Page 18 of Friends are Forever (Teton Mountain #6)

T he sharp jingle of the bell above the door rang out as Charlie Grace stepped into Wylie’s Feed and Seed, brushing dust from her jeans.

The familiar tang of hay, rubber boots, and motor oil clung to the air inside the store—just the kind of place she’d grown up feeling at home.

She gave a quick wave to the calico cat perched on a stack of mineral lick tubs near the register.

Wylie Martin stood behind the counter, rearranging seed packets with the slow precision of a man who’d owned the store since before Charlie Grace could ride a two-wheeler.

“Morning, Charlie Grace. Let me guess—something broke, and you’re fixing it yourself instead of calling one of those ranch hands you keep on payroll. ”

She grinned and hefted a heavy-duty posthole digger onto the counter. “The south fence line near the creek got flattened in the windstorm last week. Figured I’d replace a few posts and re-tension the wire before the horses figure out there’s an escape route.”

Wylie raised one white brow and gave the digger a skeptical once-over. “You know, most folks in your position don’t spend their morning digging in the mud. They write a check and call it good. Especially ones with bank accounts so full they burst.”

“I know.” Charlie Grace shrugged, brushing a strand of windblown hair from her face. “Old habits. Besides, it clears my head.”

“Mmm.” Wylie rang up the sale and slid the receipt across the counter. “Just don’t forget—there’s a difference between being capable and being stubborn. One makes you strong. The other just makes you tired.”

She chuckled, pocketing her change. “Story of my life.”

He leaned his elbows on the counter. “You ever think maybe it’s time to let someone else shoulder a little of it? Lot of good men and women around here who’d jump at the chance.”

Charlie Grace paused, her fingers tightening on the wooden handle of the posthole digger. “Maybe,” she said, but her voice carried the weight of a woman not quite ready to admit it.

As she turned to leave, Wylie called out, “You’ll have to learn sometime, Charlie Grace. Even the strongest horses need rest.”

She gave him a two-finger salute and pushed through the door, the bell jingling again behind her.

Outside, the wind had picked up, carrying with it the smell of damp earth and wild sage. Charlie Grace loaded the tool into the bed of her truck.

She had just tugged the tailgate shut when a familiar wedge of sleek black metal nosed into a parking space across the street.

She straightened, squinting into the sunlight as Nick Thatcher stepped out of his SUV, tall and trim in a flannel shirt rolled to the elbows and worn jeans that still somehow looked designer.

A camera hung from his neck, the strap worn from use, his dark hair tousled by the wind.

He spotted her and grinned—wide, easy, and just a little crooked—then jogged across Main Street, dodging a passing pickup and drawing more than one glance from the Knit Wit ladies congregated on the bench outside the bakery.

“Thought that was your truck,” he said as he approached, giving the posthole digger in the bed a curious glance. “You starting a landscaping business on the side?”

Charlie Grace leaned against the tailgate, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “Just doing repairs after the storm. South fence line took a hit.”

Nick rested a hand on the edge of the truck, close but not touching her. “Of course, you are.”

For the benefit of anyone watching—and more than a few were—he didn’t lean in for a kiss, but the warmth in his eyes made it clear he could’ve. Charlie Grace felt it, the way she always did.

They’d met the year before when Nick stayed at her guest ranch while scouting locations for Bear Country , a gritty wilderness television show that had since become a breakout hit.

As the show’s production designer, Nick had every reason to move on after filming wrapped near Jackson—but he hadn’t.

He kept showing up. Kept calling. And somewhere along the line, their story had gone from casual to something neither of them could quite define, but both were reluctant to let go.

“You here scouting?” she asked, nodding toward the camera.

“Sort of,” he said. “Thought I’d grab some shots of Thunder Mountain for an upcoming promotion campaign. You know I’ve got a soft spot for this place.”

She rolled her eyes, but her voice softened. “Still trying to sneak it into season two?”

“I’m a patient man,” he said, lifting the camera and snapping a photo before she could protest.

Charlie Grace gave him a look. “Delete it.”

“Not a chance,” he said. “You look like the kind of woman who knows how to handle a fence post and then take on the world.”

She shook her head, but she was smiling now. And for just a moment, she forgot all about broken fences and stubborn pride.

Nick tilted his head toward the corner. “Come on. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. Just ten minutes.”

Charlie Grace hesitated, glancing toward the bed of her truck like the posthole digger might get up and do the work without her. “I’ve got a list a mile long, Nick. Fence repairs, and guests arriving this afternoon…”

“All still waiting when you’re done,” he said, sliding his sunglasses up onto his head. “There’s no reason not to say yes.”

The corners of her mouth tugged, despite her best effort to keep them neutral. “You always this pushy?”

“When I know what I want.”

He extended a hand—open, easy—and waited.

Charlie Grace eyed it for a beat. Then she exhaled and placed her palm in his.

His fingers wrapped around hers like a promise—warm, steady, and sure. The kind of touch that didn’t ask for anything, just offered presence. The wood-planked sidewalk creaked beneath their boots as they made their way toward the Rustic Pine, the storefronts lined with potted mums.

She tried not to notice how perfectly their strides matched, how natural it felt to walk hand in hand like they’d been doing it for years.

But she did notice. The rough callus at the base of his thumb, the way his hand tightened ever so slightly when they passed Nicola Cavendish and her yap-happy Yorkie.

She should’ve felt guilty for taking the detour. Should’ve felt antsy, already planning how to make up for lost time. Instead, her heart felt a little lighter, like maybe the world could wait ten more minutes.

Maybe even longer.

