“Yes, please.”
I glance at the name stitched over her pocket.
“Thanks, Eliza.”
She pours coffee, staring at the tabletop, “And maybe a to-go box for this?”
“Yes, please.”
She starts to walk away, but I stop her. “A question for you,” I say, wetting my bottom lip. “Know of any M. Redferns around here?”
“Oh, Mags,” she laughs, cheeks flushing. Her eyes drop to my sketchpad. “Well, there she is!”
I nod once. “Nineteen ten.”
“You don’t say?” Her face stays open and relaxed, but I notice a slight tic at the corner of her right eye. She swallows, and I hear it.
“They say she used to be fast enough to rope lightning.”
Lightning on the Starborn Range, I imagine.
“If you’re not doing anything with that sketch, we’d love to hang it. It’s just the kind of female-empowered artwork the cafe owner digs.”
“I’d like to keep it for now. But thank you,” I say. “What’s the owner’s name?”
“Heather.” She reaches into her apron and retrieves a card. “She’s into supporting indie artists and all that. And Mags.” She shakes her head. “Well, she’s one of a kind.” She lifts the pen in her hand, tapping it against her chin. “Now, if you’re looking for her, I imagine she’ll be at the store today.”
“Which store?”
“Redfern Feed. Off Main, about five blocks, heading toward the southbound ranches and the freeway.”
“Thank you,” I say, throat tightening as I place my credit card down over my bill.
While I await her return with the box, I open my phone. Then I sigh long and low. Of course, no signal. The server’s instructions will have to do.
Main Street is quieter than usual, dust lifting in small spirals along the curb. Five blocks, and I turn off onto Argenta Way, heading past small businesses and houses, watching the urban landscape grow more and more rural.
That’s when I see it. Redfern Feed & Supply. The wooden sign creaks gently above the door.
It looks as old as the museum photo.
It also looks familiar, though I lost the name over time. Maybe never knew it at all.
I used to love this place as a kid—the bins of seeds, the smell of leather and molasses, the old almanacs stacked near the register. The occasional treat of petting fluffy baby chicks or rabbits come springtime.
No wonder the photo made me feel eerie when I first saw it. I was recognizing Mags from twelve years ago in a time and a place where she could never be.
Cognitive dissonance.
I press my fingertips to my temples, telling myself there’s nothing strange about going in. Nothing strange at all.
The bell above the door gives a soft metallic jingle when I step inside. The air smells of grain, dust, and old wood polish.
Shelves stretch in narrow aisles—feed bags, fencing tools, jars of nails. Sunlight filters through the front windows in long slats, turning suspended dust into something almost sacred.
I linger between two stacks of mineral blocks longer than necessary.
My heart shouldn’t be racing.
