deputy’s a stickler.”
“Don’t be. I was in the wrong.” Her voice softened. “Can you point me to the clerk’s office?”
