I didn't return the smile, just stood there while the silence stretched and waited for her to realize that was all she was going to get from me.
My lack of response didn’t seem to bother her. “Where am I, exactly?”
“Mustang Mountain is five miles that way.” I jerked my chin in the direction she'd been heading. “The center of town's about ten minutes if you keep going straight.”
“Thanks. That’s where I’m headed. What kind of town is it?”
“Small.”
The corners of her mouth quirked up again. “That's descriptive.”
I didn't owe her more than I'd already given, and the longer this went on, the less it felt like a simple roadside stop. She was still watching me with that same focus, and something about the intensity of her expression made me want to disappear.
“Well…” Rachel stepped back toward her car, one hand resting on the open door. “Thanks for stopping. I appreciate it.”
I nodded again, then headed for my truck without waiting to see if she'd say anything else. Gravel crunched under my boots, the sound loud in the quiet, and I climbed into the cab without looking back.
The engine started smooth. I pulled onto the road, my tires finding asphalt again, and drove past her car where it sat idling on the shoulder. Her hazard lights still blinked, though they didn't need to anymore.
I caught sight of her in the rearview mirror as I passed. She still stood by the open door, watching my truck disappear into the dark with that same unflinching attention. Like she'd already decided this wasn't the last time she'd see me and was filing away details for when it happened again.
That feeling settled wrong in my chest. Heavy and uncomfortable. Telling me this moment wasn't as simple as it should have been.
Most people didn't look at me twice. Most people took what I gave them and didn't ask for more, content to let me stay on the edges where I belonged. But Rachel hadn't looked away. She hadn't pretended not to notice my scar or my silence or the way I kept everything locked down tight. She'd looked past all of that and asked questions anyway.
I should have kept driving when I saw the car on the shoulder. Should have let someone else stop, someone who didn't have reasons to stay away from people who asked too many questions. But I hadn't. And now Rachel had a name for me, a face to match it, and probably a dozen more questions forming in the back of her mind that I didn't want to answer.
The lights of Mustang Mountain appeared ahead, scattered and dim against the valley floor. I slowed as I hit the edge of town, the familiar weight of home settling back over me. This town was the kind of place where everyone knew your story whether you told it or not, where silence was easier than explanation and distance was safer than letting anyone close.
I turned down the road toward my ranch, my tires humming on the pavement, and tried to shake the image of the blonde standing next to her car, watching me drive away like she wasn't done yet. Fixing a car was easy. It took thirty seconds and a wrench for the problem to be solved. But walking away from someone who looked at me like that—like I was a puzzle she'd already started working on—wasn't.
CHAPTER 2
RACHEL
The briefing my editor gave me before I left Bozeman covered the main points of my assignment like rodeo logistics, the names of people I should interview, and a basic history of Mustang Mountain. But he hadn’t mentioned how adorable the little downtown area would be. With hand-painted signs in storefront windows, hand-carved wooden benches sitting under awnings, and a community bulletin board so plastered with flyers I couldn't see the cork underneath, the town was bursting at the seams with charm.
I pulled into a spot along Main, grabbed my messenger bag, and got out of my car. After that silent giant of a man fixed my car last night, I’d headed straight to the cabin I’d rented. Today, I wanted to explore the downtown area and start making a few connections so I could start researching the community interest piece I was writing about the upcoming rodeo.
It was early, but a few people were out and about, moving along the sidewalk like they had all the time in the world. When was the last time I’d been somewhere people walked this slow?
Everyone I passed offered a smile but still seemed to give me a quick once over. An older man outside the hardware store stared at me, his hand frozen on the door handle. A woman watering flower boxes across the street stopped mid-pour, tracking me as I headed toward the Mercantile. That was where I’d meet Ruby Nelson, the woman whose cabin I was renting while I was in town. I’d found the key on the kitchen table when I arrived last night along with a note inviting me to stop by for coffee this morning.
I almost passed right by a door half-hidden by gorgeous hanging baskets full of flowers. “Good morning. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
Turning my head toward the voice, I spotted a petite woman standing in the doorway. She wore a smile that made her eyes sparkle and a purple apron with Noted embroidered across the chest.
“It's my grand opening,” she said, nodding toward a sign in the window. “You look like someone who might appreciate good paper.”
I smiled as I glanced at the front window. “What gave me away?”
“Your bag.” She nodded toward my messenger bag. “Writers carry those. Journalists too, I'd guess.”
“Guilty.” I liked her immediately, which didn't happen often. What did that say about me? Obviously, I needed to get out more. “I'm Rachel.”
“From the magazine in Bozeman, right? Welcome to Mustang Mountain. I’m Marie. Come in if you'd like. I've got the best selection of notebooks you’ll find this side of the Rockies and some paper featuring Montana wildflowers that I make by hand.”
“I’ve never been able to turn down a stationary store.” I followed her inside. The shop smelled like lavender and old books, two of my favorite scents. Shelves lined every wall, filled with journals, stationery, and handmade cards. A small table near the window held a stack of leather-bound notebooks, their edges worn soft.
