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What I wanted to say:

Does he talk about me at all?

When he’s three drinks in and that song comes on, does he look wistful?

Please recap every conversation you’ve ever had with him.

Is he happy? Please tell me he’s happy. But not, like, too happy.

What I actually said was, “You were kidnapped? You can’t drop a bomb like that and move on to something else. Tell me everything.”

Lennon laughed. “Over drinks sometime, I promise.”

We pulled up to a large stone-and-log building that looked like a billionaire’s idea of rustic. Everything was simply massive, from the double doors that Paul Bunyan wouldn’t have had to duck through to the floor-to-ceiling windows and wood beams as thick as my hips. The low-pitched roof and wide eaves were a deep blue-gray that matched the rocking chairs on the wrap-around porch.

Emma hopped out first. “This is the lodge. It’s the center of everything. The kitchen and dining hall are here, along with a library and game room. You’ll probably run into guests here, but they tend to socialize only with each other. Don’t take it personally if they’re not overly friendly. Everyone here is going through something.”

I nodded, remembering what Seb had told me last night. Mercy River was more than a cattle ranch. It was a place to heal.

Lennon helped me out of the ATV. “We’ll swing by the kitchen first, and then you can meet Jeremiah. He should be in his office. He knows we’re coming. I texted him when we left Seb’s cabin—oh, there he is.” Her voice turned breathy, and her whole face lit up.

I arched an amused brow at her. Oh, she’s got it bad. When I turned to see the tall cowboy with golden blond hair and a mustache, I understood why.

“Hey.” Maybe his greeting was for everyone, but he only had eyes for Lennon. The way he looked at her was more indecent than a porno at a funeral.

“Hey,” she said back, still breathless.

“Stop,” Emma groaned. “What did I tell you two about looking at each other all loved up and horny? You can’t be doing that in front of people with no prospects. Have some respect for my widowhood.”

I blinked. Emma was a widow? But she was so young—I’d guess around my age.

Lennon laughed with no hint of embarrassment, but Jeremiah’s cheeks were flushed when he stretched his hand to shake mine. “Jeremiah Bell. Friends call me Jay. I’m the manager here, so if there’s anything you need, come find me.”

“Thank you. I’ll do that.”

Emma managed to pry Lennon away from Jeremiah, and we headed inside.

“Amos Tallbull runs the kitchen,” Lennon explained as we made our way through the dining hall. “He’s grumpy, but his food makes up for it. Miguel and I work the morning and lunch shift, too. Abigail, Theresa, and Jordan do the dinner shift.” She pushed through the swinging doors. “Amos! We brought your plate back.”

The man I took to be Amos was built like a bear, tall and thickly muscled, wearing a Rolling Stones T-shirt that hung loosely over his large stomach. His black braid went to his mid-back. Light russet-brown skin, slightly craggy. A face that had seen some shit and wasn’t impressed by it.

My fingers itched again. Click, my mind whispered.

Amos made no move to take the plate from Lennon as he folded his arms over his broad chest and stared at us. “Miguel, get the sage.”

“Ohhh, what are you making?” Emma sniffed the air. “All I smell is cookies.”

Miguel snorted a laugh. “It’s not for the cookies, Emma.”

Amos pointed at Emma. “Car accident.” His finger moved to Lennon. “Mafia.” Then it was my turn with the finger of judgment. “Showed up leaking blood all over the place.” He shook his head. “Whatever trouble the three of you are into, don’t bring it into my kitchen.”

“Hey!” Lennon protested. “I work here.”

“You can keep on working here. But the three of you together? That’s a bad omen.” The finger waggled back and forth. “Not in my kitchen.”

“Ignore him.” Miguel, who couldn’t be a day over twenty, pushed his floppy black hair off his forehead with his elbow and grinned at me. “You want some cookies to take with you? We made a special batch for you, Gluten Girl.”

“Really?” I asked hopefully. Having celiac meant I was usually left out of sweet treats unless I brought my own.