Cattle haulers passing through. Retired ranchers still pretending they’ve got a herd to check on. Men who never really clock out, just come in long enough to shovel food in and trade opinions before heading back out into the heat.
There’s a rhythm to it.
Who comes in. When they leave. Like the Bluebell is synced up to the heartbeat of the land itself. The younger guys don’t linger. They order fast, eat faster, and leave with their hats already in hand.
The older ones? They stretch their coffee refills into an art form. They talk in theories and weather patterns, in vague metaphors and unspoken truths. They argue about sick calves like the fate of the world depends on it. They’ve got two speeds: dead serious or full of shit. Sometimes both in the same sentence.
By the time dinner rolls around, it’s families and teenagers and couples sharing milkshakes like we’re in a rom-com. But mornings? Mornings belong to the ranchers. The ones who carry Summit Springs on their backs. Who work quiet and steady and don’t ask for much.
Across the room, Shirley sighs dramatically, lowering her crossword puzzle. “Harold, help me out here—what’s a four-letter word for ‘useless’?”
Harold doesn’t even glance up. “H-A-N-K.”
“I swear to God, Harold, if you bring up my brother one more time—”
“You asked me!”
Lenny, a local rancher who’s still hidden behind his paper, grumbles. “You two argue like it’s an Olympic sport.”
Shirley sniffs. “Well, if it was, I’d be bringing home the gold.”
I shake my head. “Do I need to separate you two?”
Harold waves me off. “Nope. She likes the fightin’. It keeps her sharp.”
He’s not entirely wrong.
“You better pray I go first, Harold. I mean it. Because the second you’re gone, I’m telling everyone you were a terrible lover.”
Harold just keeps eating his toast. “Joke’s on you, Shirl. They already know.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, refilling her coffee mug before she can weaponize it.
These people. This town.
They wear me out.
And yet…I wouldn’t trade a single one of them. Not even Tina, who just tried to pinch my cheek like I’m five and she gave birth to me. I keep weaving through the tables, refilling coffee cups, dodging elbows, offering tired smiles. It’s muscle memory at this point.
Someone once told me your twenties are for figuring out who you are, and your thirties are for living it.
I don’t know who came up with that, but I’m calling bullshit.
Because I’m thirty, and if anything, I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a life I built out of necessity and wondering if I ever stopped long enough to decide if it’s what I actually wanted. Like I missed some turning point while I was busy making coffee and fixing leaky faucets.
I don’t feel “settled.”
I feel…tired. And grateful. And unsure. All at once.
For the past twelve years, I’ve lived as two differentpeople.
There’s Lark Westwood—the version of me this town sees. The one who owns the Bluebell, opens up before the sun even stretches, keeps the lights on, the stove hot, and the orders moving. The one who holds everything together with burnt fingertips and duct tape and a smile that’s easier to wear than the truth of how I actually feel some days.
I do it because I don’t know how not to. Because no one else will. Because it’s easier to stay busy than to admit I’m still figuring it out.
And then there’s the other version. The one who belongs to Hudson.
The one who wakes up early to pack lunches and checks his backpack three times to make sure he didn’t forget his science folder again. The one who listens to hours of baseball talk like it’s gospel and pretends not to notice when his voice cracks mid-sentence. The one who worries about how much screen time is too much and whether or not frozen waffles count as dinner when we’re both too tired to try.
