“Yeah?”
He’d tilted his head, eyes flicking over my face like he was committing it to memory. “Be good.”
I’d rolled my eyes at that but his mouth had curved in that slow, knowing way that always made my chest ache. “See you in a few days,” he’d added, before putting the truck in reverse and backing out of the drive.
Now, hours later, the sound of gravel crunching under his tires still lingers in my head.
The day drags, the way days do when your thoughts are somewhere else. I try to help John with feed inventory, but my mind keeps wandering back to Colter’s hands, his voice, the steady certainty of him. I hate how easily my thoughts bend toward him, like I’ve been rewired around his gravity.
Sutton catches me staring out the barn window at one point, the ledger open and empty in front of me. “You’ve got that look,” she teases lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“What look?”
“The kind that says you’re here but your brain’s a few miles south, probably in someone’s bed.”
I flush instantly. “I was thinking.”
She smiles, but there’s something in her eyes, fond, but wary. “Make sure you’re thinking with the right part of your head, sweetheart.”
I laugh softly, but her words echo longer than they should. Because the truth is, I don’t know what therightpart even is anymore.
By late afternoon, I find myself at the fence line, brushing one of the mares while the sun sinks low behind the hills. The air smells of hay and dust, and the rhythmic scrape of the brush is the only sound. For the first time all day, I feel calm. Grounded.
If only every moment could feel like this.
35
By the timewe pull into town, I already regret coming. Within a few hours of waking this morning, Sutton was dragging me out the door with John, rambling on about the Summer Festival and all the town traditions that honestly sounds like something right out of a weird Hallmark Movie.
Crimson Ridge isn’t big enough to disappear in. It’s one of those postcard towns that tries too hard but somehow still looks plastic perfect with bunting strung between lampposts, large pots of flowers lining every corner, and staged photos areas that will end up plastered on social media with the captions about “small-town charm”.
According to Sutton, the Summer Festival isn’t as big as the Fall Harvest, but it is close considering how many people come from other towns on holiday. Judging by the crowd clogging Main Street, I believe her. Kids dart between booths clutching caramel apples, the air smells like honey and roasted corn, and a band plays some upbeat country music tune that sounds like it’s been playing since 1985.
It should feel cozy and safe.
It doesn’t.
The second I step out of the truck; I feel the shift. Eyes everywhere.
It starts subtle. Glances from people manning booths, whispers carried loud enough for me to hear. Then the smiles, the fake kind that don’t reach their eyes, start appearing like warning signs.
Sutton loops her arm through mine, oblivious or pretending to be. “Come on,” she says brightly, tugging me toward the vendor tents. “Wait until you try Mrs. Holler’s apple butter. It’s the best thing this side of the county line.”
John follows a few steps behind, already wearing a look that makes people part like the Red Sea. His presence is armor I didn’t ask for but kind of need right now. The way these people are looking at me, like I’m some ghost that wandered out of story they’d rather forget, makes my stomach twist.
Over the next hour the three of us meander through the festival. I try my hardest to ignore the pointed looks and the whispers, but the deeper we travel, the harder it is. John is quiet for the most part of it, intently listening when Sutton talks and occasionally stopping to talk with a person or two here and there. He always keeps it succinct and doesn’t bother introducing me or Sutton.
She isn’t bothered by it and honestly, neither am I. He doesn’t seem to be doing it to exclude us. It is more like business chat. Not friendly neighbor banter. I’ve also come to realize that everyone already knows who Sutton is. And strangely—me. Then again, in this small of a town, it would be hard not to at least have heard the rumors surrounding my arrival.
We stop at a table selling homemade candles, the wax shaped like horseshoes and daisies. The woman behind the counter forces a smile.
“You must be Peyton,” she says. “Sadie’s girl.”
I tense before I can help it. “Yeah,” I answer flatly. “That’s me.”
Her smile flickers. “You look like her, but you’ve got John’s eyes.”
It sounds more like a curse than a compliment.
