Somehow, an hour later, we’re stepping into The Silver Bit Tavern, warmth and noise spilling out to meet us.
Music hums low under conversation. Laughter bursts and fades. Glasses clink. The place smells of citrus, beer, and something fried that I can never quite identify but always recognize as comfort.
Mara lights up the second we cross the threshold.
It’s subtle, but unmistakable. Her shoulders loosen, her smile sharpens, her whole body shifting into a rhythm she knows by heart.
She slides onto a barstool, reclaiming old territory, flashing a grin at Riley behind the bar that’s equal parts invitation and challenge.
“Well,” she says brightly, leaning her elbows on the counter, “this place still knows how to pour a drink.”
Riley laughs, already reaching for a glass. “Depends who’s asking.”
Mara tilts her head, eyes sparkling. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”
I hover a few feet back, drink in hand, watching it unfold. The easy flirtation. The practiced timing. The way she listens just enough to make Riley feel interesting without ever giving too much of herself away.
It’s fascinating to watch her charm.
I take a slow sip of my drink and let my gaze wander the room, half-listening to their banter. Familiar faces dot the space. Locals, ranch hands, a couple from the market. People who know me, or think they do.
Mara laughs again, touching Riley’s arm lightly, and I feel that same strange pull in my chest.
She’s warm. Magnetic. Easy to like.
And yet…
I think of the letters. Of the careful wording. Of the way the truth felt folded, not absent.
Of how Mara’s voice smoothed over the sharpest parts of my questions like she was sanding down splinters she didn’t want me to feel yet.
Or ever.
I watch her throw her head back in laughter, hair catching the light, and I can’t help wondering…
Does she know who sent them?
Does she know what my grandmother kept?
Or does she simply know that if she keeps moving, keeps smiling, keeps me distracted, I might stop asking?
The thought settles uncomfortably in my stomach.
Then the door opens.
I don’t hear it at first. I feel it.
A shift. Like the room subtly recalibrates around a new gravity.
I look up.
Marshall stands just inside the doorway. He pauses, scanning the room with that assessing calm of his.
Then his eyes find mine.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Marshall
