Page 9

chapter

five

Nessie wiped down the counter for the third time in fifteen minutes, scrubbing at a coffee stain that had long since seeped into the worn laminate.

But her mind wasn’t on the old countertop beneath her cloth.

It was stuck on the roadside, replaying the flash of hopelessness in Jaxon Thorne’s eyes yesterday when she’d asked him where he was going.

Those eyes had been haunting her all morning.

The morning rush had dwindled to a few regulars.

Earl Withers sat in his usual booth by the window, hat tipped low as he nursed a black coffee and stared out at nothing.

Ruthie Campbell clinked her spoon against a chipped porcelain mug as she waited for her daily gossip session with Margery Pendry.

At the counter, Marvin Dorsey was halfway through a story about a rodeo accident and a missing toe, while Levi Wiley hunched over his laptop, typing furiously on a novel he’d probably never finish.

The place hummed with soft conversation and the clatter of dishes, and Nessie usually loved these quiet moments with her customers, but she couldn’t keep her mind on work.

She just kept circling back to Jax and those haunted eyes.

She’d seen plenty of men from Valor Ridge drift through town over the years. Most were polite and kept their heads down, just ghosts haunting the edges of everyday life, trying not to be noticed. None of them had ever pinged on her radar like Jaxon Thorne.

So what was it about him that had her so rattled?

Maybe it was the way he’d looked at her like he was seeing sunlight for the first time in years.

Or the way he’d so patiently endured Oliver’s non-stop questions.

Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe it was the quiet desperation she’d recognized in him when he’d said he was headed away from here.

She knew that desperation. Had lived with it for months before she’d finally packed everything she owned into garbage bags and driven through the night with a sleeping four-year-old in the backseat, praying Alek wouldn’t wake up and find them before they could escape.

The rhythmic tapping of her fingernails against the countertop grew louder until she realized what she was doing and forced her hand flat. Stillness was safety. Drawing attention was dangerous.

“Easy,” she whispered to herself. “You’re getting worked up over nothing.”

But the knot in her stomach said otherwise.

Something was about to happen. The kind of something that cracked foundations and irrevocably changed lives.

A customer waved for a refill, and Nessie grabbed the coffee pot, grateful for the distraction. As she poured, she mentally recited her mantra: Stay quiet. Stay invisible. Protect Oliver.

Oliver.

Her gaze drifted toward the swinging door that led to her small office. Through the narrow window, she could see the top of Oliver’s head bent over his math worksheet. He was safe. That was all that mattered.

She returned the coffee pot to the warmer and resumed scrubbing at the counter, attacking old coffee stains with a vengeance.

She really should just replace the whole thing.

It was an ugly pink Formica relic from the 1970s that she’d inherited with the bakery, and she often dreamed of ripping it out.

She had a lot of dreams for this place. Reclaimed wood or butcher block counters, a new espresso machine that didn’t sound like a dying cat, maybe some exposed brick to give the place character.

But dreams cost money, and money was something she hoarded like a dragon guarded gold.

Every spare dollar went into Oliver’s college fund or their emergency escape account—the one she prayed they’d never need but couldn’t bring herself to touch.

“You okay, honey? You’re gonna wear a hole through that counter.”

Nessie blinked and looked up at the petite woman standing on the other side of the counter, eyeing her with a mixture of concern and amusement.

Margery Pendry was in her eighties and every single one of those years showed in the lines of her face, though she was much more spry than her feeble appearance let on.

She owned half the buildings in town, including this one.

“Sorry.” She managed a smile that felt tight around the edges. “Just thinking. Want your usual?”

“You know it.” Margery hefted her ancient leather bag onto the counter and dug through it for her change purse.

She always paid for her morning coffee and croissant in quarters.

“Must be some heavy thoughts to put that line between your brows. Take it from an old woman who has more wrinkles than a Shar Pei, you’re too young and pretty to start collecting them.

You’re gonna need Botox by forty if you keep furrowing like that. ”

Nessie laughed despite herself and poured coffee into Margery’s favorite mug—a pink one with faded roses that Nessie kept behind the counter just for her. “You think I can afford Botox on a small-town bakery owner’s salary? Not everyone owns half of Montana, Marge.”

