Rhett finally turns to look at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. He doesn’t say anything, just waits.
I take a deep breath, channeling the lawyer I am in Denver. The one who doesn’t back down. “I need all the ranch documents,” I say, my voice clear and firm. “Financial records, tax returns, lease agreements. All of it. I need them before Monday.”
A flicker of something—respect? Annoyance?—crosses his face. “That’s a lot of paper to get together on a weekend.”
“I filed eviction papers last week,” I say, the words a weapon I’ve been waiting to use. They land with the intended impact.“So I suggest you make it a priority. I’d rather not have to add a lawsuit for obstruction to the list.”
His jaw tightens, a subtle shift that tells me I’ve hit a nerve. He doesn’t respond, just gives me a nod before turning to help Knox with the bull.
I walk away, my heart pounding, a triumphant surge of adrenaline coursing through me. I did it. I stood my ground. I made a demand.
But as I walk back to the house, the adrenaline fades, replaced by a familiar, nagging ache in my lower back. I look at the lumpy sofa, at the makeshift bed I’ve been sleeping on, and a new determination takes hold. I’m done with this. I’m the owner of this house. And I won’t sleep on a sofa for one more night.
I grab my keys and whistle for Doggy. He comes running, his tail wagging. “We’re going on an adventure,” I tell him.
The drive into town is a whirlwind of canine excitement. Doggy sticks his head out the window, his ears flapping in the wind, his nose twitching as he takes in a thousand new smells. I pull up in front of Muddy Creek’s one and only furniture store, a dusty shop called “The Home Place.” It smells of cedar and old fabric.
I need a bed. Not just any bed. A good bed. A statement bed. A bed that says, “I live here. This is my room. This is my house.”
I find one. A sturdy oak frame with a plush, pillow-top mattress. It’s practical, but it’s also solid. Real. It’s an investment in my own comfort, in my claim to this space. The awkwardness of strapping the massive box spring and mattress to the back of the old pickup is almost comical, but I manage. Doggy watches from the passenger seat, his head cocked to the side as if he’s helping.
Back at the ranch, I haul the new bed piece by piece into my old bedroom. The storage closet. I clear out the paint cans and toolboxes, stacking them neatly in the hall. I assemble the frame,my movements methodical, satisfying. By the time I’m done, the sun is beginning to set, long, golden rays glowing through the window.
I stand back and look at it. My bed. In my room. In my house. It’s a small victory, but it feels enormous. It’s the first thing I’ve truly claimed since I’ve been back.
Doggy jumps onto the new mattress, his paws scrabbling for purchase before he collapses in the center, looking up at me with his big brown eyes.
I smile. “Yeah,” I say, scratching him behind the ears. “It’s ours.”
For the first time since I came back to Muddy Creek, the house feels a little less like a museum and a little more like a home. And as I think about the book club meeting Dot and Pearl invited me to, I realize that maybe I’m starting to build a life here. One piece of furniture at a time.
The Dust Up is exactly what its name implies: a chaotic, cluttered wonderland of forgotten treasures. The air smells of old paper, cedar wood, and something faintly sweet, like dried potpourri. Antiques are stacked precariously on every surface—china dolls with vacant eyes, tarnished silver tea sets, lamps with shades frayed into lace doilies. In the back, half-hidden by a beaded curtain, is a small booth draped in velvet, where a crystal ball glints under a single, moody light. The tarot booth.
I feel like I’m walking into another dimension, one far removed from structured legal briefs and the sterile scent of my Denver office. I clutch the copy ofHer Highlander’s Surrenderto my chest like a shield. Doggy trots happily at my heels, his tail wagging, completely at ease. He’s already made himself at homehere, having been introduced to the group during a brief stop at the veterinary clinic.
“There she is!” Dot’s voice rings out, a beacon in the cluttered gloom. She’s perched on a plush, fainting-couch-style armchair, a glass of red wine in hand. Pearl is beside her, looking like a movie star who got lost on her way to a premiere.
The other two women turn to look at me. One has sharp, intelligent eyes and a no-nonsense bob. Dot introduces her as Josie, Willa’s best friend. The other, with a warm, welcoming smile and a kind face, is Baby Monroe, owner of The Salt Lick.
“Sit,” Josie commands, pointing to the only empty armchair, a monstrosity covered in a floral pattern that’s been out of style for fifty years. “You’re not escaping book club tonight.”
“I don’t even like romance novels,” I protest weakly, the words feeling flimsy in the face of their collective energy.
“Doesn’t matter,” Baby says, already pouring a deep red liquid into a glass and pressing it into my free hand. The rich scent of blackberries and oak fills my nose. “You’re one of us now. Resistance is futile.”
“I hate all of you,” I mutter, but I sit. Doggy immediately flops down at my feet, letting out a contented sigh. The wine is a welcome warmth in my hand.
“No you don’t,” Pearl says warmly, her eyes twinkling. “You’re just not ready to admit it yet.”
Josie grins at me. “Good to see you again. How’s the puppy?”
I can’t help but smile, looking down at the golden furball at my feet. “Really good, thanks. He’s not even mine, but he’s convinced himself that he is.”
“Sounds about right for dogs,” Josie says.
Then her tone shifts, becoming carefully, deliberately innocent. The kind of tone that signals a shift from pleasantries to the real reason for this gathering. “What about your houseguests?”
And there it is. My expression goes flat. The warmth from the wine vanishes. “They’re still squatting on my property,” I say, my voice tight. “Still refusing to leave.”