The Rustic Pine was only half full, the quiet hum of locals nursing second cups of coffee and chatting over breakfast.

Charlie Grace followed Nick inside and immediately spotted Pete Cumberland behind the bar, refilling a saltshaker. Annie, bustling near the kitchen pass-through with her signature half-apron and easy smile, waved them over.

“Morning, you two,” Pete called out. “Didn’t expect to see you out and about this early, Charlie Grace. Heard you were neck-deep in postholes and barbed wire.”

“I was,” she said with a chuckle, then nodded toward Nick. “But someone had other ideas.”

Pete arched a brow at Nick, grinning. “Good man.”

“Hey, I caught your sermon on Sunday,” Nick added. “The bit about sowing in hard soil? That landed.”

Pete gave a modest shrug. “Well, I reckon if it stuck with you, then the good Lord must’ve had His hand in it. I just try to stay out of the way and say what needs saying.”

Annie stepped in, wiping her hands on a towel. “Sit wherever you’d like. I’ll bring two cups of the good stuff.” She winked at Charlie Grace. “We made that Guatemalan roast you like.”

They slid into a corner booth near the window, sunlight slanting across the table in soft golden beams. True to her word, Annie returned moments later with two steaming mugs, the aroma rich and nutty.

Charlie Grace cupped hers between her hands, savoring the warmth. “I forgot how good this feels—just sitting.”

Nick blew across the surface of his coffee, then leaned back and gave her that look. The one that saw too much. “Maybe you should do it more often.”

Before she could reply, her phone buzzed against the table. She glanced at the screen—a quick text from Jewel’s riding instructor, confirming a lesson reschedule.

She typed a reply, set the phone down, and barely exhaled before it buzzed again.

Another message. This time from one of her ranch hands asking about a delivery.

Charlie Grace reached for it, already rehearsing instructions in her head, but Nick gently caught her hand and instead slid the phone across the table, out of reach.

“Just a few minutes,” he said softly. “That’s all I’m asking. Be here. With me.”

She blinked at him, caught off guard by the kindness in the gesture more than the act itself. Her fingers, still half-stretched toward the phone, curled back into her palm.

“I’m not great at putting things down,” she admitted, her voice low.

Nick took a sip of coffee, eyes on hers. “Then start with this.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the clink of forks and the low murmur of conversation filling the Rustic Pine around them. Charlie Grace wrapped both hands around her mug, stared into it for a beat, then looked up at Nick, eyes clear and direct.

“All right,” she said, her voice low but steady. “You asked for ten minutes, so here it is. No holding back.”

She took a breath and launched in, her words tumbling out faster than she expected. “The other day, Reva, Capri, and I met at Lila’s to take down the nursery…”

Nick’s expression filled with tenderness. “I’m listening.”

“Camille’s gone back to school, and...well.

” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.

She looked across the table and shook her head.

“All our hearts are breaking for Lila—grieving a loss no woman should ever have to endure. And yet, she moves through each day with a quiet strength that doesn’t come from willpower or bravery, but from the simple, brutal fact that she doesn’t have a choice.

Life keeps going, whether you’re ready or not. And Lila, somehow, keeps going too.”

Nick was quiet for a moment, his fingers tracing the rim of his coffee mug. Then he looked at her, his expression softer than she’d ever seen it. “You’re a good friend, Charlie Grace. Don’t underestimate how much that matters, even when you and the others can’t fix it.”

“Reva took everything—crib, rocking chair, even the little bins with woodland animals on the front. Said she’d make sure it all went to good homes. You should’ve seen the way she loaded it all into her SUV like she was prepping for a covert mission.”

Nick chuckled, but Charlie Grace shook her head, eyes soft. “Something’s off with Reva, though. She had to let Fleet Southcott go. Nearly broke her heart. And I think the thing with her Grand Memaw is hitting her harder than she’s letting on. Reva always carries more than she shows.”

She paused, then leaned back in the booth. “You know, back in high school, she once organized a fundraiser car wash for the debate team because the school cut their budget. She made all of us wear swimsuits and tank tops—said the boys would drive through twice if we did.”

Nick laughed. “Did it work?”

“Oh, it worked. Raised over eight hundred dollars in one Saturday. But here’s the best part—Reva convinced our principal it was educational.

Said it was ‘applied persuasive strategy in a real-world economic context.’” Charlie Grace grinned at the memory.

“The woman’s been talking her way into impossible solutions since we were sixteen. ”

She sobered then, her voice quieting. “But lately, it’s like her spark is dimmed. I just...I don’t know. I hate not knowing how to help.”

Nick reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. “Maybe just being there is enough right now. Sometimes that’s all people need.”

Charlie Grace nodded, grateful. But in her chest, something stirred—like a thread pulling tight between her desire to be there for her friends and the helplessness of not knowing how. She hated that feeling—of standing on the sidelines when all she wanted was to fix something, anything.

Nick seemed to sense the tug-of-war inside her. His gaze softened, then brightened with a flicker of something playful.

“I’ve got just the thing you need right now,” he said.

Charlie Grace arched a brow. “What?”

He leaned back, lips tugging into a grin. “It’s a surprise. But be ready Saturday morning. I’m picking you up. No ifs, ands, or buts. It’s a date.”

She gave a mock sigh. “Fine. But what am I wearing to this mysterious cure-all?”

Nick’s eyes drifted over her, slow and deliberate, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Just what you’ve got on is fine.”

She narrowed her eyes, amused. “So...mud-splattered and mildly exhausted?”

He laughed. “Exactly. Wouldn’t want you any other way.”