“I thought about going back to Los Angeles to see my parents but decided last night to stay here instead. Trying to acclimate myself to the change in scenery, plus my garden needs a lot of work if I’m going to keep up with my commitment to the co-op.”
She nods. “Well, we’d love to have you for dinner over at Ashwood Ranch. Jovie and Nash will have the twins, our parents won’t be able to make it, but we’re still planning on cooking enough to feed fifteen, so there’ll be plenty for another person to join.”
“Fifteen?”
She grins, “Wylie loves leftovers.”
I’m not the type to impose, but a Thanksgiving meal with the Camerons does sound a lot better than what I’d planned—which was leftover pizza and working in my garden alone while I think about what to do about Dove’s last letter.
“That sounds great. Is there anything I can bring?”
She shakes her head vigorously, and it’s that same down-home charm, where every neighbor is like family, that pulled me to Lonestar Junction and reminds me why it’s unlikely I’ll leave despite the loneliness that’s followed me here.
My thoughts drift to Dove and the last letter she sent. For months, I’ve held off asking about her around town, carefulnot to seem too interested, wondering if she even lives here anymore. Maybe Stevie, who’s also relatively new to town, would recognize her name—but then again, maybe not.
The Camerons knew that I moved here from Los Angeles after leaving the Marines, searching for a quieter life, but what they don’t know is that Lonestar Junction isn’t just a random town I chose by pure chance. If I revealed the real reason I knew about this town too soon, I was sure I’d come across as a stalker.
“So, I have a question for you…”
“Mm?” she asks as she sorts the onions into wooden crates that’ll be delivered to the families on the chart she’s reviewing. “Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen…”
“Would you happen to know a girl named Paloma who lives in town?” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I realize how ridiculous they sound. Paloma wouldn’t be a girl anymore; she’s a full-grown woman. Twenty-six years young, with a name so damn recognizable that anyone who knew her will know exactly who I’m asking about.
She raises her brow as she continues to sort without making eye contact with me.
“Do you mean Dove?”
Dove? I don’t respond, taken aback that Stevie’s using the name I always called her by. I remember her mentioning she’d started embracing that nickname but didn’t expect her to still be using.
“Dove Hart?” she asks me again.
I never knew Paloma’s last name, so I wasn’t sure how to respond, but that would have to be her. How many other people could be named Dove in this small town?
“She goes by Dove now if that’s who you’re talking about, and I’m guessing it is, since I’ve never heard of anyone else named Paloma in Lonestar Junction. Her older sister is one of my friends, Millie Hart. She mentioned that Dove has been going byDove since… eh… maybe fourteen years old? Told everyone to start calling her that or she wouldn’t answer them.”
I nod, “That sounds right.” Because from what I remember of the teenage Dove I used to write to, fiery spirit, unapologetic, I could absolutely see her saying something like that—and fourteen was right around the age when our letters first began.
She pauses her sorting, places a hand on her hip, and shifts to face me, her eyes locking onto mine.
Shit.
I know Stevie can have a temper as fiery as Wylie's, and both of them have a knack for seeing through people's bullshit better than a priest, but I’ve yet to be on the receiving end of it, and I wasn’t interested in finding out how it feels.
“Why are you asking about Dove Hart? You’re not some creepy fan boy, are you?”
Fan?
She continues, "Even though I’m an outsider to this town like you, you should know that the people here protect each other more fiercely than anywhere else I’ve ever lived. She might be a big rock star now, but when she visits home, her privacy is respected. We don’t bring any of that celebrity energy here or treat her any differently. This isn’t like Los Angeles. We don’t have paparazzi.”
What?
“I’m sorry... I think I’m missing something.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to unscramble the words she’s saying.Celebrity? Rock star?
She rolls her eyes and continues to sort the vegetables into the last few boxes, then brushes her hands on her jeans. When I don’t respond, she turns to face me again.
“Why are you asking about Dove?”
“It’s a long story.”
