Coyote Glen’s small downtown is a collection of charm, paint colors, and storefronts that look like they belong in a series about community and hope and freshly baked pies.
I have never lived anywhere like this.
I’m not sure I belong anywhere like this.
But I force myself forward.
First stop: Granger’s Goods, because I had to write my grocery list on my arm like a disorganized child. I grab everything I need: produce, flour, spices, pasta, and whatever else this ranch eats.
I check my list twice as I move through the aisles. Breakfast for Boone and Sadie, lunches for the week, snacks that won’t make Sadie bounce off the ceiling, and dinner for four… five? Does Silas count as a permanent fixture? I need to ask Boone.
People stare.
Not in a rude way. Just curious. Like they know I’m new before I even open my mouth.
I check out and escape before anyone can ask where I’m from.
Next stop: Coyote Cup, because if I don’t get caffeine immediately, I’ll become a cautionary tale.
The café smells of cinnamon and hope. I order an iced vanilla latte and settle by the window.
I’m just starting to breathe normally again when two women behind the counter beam at me.
“You’re new!” the first one says, Lani, according to her name tag. Cute messy bun, big glasses, contagious grin.
Her coworker, labeled Savannah, leans on the counter. “We know everyone. You’re not everyone. Therefore, new.”
“Guilty. I’m Delaney.”
Lani’s face lights up. “Oh! Delaney. Sloane mentioned you.”
My stomach dips. “She did?”
“Yeah!” Savannah nods. “She said you were moving here and that you’re ‘the best kind of wild culinary angel.’”
I choke. “She… said that?”
“Her words,” Lani confirms. “She also said to give you free coffee if you look stressed.”
I look down at myself.
Flour still in my hair.
Shaky hands.
Wobbly dignity.
Savannah pushes a muffin toward me. “You seem stressed.”
They might be witches.
But I don’t get a chance to contemplate it because the café door suddenly flies open with enough force to rattle the tip jar.
Bedlam enters.
First through the door: a very pregnant woman balancing a three-year-old on one hip and holding hands with another little girl.
Behind her, another toddler.
