“What about your brother?” Kellen posed, asking the obvious.
“She says he’s already talking to realtors. That, coupled with the spending—well, leaving Sunnyside solely in his control might end badly. And before you ask if I could run the pecan operation from here, the answer is not likely. I’m good at a lot of things, but juggling crop yields, irrigation schedules, and payroll from two thousand miles away isn’t one of them.”
She paused, her voice quieter now.
“Truth is, I’m already spread too thin. Between mayoral duties, casework piling up at the firm, and trying to be a good mama to Lucan…something’s always slipping through the cracks. I already lie awake most nights wondering which one of those balls will hit the ground first.”
She looked at Kellen then, her eyes shining. “But the farm in Georgia—it’s more than just dirt and trees. It’s my family’s legacy.”
A long pause. Lucan, behind them, had gone quiet, lulled by the motion of the car or maybe sensing the shift in his parents’ voices.
Kellen exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. “I figured something was weighing on you. Just didn’t expect…this.”
“I didn’t either.” Her voice cracked slightly. “My great-granddaddy started with nothing but callused hands and the will to build something that would last. He carved Sunnyside Acres from red clay and grit, in a time when the world gave him every reason to fail. But he didn’t He held on. And so did the generations after him. This is Lucan’s heritage.”
He nodded again, but slower this time. “I get that. I really do, Reva. But what about us? Our life here. Our work. Your mayor’s seat. This is our home. What you’re talking about—well, it’s big. You know?”
She didn’t answer. Not right away.
Kellen glanced at her, then back to the road, his voice gentler now. “I’m not saying no. I’m just saying...this isn’t small. There are a lot of consequences to consider.”
The tires hummed against the pavement, filling the silence between them.
Reva stared out into the dusk. “Believe me, I know.”
11
Reva pushed open the door to City Hall, her heels clicking across the polished tile. She wasn’t three steps into the foyer before Verna appeared like a prairie dog out of a burrow, lips tight and bun tighter. “You’re back,” she said, as if Reva might’ve returned from a vacation rather than a week of emotional upheaval and family wrangling. “I’ve made a list.”
Of course, she had.
Reva adjusted the strap of her leather tote, already sensing the inbox overload awaiting her upstairs. “Good morning to you, too, Verna.”
Verna handed over a clipboard so thick it should’ve come with an arm brace. “First, the building permits backlog. Then the community center roof leaked—again. And the Rocky Mountain Oyster festival committee is demanding you pick a date before Friday’s planning meeting. But most urgent—” she lowered her voice, glancing toward the stairwell. “Fleet Southcott forgot his cruiser keys. Again. Except this time, he left them in the ignition. Engine running. All night.”
Reva winced. “Tell me someone found it before the car ran out of gas.”
“They found it alright. Idling in front of the bakery. Sheriff Southcott apparently went in for a cinnamon roll and forgot both the car and the time. Stood there thirty minutes chatting with Boyd before he took off and walked home, leaving the car behind.”
Reva closed her eyes for a beat. Thunder Mountain’s beloved sheriff had served the town for decades. But lately…there had been signs. Misplacing his citation book. Wandering into the Knit Wit gatherings at the Rustic Pine thinking it was poker night. Reva had chalked it up to age and fatigue. But now?
“Add a meeting with Fleet to the list,” she said, eyes opening again with resolve.
“I already did,” Verna said, straightening. “Three o’clock. His wife promised to call him with a reminder to make sure he wouldn’t forget.”
Reva climbed the stairs, clipboard in hand, the weight of it all settling into her shoulders. As much as she wanted to slide gently back into the rhythm of being mayor of Thunder Mountain, the job—and this town—rarely waited for anyone.
She stepped into her office and shut the door with a soft click, muffling the hum of the municipal building behind her, then dropped her tote and the clipboard onto the wide walnut desk and stood still for a moment, eyes sweeping over the room she’d made her own.
The walls were lined with local artwork—photos of the Tetons in every season, a woven tapestry from a Shoshone artisan, a framed thank-you card drawn in crayon from Lucan’s Sunday school class.
Warm mountain light streamed in through the tall windows, brushing across her leather chair, the fresh vase of daisies Verna must’ve set out, and the carefully stacked files waiting in her inbox like silent sentinels.
This was home. Her domain. Her calling.
And soon…it wouldn’t be.
She sank into the chair and exhaled, staring out the window at the fluttering aspen leaves, a few at the top of the tree now fading to gold. The decision she’d made in Georgia clung to her like southern heat—thick, inescapable, and full of consequence. She’d promised Grand Memaw. She’d looked into her eyes, seen the years and the pleading and the love, and said yes.
