Page 6

“Ashley?” she asks, her mouth dropping open in an O of surprise. “AshleyGibson?”

Why is she shouting? Surely, being announced like I’m going on stage for a game show isn’t standard practice to pay for groceries.

My entire body flushes and I wish like hell I could just disappear into the floor. If the snow was already here, I’d jump head first into a huge pile.

“Yes,” I hiss. “Can you please just charge the card?”

“Miss Gibson, I never expected to see you back in town,” she says, as though I didn’t speak.

Of course, I know exactly who she is. Mrs. Graham is the sweet lady who teaches Sunday school. She always had homemade cookies for the local children, which at one point in time included me.

But she didn’t make the connection between the teenager who ran away from Montana like her pants were on fire and the adult that I am now.

Not until she saw the goddamn credit card.

“Look, Mrs. Graham, I’m in a bit of a rush and–”

A loud and angry male voice from behind me suddenly interrupts our conversation, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as fear lances its way down my spine.

“You’re Maxwell Gibson’s daughter aren’t you?” he demands.

Already?

Fuck.

Can I lie? It’s not like either Ashley or Gibson are uncommon names.

But it’s too much of a coincidence, and I’ll never get away with it. Not with all the small town detectives who will undoubtedly be talking about me until my ears burn now that they know I’m here.

Of course, I knew that I’d eventually be spotted and even confronted. But I was hoping to get in and out of all the stores that I need to hit without being detected. All I want to do is prepare to hide away for the duration of the storm.

Then I can make a game plan rather than running on panic mode.

After what I just went through with my ex, I really can’t handle any more emotional trauma. Is it too much to ask to be crucified after the storm passes?

Instead of doing what I want to do – run, hide, lie, scream – I turn around to face the man, tilting my chin as high as I can to look him directly in the eye.

“Yes. I am.”

I recognize this person, too. Mr. McGraw, a rancher who has a long history with my dad. But who in this town doesn’t?

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he demands.

His skin is sallow, his eyes are sunken, and he has the bright red bulbous nose typically associated with alcoholics. I hope it wasn’t my dad who ruined his life, but it was.

Of course it was.

“I’m buying groceries, the same as you. I have every right to be here, and–”

“Ain’t no Gibson welcome here,” Mr. McGraw sneers. “You need to get the fuck out of town, little girl, before something bad happens to you.”

I knew it would be like this, I just didn’t know it would be so soon.

I thought – stupidly – that I might be able to have a brief respite in the old, remote hunting cabin that I inherited from my dad. It’s just been sitting there completely unused, and I have nowhere else to go.

Mrs. Graham is just standing there staring at us rather than doing her job, which is to charge me for the damn groceries so I can leave.

When Mr. McGraw advances on me, reaching out a hand to grab my wrist, I jump back.