Why?
“Sadie! Beautiful day for the market.”
“It is.” I hand my customer their change. “How are you, Carol?”
“Good, good.” She picks up a romance from my display and examines the cover. “I’ve been thinking a lot about our book club discussion.Wildfire Summer. I can’t stop thinking about it, actually. I’m surprised you didn’t stock it yet!”
My stomach clenches. “It’s a good book.”
“It was agreatbook.“ Carol sets the romance book down and pulls out her phone. “In fact, I’ve been doing a little investigating. Like I said the other night, I love a good mystery.”
Oh no.
“Oh?” I try to sound casual.
“Figuring out who Sienna Saguaro is.” Her eyes are bright with excitement. “This is the best mystery I’ve had in years.”
A customer approaches, and I use the interruption to breathe, to think, to panic silently while I ring up their purchase.
When they leave, Carol’s still there. Waiting.
“The author’s website is so minimal,” she continues, showing me her phone. “No photo, barely any bio. Just ‘Southwest romance author.’ Social media is the same—book quotes, cover reveals, nothing personal.”
“Maybe she’s just private,” I manage.
“Maybe.” Carol scrolls through something on her screen. “But then I started looking at the book itself. Making lists.”
She pulls a small notebook from her purse, actual paper and pen, filled with her neat handwriting.
“The town layout inWildfire Summermatches Sierra Rose Ridge almost exactly,“ she reads. “The town square. The farmers’ market, which happens on Saturday mornings, is just like ours. The winery’s Sips & Stars event, though she calls it ‘Starlight Sipping’ in the book…”
My hands grip the edge of the table.
“Even the cliffs in the story carry an air of the Red Rock Cliffs here in Sierra Rose. She even wrote in the abandoned mine and the ghost town.”
Breathe. Just breathe.
“The legend about star-crossed lovers,” Carol continues. “In the book, it’s a missionary’s daughter and a Native American man. Here, it’s Rosa Delgado and the ranch hand. Same tragic ending, same ‘doomed love’ theme. Different names, but the bones of the story are nearly identical.”
“Carol, lots of Southwest towns have similar—“
“Then there’s the architectural details.” She’s not listening to me, too caught up in her detective work. “The way she describes the adobe buildings, the wrought iron details, the blend of Spanish, Native, and Western influences that are a tapestry for the town. Even the type of wildflowers that grow here. Desert marigolds, brittlebush, globe mallow. That’s very specific to this region, this elevation.”
My phone buzzes on the table. I can’t answer it. I can’t even look. All I see is Carol’s notebook.
And she just keeps talking.
“But here’s the thing that really got me thinking.” Carol leans in, lowering her voice like we’re conspirators. “The dedication inWildfire Summer… ‘to S.R.—you gave me a home.’”
My heart stops.
Probably not literally, since I’m still standing here, but this is the closest to an out-of-body experience I’ve ever had.
“SR,” Carol repeats slowly. “I started thinking about what that could mean. “Most people probably think it’s a person. Sarah, Sam, whoever. But combined with everything else...” She watches my face. “What if S.R. stands for Sierra Rose?”
I can’t breathe.
I don’t even remember how.
