Page 77 of Wild Sanctuary

I look out the window at the valley rolling past. “What does that mean?”

“It means Dolly Briggs has been watching this family for thirty-some years and she notices things.” June signals the turn onto Main Street. “She called Maggie to ask if you were staying.”

The question lands quietly.

“I’m not.” And I mean that. I’m not.

June doesn’t respond to that. She parallel parks with the efficiency of someone who has done it ten thousand times and gets out of the truck, and I follow her onto the sidewalk into the warm Friday afternoon.

Main Street is unhurried the way it always is between the lunch rush and dinner. The hardware store is open, and the afternoon is warm enough that the florist has moved half the shop onto the sidewalk, late spring wildflowers in every direction. Sky Country Books sits on the corner, exactly where it always has. The sign is painted dark green with gold lettering, sun-faded at the edges, and Hemingway is in the window in his customary position of supreme indifference.

Except the door has a sign on it.

Closed due to a family matter.

Apologies for any inconvenience.

I stand on the sidewalk and read it twice.

June appears at my shoulder, already crouching to tap the glass at Hemingway’s eye level. The cat doesn’t twitch. She taps again.

“June.”

“He’ll move eventually. It’s a matter of patience and commitment.” She straightens, finally registering the sign. “Oh no. Danny’s in hospital.”

“Daniel Cutter?”

“Mm-hm, yeah. Goes by Danny. He’s in Bozeman.”

She peers through the glass, then slowly shakes her head.

“Alma must be driving back and forth. She’s been running that shop alone since he retired.” She tilts her head in thought. “Heart, I think. Or maybe it was a fall. Lou at the feed store mentioned something last week but you know how Lou is. He starts with the medical facts and ends up talking about his cousin’s knee surgery in 1987.”

“Is he okay?”

“Lou’s cousin? Apparently, the knee never fully recovered.”

I blink at her slowly. “Danny Cutter, June.”

“Oh.” She turns back to the window and taps the glass at Hemingway one more time, as though she hasn’t been stringing me along for the last thirty seconds. “I don’t know, honestly. I can ask around.”

She glances at the sign again, then at me with the particular attentiveness she deploys when she’s decided not to ask a question directly. “Were you looking for something specific?”

“Background. For the article.” The lie comes out smoothly and tastes exactly like what it is, but I can’t implode this family’s world until I know. “He’s been in town a long time. I thought he might have some historical context.”

June looks at me for a beat longer than necessary. “Mm.”

She says it the way Wyatt does, which is either a family trait or something that comes from living in close quarters with him for too long. Either way it means I-don’t-entirely-believe-you-but-I’m-choosing-not-to-push.

“Come on.” She hooks her arm through mine. “Two scoops at Rosie’s. My treat.”

Rosie’s is exactly as I remember it. Red vinyl stools, the jukebox playing old country songs, the smell of coffee and sugar, and the same sense of welcome I remember.

“Two scoops,” June tells the pretty server who approaches us with a smile. “Strawberry cheesecake for both of us.”

Not even a minute later, she returns and sets two generous scoops in front of us. June picks up her spoon.

“Best part of your day. Go!” She smiles.