The ladies settled at the table with her, finishing their tea and lemon bars while telling stories about one of their cats and how the mountain had a layer of fresh snow. Ordinary things that made life feel a little more normal.
When the mugs were empty, they moved like they always did at closing time. Mina pushed a book into line on the shelf while Rina swept the floor. Felicity stood behind the counter and tried not to cry again.
This wasn’t just shutting down the shop for the day. It was shutting down her dream.
They hugged her and made promises again—tea and book club, texts every day until then. She clasped them in tight hugs, more grateful for their stalwart company than ever.
When the bell chimed behind them, the silence that followed was tender, not so cruel.
Felicity turned her focus to the tasks that came with downsizing the shop. She took down a small display of hand-carved bookmarks she ordered for the holiday season that had never sold. She wrapped them with care and packed them up to return to the woodworker, along with a note about how beautiful they were.
Then she moved along the shelves, letting her fingers trail over spines like a goodbye. But it wasn’t final. Maybe without paying Rina and Mina, she could stay afloat a little bit longer—until the interstate exit reopened.
She drifted into the back room and her gaze fell over three boxes stacked in the corner. Three boxes of antique books she ordered before things slowed down, thinking the books she didn’t want in her private collection could be sold during the upcoming rush of third quarter.
Only they’d sat there for months, unopened. She hadn’t had the heart to look inside—there wasn’t a market for them, and no room left on the shelves anyway. Just the thought of sorting through those forgotten treasures felt too heavy, so she’d let the boxes be, gathering dust and time.
She lifted the box off the top of the stack, hefting the weight in her arms. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the cardboard. “I didn’t mean to leave you sitting.”
She carried it out the back door to her car parked a few feet away. She tucked all three boxes into the trunk like they were sleeping children and stood there, staring at them, breathing the cold air.
She shut the trunk, then went back inside to lock up.
She would add the books to her personal library when she finally felt like sorting them.
But not today.
Her phone buzzed. The group chat lit up—Mina sending a photo of the racy book she planned to bring to their book club.
Tea. Sunday, 2 pm. Wear your coziest sweater!
Felicity let out a watery laugh, her eyes blurring again. She thumbed a reply.
Wouldn’t miss it.
Tea on Sunday. Boxes when she was ready. She’d get there. One careful page at a time.
Chapter Two
Gabe woke to the whir of the bunkhouse heater and the thin gray light of a Wyoming morning.
The familiarity of it flooded in, thickening his throat before his mind fully registered where he was. He lay in bed for a beat, taking note of the simple things. The weight of the clean quilt, the smell of dust and cedar lining the walls and the faint rattle of someone in the far pasture. Probably Willow Malone, caring for the horses.
His body felt…quiet. Not good exactly, but settled. Like he’d been spinning a long time and the needle finally found north.
He rolled out of the narrow bed and scrubbed a hand over the stubble on his jaw. His head still felt full of noise from the drive, but his body had finally shut down for a few hours. One blanket, one pillow, one night without nightmares. He’d take it.
Then he pulled on yesterday’s jeans and a fresh flannel shirt from his go-bag. Years of military life had trained him to always have a kit ready to roll out any time. He had three shirts, three pair of socks and three pairs of boxers, a toothbrush and a few travel-sized toiletries in a zip pouch. What more did he need?
When he stepped out of the bunkhouse, the air bit at his lungs, crisp and thin. He breathed it in until the tightness he carried in his chest everywhere he went loosened a notch. The ranch spread out, frosty and gold surrounded by a grid of black fence rails.
A feed bucket clanged near the main barn. Then came the creak of the gate. Even the sounds of the ranch brought a different brand of peace.
Gabe walked toward the main house, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The porch steps still had a thin coat of ice, and his boots gritted over it. As he approached the big wooden door, his steps slowed.
Back when he was part of the therapy program, he steered clear of the house. It wasn’t that the Malone family would ever turn away the vets—totally the opposite. But he never needed to knock on that door, since he could usually find one of the family members out working on the ranch if he had a question or request.
He stared at the door, unable to force himself to knock. It was early. The last thing he wanted to do was wake the sleeping household.
