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Sergeant whines again, long and low, and paws at the glass.

"I know," I tell him.

Then I put the truck in gear and drive down the other side.

Chapter Six

MONA

By Wednesday I've reorganized my entire spreadsheet of Solara properties three times and cried in the shower twice.

The first time was Monday morning. I woke up alone in a bed that still smelled like him, reached across the mattress out of habit, and found nothing but cold sheets and a dent in the pillow. No dog on my feet. No big warm hand on my hip. Just the fridge humming in the kitchen and the pot of green chile I never ate, going gummy on the stove.

The second time was Tuesday, when I found one of Sergeant's hairs on my flannel and sat down on the bathroom floor like an idiot.

Today I'm doing better. Today I'm at the Ridgeline Diner at seven in the morning with my laptop open and a cup of coffee going cold, answering an email from Solara's vice president about office space in Albuquerque. There's a building downtown with good light and a parking garage. It has a conference room. It has a kitchenette. It has everything I asked for when I was twenty eight and dreaming about this exact moment.

I've read the email four times and haven't typed a word.

Mabel slides a plate of biscuits and gravy in front of me. I didn't order it. She sits down across from me in the booth, which she never does, and folds her hands on the table.

"Eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"I didn't ask if you were hungry." She waits until I pick up a fork. "Hank saw that man's truck pull out of the church lot Monday before sunup, headed for the pass. Said he looked like somebody shot his dog."

My fork stops halfway to my mouth.

"Dog looked worse," she adds. "Wouldn't get out of the truck. Just sat in the window looking back toward your place."

I set the fork down. My eyes are burning again. I'm so tired of crying.

"He told me to take the other job," I say. "He said it wasn't his call."

"Well, he's right about that." She shrugs when I stare at her. "It isn't. It's yours, honey."

"I asked him what he wanted."

"And he told you what he thought a good man ought to say." Mabel reaches across the table and taps my laptop screen with one knuckle. "Question is, what do you want? Not him. Not those resort people. You."

Nobody asks me that.

Josiah did. That first night on the stage with the dead generator, he asked if I liked planning weddings, and I said I was good at it. I'm good at a lot of things. Good at making everyone else's big day perfect. Good at scheduling every hour so there's never a quiet one where I have to sit with myself and think about what I actually want.

I look out the window at Main Street. The hardware store is putting pumpkins on the sidewalk. Hank's sweeping in front of the Rusty Elk. Across the street the church steeple shines white in the sun, and the ghost of my banner's tape is still stuck to the railing.

For three years I've been running. From Albuquerque. From that church, and that dress, and that man who didn't come. I built a whole business so I'd never have to stand still long enough to feel it. And then I came here and stood still, and a town wrapped around me anyway.

I want the spring festival. I want to know who Wade's gonna hire to paint his cider sign next year. I want Hank to fix my porch steps without telling me. I want to walk an empty field at midnight and know every single booth by heart because I put it there.

I want to stay.

With or without a sheriff from over the pass.

My hands are shaking when I close the Solara email and open a new one. Mabel watches me type. She doesn't say anything. When I hit send on my acceptance to Deborah Kline, she picks up my cold coffee and goes to get me a fresh cup.

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