Chapter Twenty-Eight
Seven Weeks Later
Find Your Mr. Darcy.I read and reread the four words painted in gold block lettering on the wall behind The Cowherd’s jail cell.
Ugh.
I’ve been standing in front of the one hundred and fifty-year-old locked cell in The Cowherd liquor room for over five minutes, putting off the inevitable. The set of papers I need to sign are laying on my desk behind me, but I don’t sit down yet.
Instead, I clasp the worn steel bars of the jail cell with one hand and hold the large antique gold key in the other, wanting so badly to unlock the door and pretend I’m setting free a ghost I know is just make-believe, anyway. Because this year is the hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the town’s founding, it marks the supposed deadline for Jane Austen’s ghost to be liberated. So, my parents are extra antsy about what will happen to our profits after July fourth.
I turn around and cross the few steps to my desk where I put away the key and take a seat.
Time to make it official, Macey.
The divorce papers stare back at me where they’ve been sitting, gathering dust on top of my desk. I can’t believe I still haven’t signed them.
I never thought I’d get divorced. My motto has always been “Do everything the opposite of Mama,” andno divorcewas at the top of that list. But so wasno marriage, and I blew that to bits already, too.
I pick up a pen and then drop the cover onto my lap. Which reminds me that these cut-off shorts are the same ones I was wearing the night Logan and I married. And this half-shirt is the one he put his hands underneath three years ago. Clearly I need to buy some new clothes.
My gaze lands on the photo of the red bluffs with a brilliant blue background propped on the corner of my desk. I flip over the postcard from West Texas and reread Logan’s scrawled—Hey Bartender and Future Author, Wish you were here, the weather’s fine—for the umpteenth time. The only time I’ve heard from him, and that was weeks ago. He’s probably flying through the desert on his motorcycle right now, heading out to paint the sunset until the hot red sun disappears over the horizon.
When his daddy found out about our drunken wedding, Mr. Wild told Logan he had to “grow up right now, you hear me?” Being the youngest of four sons was no longer going to help Logan avoid his father’s insistence on him taking over Wild Ranch with his brothers.
So when Logan came to me the afternoon after we returned from our Vegas trip—divorce papers in hand but his face pale—I told him to take a painting vacation.
“You look like you could use a break, Logan.”
“It’s funny you say that,” he said slowly. “Because I do need to take a trip.”
Something about the way he said it sounded strange…
“What do you mean? To Montana to see Luke and them?”
“No. A trip on my bike.”
Logan loves his motorcycle almost as much as he loves his truck. I don’t know which he’d be willing to give up if he had to choose.
“You know where you should go?” I said excitedly. “Boston. You could visit your friend, Diego, and you could paint.”
Logan went to Boston to take painting courses years ago, and he came home armed with the knowledge he needed to eventually make painting into a career. Even if it took years to get there, that was his goal. It still is his goal.
An unnamed emotion crosses his expression.
“Actually,” he said. “I think I’m going to stay in-state. Maybe I’ll head west.”
“West Texas!” I said excitedly. “No people, no distractions. And beautiful landscape to paint. That’s just what you need. All you need is your supplies and your Harley.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” Logan’s eyes narrowed. “And while I’m gone, you’ll start your first novel?”
“Um…” I stumbled. “I’ll…sure. I’ll try.” I forced myself to say the words, “And maybe you’ll even meet a pretty girl.”
Logan snorted. “Right.” He looked at me. “We’re back to dating other people though, right? We agreed that’s best.”
“Right.”
“Even if it’s just casual dating, we’ll…”