“Fair point.” Margery counted out her quarters into neat piles of four, then plunked an extra dollar in the empty tip jar. “You get yourself something nice.”

Nessie didn’t have the heart to tell her a dollar wouldn’t even buy a candy bar anymore. “Thanks, Margery.” She slid the croissant onto a plate and passed it over the counter, but Margery made no move to pick it up.

“So what’s got you so worked up this morning? That boy of yours doing okay?”

“Oliver’s fine. He’s in the back room finishing his homework before the school bus comes.”

Margery clucked her tongue. “Kindergarteners having homework. Now that’s just wrong.”

“He’s almost through first grade.” A fact Nessie still couldn’t quite believe. Her baby was getting so big, so fast. “Time’s flying.”

“It always does, honey.” Margery took a sip of her coffee, her shrewd eyes never leaving Nessie’s face. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

She hesitated. Margery knew everyone and everything in Solace—had for decades. If anyone had insights about Jax, it would be her. But something held her back from asking directly.

“Just a strange encounter yesterday,” she finally said, keeping her voice casual as she grabbed the two napkin holders from the counter to restock them. “Some guy walking along the ridge road.”

“Walking? Nobody walks out there. And what were you doing all the way out there before dawn?”

Meeting a U.S. Marshal.

She doubted Marshal Brant would appreciate her blurting that out in front of one of the biggest gossips in town, so she settled for a half-truth. “Took Oliver on a scenic drive. He loves watching the sunrise from up there.”

If Margery didn’t believe her, she kept her doubts to herself. She leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Was it one of Walker’s boys?”

“I didn’t ask, but I think so. Boone Callahan picked him up.”

“Mm. Must be the new guy Walker just brought in. They always try to leave.”

“The new guy?”

“Yes, Jaxon Thorne. Former Navy SEAL. Came here from California, if I remember correctly. But not that part of California where they all look like they’re made of plastic.”

Nessie stopped short, a stack of napkins in hand, and turned to face the old woman again. “You know him?”

Margery took a delicate bite of her croissant. “Honey, I know everyone worth knowing in three counties.”

“Is he—” She hesitated, not sure how to frame her question without sounding paranoid. “Should I be concerned about him being around?”

Margery’s white eyebrows shot up. “Concerned? No, no, I don’t think so. He’s not dangerous. Broken, like most of them boys up there, but Walker wouldn’t take him in if he were dangerous.”

That wasn’t entirely true. A few years ago, shortly after Nessie arrived, one of Walker’s guys had beaten a man half to death at the Rusty Spur.

Nessie remembered the horror, the petitions to have the ranch closed down.

Walker had sent him away after that, but his name—Creed Calder—was still whispered around town like he was some kind of bogeyman.

But she didn’t voice that concern to Margery. Instead, she asked, “What did he do? To end up there, I mean.”

Margery’s expression grew more serious. “I don’t know the details, dear. But I will say this—whatever he did, he paid for it. Did his time. And Walker Nash doesn’t take on lost causes. He sees something in that boy worth saving.”

The bell above the door chimed, and Sheriff Hank Goodwin filled the doorway like a storm cloud rolling in from the mountains.

He was solid with the weathered look of a man who’d spent most of his life outdoors.

His steel-gray hair was buzzed close to his scalp, and a permanent frown seemed etched between his brows, as if he’d been born disapproving of the world.

He looked enough like Boone Callahan that you could tell they were related—Hank was his uncle—but the resemblance stopped at the bone structure.

Where Boone was brooding but kind at heart, Hank was just plain mean.

Solace might reelect him year after year, but that had more to do with fear than respect.

He wielded his authority like a weapon, brandishing his badge and family name to remind everyone who really ran the town.

“Morning, Nessie.” His pale blue eyes swept over her, then flicked to Margery. “Mrs. Pendry.”

“Sheriff,” Margery acknowledged, her tone cooling several degrees. The two had never gotten along, not since Margery had supported the rival candidate trying to unseat Hank’s brother in the last mayoral election.

“Coffee, Sheriff?” Nessie asked, already reaching for a paper travel cup. She didn’t particularly like Hank Goodwin, but his money spent the same as anyone else’s.

“Black. And one of those bear claws if you’ve got ‘em.” He settled against the counter, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, and surveyed the bakery like he was looking for violations.