Page 131 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

I lean against the post for half a second, watching her, giving her space to breathe and then I push off and head down toward her. “Come with me.”

She just follows me, no questions asked.

Night in Colter Creek feels different once most people have gone home.

The town gets more peaceful. Porch lights beam. The diner sign swings. Somewhere a dog barks once and gets told to shut up by somebody unseen.

The mountains sit black against the sky, big enough to make all the town drama feel briefly ridiculous.

The truck heater kicks in slow, and Annie sits tucked into the passenger seat with one hand around the sleeve of her cardigan, holding herself in place by the cuff.

I don’t push conversation right away. Partly because I’ve learned she’ll tell me things in her own time if I don’t crowd the edges and partly because I just enjoy driving with her.

She fits in the cab in a way that seems impossible after such a short time. The space was made to hold her little silences and her camera.

Dangerous thought.

I set it aside for later, where I keep all the other dangerous thoughts that look suspiciously like future.

“You know,” I say as we roll through town, “for the record, if you want me to egg Vivian’s car, I’m not saying yes, but I’m saying I’d hear your pitch.”

Annie snorts. “That’s your solution?”

“It’s not my first solution.”

“Comforting.”

“My first solution actually involved dramatically faking my own death at age twelve so I could avoid one of her piano recitals.”

That gets her attention. “You took piano?”

“I was forced into piano.”

“Wow.”

“Exactly.” I nod solemnly. “You understand my trauma.”

She turns in the seat a little more, studying me. “You?”

I grin. “What, you thought I sprang fully formed from the earth with a pie recipe and emotional intelligence?”

“No,” she says dryly. “I just assumed the universe handcrafted you to be irritating.”

“That too.”

The bakery is still lit when we pull up, smelling of butter, cinnamon, and the best decisions you’ve ever made.

Millie McDougal is behind the counter when we walk in, cardigan buttoned crooked over her floral blouse, gray hair pinned up in a soft twist that never seems to move no matter what the weather’s doing.

She looks up, spots me, and smiles in that way older women do when they know exactly how full of nonsense you are and love you anyway.

“Well,” she says. “If it isn’t trouble.”

“Millie,” I say, wounded. “I came for baked goods and spiritual healing.”

“You came because you know I start discounting the day-olds after nine.”

“That too.”