Page 11 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

Fresh air. Errands. No Harlans.

At least for an hour…

Colter Creek is exactly the kind of town people mean when they say everybody knows everybody.

It takes all of seven minutes to confirm this.

Main Street is all weathered brick and painted signs and old school charm trying very hard not to look curated for tourists.

There’s a bakery with flower boxes under the windows, a barber shop with a striped pole out front, a general store that looks like it’s been standing since horses were the cutting edge of transportation.

The feed store sits near the end of the street with a faded sign that reads Colter Creek Feed & Supply, and the second I step inside, the smell hits me.

Hay, leather, grain, and dust. That particular dry, earthy scent every ranch store in America seems to share like it’s in a union.

The bell over the door jingles.

A man behind the counter glances up from a ledger and gives me a look so immediate and assessing it feels like I’ve been scanned for criminal intent and social usefulness in the same breath.

He’s somewhere in his fifties and broad through the shoulders, with a sun-worn face and the kind of mustache that probably has opinions.

“Well now,” he says, setting the pen down. “You’re not from around here.”

“Is it the car, the hair, or the expression that says I deeply regret coming in here?” I ask.

The man barks out a laugh. “Bit of all three, if I’m honest. Tommy Jones,” he says, straightening a little. “I run this place. Been here, what, thirty years now? Give or take. Long enough to know when someone’s new.”

A younger guy appears from the back carrying a stack of feed tags, all loose-limbed energy and easy grin. “And I’m Terry. I mostly carry things and pretend I know what I’m doing. And you are…?”

“Annie. Annie Wright. Do you have any office supplies here?”

Tommy squints like I’ve just said something mildly offensive. “Office supplies… in a feed store…”

“We’ve got a shelf,” Terry offers, pointing. “It’s not impressive, but it exists.”

“Yeah, over there,” Tommy adds, still sounding faintly baffled. “Folks come in for all sorts now. Used to be feed, tools, done. Now it’s… paper, pens… one time someone asked for printer ink. Printer ink.”

He shakes his head like civilization is slipping.

I smile despite myself and head for the office supply shelf jammed awkwardly between work gloves and horse supplements. Because apparently this town believes printer paper and wormer are natural neighbors.

“So,” Tommy says, as if we’re mid-conversation instead of thirty seconds into meeting, “what brings you to Colter Creek?”

I reach for sticky notes. “A desperate need for highlighters.”

Terry laughs. “That’s a new one.”

Tommy points a finger like he’s connecting dots out loud. “Ironwood, right? You’re the new one they brought in.”

Well, that didn’t take long.

I glance over. “I’m guessing this is the part where I ask how you know that.”

Tommy spreads his hands. “Small town.”

“Right.”

“Anyway,” Tommy continues. “Sherry was in yesterday, mentioned it while she was picking up, what was it, feed? No, straw. Anyway. Said they finally hired someone from outside, which, I’ll tell you, that doesn’t happen unless something’s off. Those boys, good boys, but they keep things tight. Real tight.”