I ran my fingers over the one on top. “These are beautiful. Do you make them?”
“No. They’re made by a local leather worker. He does custom saddle work mostly and started the journals as a side project.” Marie picked one up and turned it over. “I doubt I’ll be able to keep them in stock.”
A handmade leather journal would be a complete upgrade from my regular spiral notebook and a luxury I couldn’t resist. “I'll take this one.”
“Perfect.” Marie moved to the register to ring me up.
As I followed her, movement near the door caught my eye. Orange and gold wings fluttered, carrying a butterfly into the shop. It landed on the edge of the counter between us.
Marie lowered her voice into an almost-whisper. “Well, hello there, beautiful.”
The butterfly rose a few inches into the air and landed on my wrist. I barely felt it… just the faint whisper of legs against my skin and wings opening and closing in slow, patient beats.
“That's good luck.” Marie smiled as she wrapped the leather journal in a few sheets of lavender tissue paper. “Or maybe more than that. My grandmother used to say a butterfly landing on you means change is coming.”
I watched its wings gracefully open and close. “What kind of change?”
“The kind you don't see coming.” She slid the wrapped notebook across the counter. “Sometimes it's a new beginning. Sometimes it's love, whether you're ready for it or not.”
“I'm here for a story,” I said with a soft laugh. “Not a romance.”
Marie gave me a knowing smile. “Most people come for one thing, but Mustang Mountain always seems to give them what they need.”
Cute, but I had a job to do. If this rodeo piece went well, maybe I could re-establish trust with my editor and start earning stories that mattered again.
The butterfly lifted from my wrist and drifted back toward the window, gone before I could watch it glide all the way out.
I paid for my purchase and tucked the notebook into my bag. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” A faint flush crossed Marie’s cheeks. “If you need anything while you're in town — directions, recommendations, someone to talk to — you know where I am.”
I might take her up on that. It would be nice to have a friendly face in a town full of people who'd be watching what I wrote about them. My assignment was simple enough… a write-up on Mustang Mountain's first rodeo. I was supposed to focus on the excitement of opening weekend and snag a quote or two. I could write that kind of story in my sleep.
I waved goodbye to Marie as I stepped back out into the mountain air and let it settle around me. A flash of movement across the street caught my eye.
At first, I thought it was a dog slipping between two parked trucks, but then it stepped into the open and paused near the edge of the sidewalk. With a gray coat, long legs, and amber eyes that locked on mine, there was no way the animal was just a dog. It was a wolf.
My hand tightened around the strap of my bag. Nobody screamed. Nobody ran. A teenager coming out of the hardware store glanced over, grinned, and shook his head. Like seeing a wolf standing on Main Street was just a regular weekday morning around here.
The wolf looked at me for one more breath, then turned and disappeared down the sidewalk.
“Don’t worry. That was just Hades,” Marie called from behind me, her voice calm and unrattled.
I turned slowly. “The wolf has a name?”
She smiled. “He’s more mascot than menace, and he likes to make sure newcomers know they’ve been noticed.”
Wonderful. Even the wildlife in Mustang Mountain was nosy.
“Have a nice day.” Marie turned her attention to the hanging baskets, leaving me to my own thoughts.
I was still thinking about that butterfly when I stopped in front of the Mercantile. And the certainty in Marie's voice when she'd said the kind you don't see coming. But I was here to work, and I didn't have time to read meaning into the wings of an insect.
Nelson's Mercantile was exactly how I’d imagined it. Wide windows let in the sunlight. Packed aisles held everything from groceries to personal items to fresh bait. A coffee counter ran the length of the back wall. People clustered near the register like it was a gathering point, which it probably was. Small towns always had one, a place where information pooled before it moved anywhere else.
The door creaked as I entered. Three heads turned my way, but I kept walking. The woman behind the coffee counter had silver hair and sparkly red frames and appeared to be holding court. Her smile widened as I approached.
“Rachel Grable.” She set a clean mug on the counter in front of me. “I wondered when you'd come in.”
