I feel Faith relax a notch. Just a notch.
Ruth turns her monitor around.
The screen fills with images. Buckhorn at dawn, the mountains dusted with snow, Main Street strung with lights, the rodeo grounds empty and waiting, the diner glowing warm against winter dark.
“This town survives,” Ruth says, tapping the screen, “because people fall in love with it. But we’ve been relying on word of mouth and nostalgia for too long. Tourism has changed. Community outreach has changed. Storytelling has changed.”
Faith leans forward despite herself.
Ruth notices that too.
“I need someone who understands why this place matters,” Ruth continues, “and also understands how to communicate that without turning it into a gimmick.”
She looks directly at Faith now.
“At the winter festival,” Ruth says, “we only post photos after events instead of inviting people into the buildup. Dallas has shown me online the way you promoted events beforehand at your job.”
Faith inhales sharply. “I… you have?”
Ruth smiles, small and knowing. “You didn’t think no one noticed, did you?”
Faith’s cheeks color. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, that instinctive, half-shy, half-hopeful gesture I’m starting to recognize as what she does when she’s being seen and doesn’t quite trust it yet.
“I was just… doing what made sense.”
“That’s exactly why it mattered,” Ruth replies. She swivels the monitor back toward us and clicks through a few more screens. “These posts? The way you framed this PR event assomething people could anticipate, instead of just looking back on? I bet engagement doubled.”
Faith’s head snaps up. “I think it did.”
“I thought as much,” Ruth confirms. “I can see from the post activities. People shared them. Commented. Asked questions. They tagged friends. That’s not an accident.”
I watch Faith process that, watch the old reflex rise.It was luck, it was timing, it wasn’t really me…and then hesitate.
Ruth doesn’t let the moment slip.
“You didn’t just show events,” she continues. “You showed people. In this town, you could highlight the baker who’s been here thirty years. The kids stringing lights. The quiet parts. The in-between moments.”
Faith swallows. “Those are my favorite parts.”
“And it shows,” Ruth says. “That’s the difference between marketing and storytelling.”
Faith lets out a breath, and her shoulders drop another inch.
Ruth folds her hands on the desk. “Dallas came to me the other day. He said, ‘She sees Buckhorn like it’s alive. Like it’s worth protecting.’”
Faith looks at me then, startled. Soft.
I shrug, because if I say anything, I’ll ruin it. “You do.”
Ruth clears her throat, reclaiming the room. “Here’s what I want to talk to you about. Buckhorn is looking to expand tourism. Carefully. Thoughtfully. We don’t want buses rolling in and flattening the place.”
“Good,” Faith says instantly. “That would ruin it.”
Ruth smiles. “Exactly.”
She slides a folder across the desk, but not all the way. Leaves it between us—a neutral ground.
“I want someone local, someone who understands this town from the inside, to handle our digital presence. Social media, event promotion, community storytelling. Someone whocan shape how Buckhorn is seen without turning it into a caricature.”
