“I’m fine,” Grace lied. “I didn’t realize Colorado would be this… committed to the Winter Wonderland aesthetic.”
“Uh-huh.” Alix glanced down. Grace’s feet were damp, her thin flats and orange socks darkened by melted snow. “Maybe you can wear some of mine, or my mom’s. What size are you?”
“Six.”
Alix glanced toward Grace. “You have child feet.”
“I have normal feet,” Grace countered. “You just have ski attachments.”
“Well, I think we’re going to have to grab you something until your bags arrive,” Alix said.
Grace didn’t argue, which showed Alix just how freezing she must be.
Alix tried to remember what was in the small downtown of Bellvue’s neighboring town, Laporte. Bellvue itself was too small to have any kind of shopping area, so most people “went into town” either to Laporte or Fort Collins for the bigger stores. The streets were mostly empty, the shops dark except for one still glowing with neon: Buckaroo Trading Post.
Grace peered at the wooden sign as they parked. “Is this a souvenir shop or a front for a cult?”
“A little from column A, a little from column B,” Alix said, hopping out and crunching through the snow. “Do you want me to carry you?”
Grace looked alarmed, her mouth opening and closing twice before she gasped, “No.”
Alix shrugged. “Well, then, come on. Let’s see if we can find you some shoes that won’t require amputation.”
A bell jingled as they entered, and a teenager behind the counter gave them the bored wave of someone whose soul had escaped mid-shift.
Inside, the Buckaroo Trading Post was exactly what it sounded like — part novelty store, part museum of outdated cowboy fantasies. Taxidermy heads lined the walls. Shelves held everything from “Don’t Mess with the West” magnets to T-shirts of wolves howling at a neon moon. Laporte really leaned into the rural aspect of its heritage instead of admitting it was basically incorporated into a large, liberal college town.
“Wow,” Grace murmured, walking past a rack of faux-suede jackets. “So this is culture.”
“Don’t be jealous,” Alix said.
They poked through rows of flannel shirts and beaded moccasin keychains. There was one sad rack of boots near theback, all in sizes that seemed to belong to the type of person named Big Earl.
The smallest boots were an impeccably shiny pair of chestnut cowboy boots with turquoise stitching. Grace picked them up, turned them over, and grinned. “You know what? I’ve always wanted cowboy boots.”
“Of course you have,” Alix said. “Every Miami lawyer dreams of going full Dolly Parton.”
Grace slipped them on, wiggled her toes, and took a few tentative steps. “They fit.”
Alix crossed her arms. “You look like a brand-new member of a country girl power trio. In a good way.”
Grace spun, the strings of her fluorescent orange Broncos hoodie flaring, and gave her a mock curtsy. “Then I guess I’ll need a stage name.”
“Gator Jones.”
Grace laughed, a real one that reached her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
Alix couldn’t help but smile. “We’re buying those.”
Ten minutes later, Grace left the store with her new boots and a tiny cowboy hat keychain she’d insisted on buying for Alix. Outside, the snow had picked up again — dreamy, giant flakes drifting under the streetlights.
As they drove the last few miles, the landscape widened. Fenced pastures stretched into the dark, punctuated by the occasional red barn or solitary light. Alix’s throat tightened. She’d forgotten how open it felt out here, how the sky seemed too big to belong to anyone.
“There it is,” Alix said quietly, nodding toward the faint glow at the end of a long gravel drive.
The farmhouse came into view — white siding, dark shutters, a wraparound porch buried in snow. The barn and stablesbeyond were shadowed, but the porch light glowed amber through the flakes.
Alix’s pulse kicked.
