“Need help?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said quickly, dragging it upright just as it clunked over again. “Perfectly under control.”
His mouth curved. Kinda. As I walked to the parking lot, my heart did another little skip. That same warm touch from the plane had resurfaced when Austin’s hand landed at the small of my back, guiding me up a step. Even the lingering phantom of his touch on my hand warmed, his fingers lingering a beat too long. When I looked back, his almost imperceptible glance toward me suggested he might feel it too. But with his attention so apt on the airport, I had to wonder: was it just me?
The SUV left for us by Mr. Browne was full of character. Faded paint, older model, a work truck. Austin loaded our bags into the trunk with surgical precision. I climbed into the passenger seat with Pumpernickel on my lap and rolled down the window.
The air smelled like pine needles, damp earth, and a faint thread of woodsmoke. It was intoxicating—like the world had been scrubbed and set out fresh.
As we drove north, the mountains began to rise against the horizon, imposing and strong. Austin watched the road carefully as we weaved through the trees. I watched everything else: barns, mailboxes leaning slightly, fields stitched with fence lines, and sunflowers spilling in unruly clumps. It was beautiful.
The sign forEverwood – Population 10,042flashed by before I could take a picture. Ten thousand people. That was it. In Denver, you couldn’t sneeze without three strangers glaring at you from different directions. Here, ten thousand people meant no secrets, and reputations were permanent.
The SUV crunched onto a gravel drive marked by a mailbox hand-painted with wildflowers. The drive stretched so far ahead I couldn’t see where it ended.
The rental SUV rattled over the last stretch of gravel, and the view opened like a curtain being pulled back.
There it was.
The so-called “cabin.”
Except, when I pictured a small ranch and cabin on seven hundred and fifty acres of wild Montana earth, wrapped in mountains like bodyguards, I hadn’t expected this. The “log home” sprawled wide and tall, every timber weathered to a rich bronze glow. A wraparound porch hugged the whole place, its boards creaking under rocking chairs and a swing that shifted lazily in the breeze. Wildflowers spilled in great unruly bursts all the way to the steps, a living moat of color.
My chest tightened. I’d expected cozy. Manageable. Something I could stuff in a scrapbook if it went badly. What I saw was… immense. It wasn’t just a house. It was a statement.This is Thomas land.
A faded red tractor sat near the barn, and a goat stood proudly on the hood. Chin raised like he’d been elected mayor ofThomastown, he bleated once at our SUV, surveying us with narrowed eyes. Another bleat, an ear flick, one long blink—then he dismissed us completely and went back to scanning his kingdom.
“Well,” I muttered, “that’s confidence.”
Austin didn’t answer; his attention was on the fence lines, the barn doors, the line of trees at the back edge of the pasture. He was intense. Always measuring, always assessing.
I just stared.
Seven hundred and fifty acres. A porch swing that begged for late-night tea. Wildflowers riotous enough to make Penny laugh.
Mom would have called it a fever dream. She’d never believe I’d inherited it—not from Aunt Penny. Not after all those years of silence.
The ache swelled, sharp and bittersweet, but under it was a flicker of wonder I couldn’t quite smother.
Just outside the entryway, stacked neatly by the wall, were our shipped belongings.
My bins were colorful and mismatched, plastered with sticky labels and doodled stars. Pumpernickel’s gear was piled beside them: his box with his little blanket, his play tunnel, a bag of measured hedgehog snacks, and his new, larger cage.
Next to mine, Austin’s boxes loomed taller. Uniform cardboard, plain, unmarked. I barely glanced at them before turning back to the door.
“Looks like Browne had everything delivered already,” I said brightly.
“He’s an efficient man,” Austin murmured, his eyes on his stack of boxes.
I didn’t press. Numbers Man. Like an enigma, they walked among us looking almost normal.
The front door swung open before I could rummage through my purse for the keys.
“Dr. Thomas,” Mr. Browne greeted, his gray suit unchanged from Denver, though his shoes were powdered with Montanadust. He stepped aside, his voice low but warm. “And Mr. Adams. Welcome.”
Crossing the threshold felt like stepping into a storybook drawn by someone with impeccable taste and a wild sense of humor.
The entry smelled faintly of peppermint and vanilla. Polished beams arched overhead, softened by the glow of mismatched chandeliers that should have clashed but somehow didn’t. Rugs overlapped in jewel tones; their edges scalloped like layers of an extravagant cake.
