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I sigh, a brick sinking into my chest. I’ve been getting judgmental looks all day. To say I’m an unwelcome stranger here is an understatement.

Maybe they’ve been taking lessons from Cole Weston.

I slow my stride when I notice them. Missing persons posters. They’re tacked on streetlights, stop signs, and mailboxes. I tilt my head and evaluate a faded black and white poster of a pretty girl with long, pale blond hair. April Sawyer.

She’s been missing seventeen years.

The dark, morbid thought sneaks up on me. Maybe this girl is still out there, somewhere. I don’t have that hope with Lucy.

Fingering the tattered edge of the poster, I give the girl one last long look. Blowing out a breath, I lift my bags and continue down the street.

Above, bright neon catches my eye. Urban Cowgirl Collective. The sign is a hot pink cowboy hat with a lightning bolt sitting in the ribbon. The funky signage makes me smile.

Juggling my bags, I kick the door open with my heel and step inside.

The aromas of leather, vanilla, and musk saturate the air. Country music plays on a vintage-looking speaker. I set my bags down and wander past tables filled with candles, ornate belt buckles, leather goods, and gold jewelry. On the walls hang a beautiful selection of cowboy hats.

“Help you?” A girl emerges from the back room. She’s dressed in a gingham shirt tucked into tight blue jeans, and boots cover her feet. A chocolate-colored flipped-brim cowboy hat sits on top of long, dark copper-red hair. She looks like a fierce, dolled-up cowgirl.

“No. Just browsing.”

“In the market for a hat?” She wiggles her eyebrows. “I can make you the best damn hat this side of the Mississippi.”

I look around the store. In the corner is a long table with baubles like charms, feathers, ribbons. Stools surround it.

It’s a hat bar.

“I’m not a cowgirl.”

Her vibrant turquoise eyes glitter. “You will be once you get a hat on your head.”

Opposite the hat bar is an actual bar. Stocked on the shelves above is Weston Whiskey. God, I can’t escape it. Him. Cole’s handsome, surly face flashes in my mind. I clench my thighs together and force away the image.

The girl points a finger at me and pauses a few feet away. “Let me guess. You’re either a tourist or new here.”

I smile. One look at my cute black pumps and my slinky slip dress, and it’s obvious I’m not into the typical Tempest attire of flannel and boots.

“New.”

The girl whistles.

“I get the feeling that new isn’t very welcome in this town.”

“You’d be correct.” Gaze appraising, she circles me. Laughs. “Oh, people are gonna talk about you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re gorgeous. And you’re fresh meat. And the small-town gossip mill never gets old. They’ll sacrifice you to feed their bloodthirsty rumor-mongering souls.”

Great. Just what I need. More attention.

A smirk tilts her lips. “That look means you’ve already gotten the strange side-eye.” She flicks a cavalier hand. “Don’t let it get to you. Our town doesn’t like strangers.” She shrugs. “But we need ’em, so we do the polite thing of letting them spend money in our establishments, all while talking shit behind their backs.”

She tips her head at me in question. “Where are you staying? The Newkirk?”

I bite my lip. “I’m staying at the distillery.”

Her jaw drops. “Copper Run Ranch?”