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I smile. “I’m going to find the best cinnamon roll in the world and eat it.” I stop in front of The Bean Goes On, a coffee shop. “And then I’m going to explore town.”
Charlie props a massive hand on the doorframe, barring my entrance. “You won’t find your cinnamon roll in there. Their coffee tastes like gasoline.”
My eyes dart toward the door, hoping the front counter worker hasn’t heard. Even if it is bad, they don’t need the reminder. I prop my hands on my hips. “Where then?”
He looks resigned, but jerks his bearded chin. I follow his gaze three blocks down. On a wedge-shaped corner is a brick building with a bright green awning that reads The Corner Store.
Inhaling a breath, I walk toward the building. Hard bootsteps pound behind me.
“I thought you were leaving,” Charlie mutters.
“You thought wrong.” I rove my eyes around Main Street, smothering a smile. Patina-colored plaques identify the historic landmarks like an Opera House and a city hall. I’m surrounded by antique stores, ritzy boutiques, and souvenir shops. They have a salon called the House of Hair. I count five saloons and a steakhouse.
It’s just a town, but Resurrection with its American frontier vibes and alpine scent, has breathed life back into my soul.
I look up at Charlie, who glowers above me. “No flower shop?”
“What?” He frowns at the question before dragging a hand down his beard. “No.”
“Oh.” I flash him a smile and shake off my disappointment. “Well, since you’re here, you can give me the tour.”
“You don’t give up, do you?” he asks gruffly.
“Not really, no.”
“Fine,” he says with an irate acquiescence. He nods across the street at a building with a spiral staircase that rises to a balcony. “That’s the brothel.”
I sneak a curious look at Charlie. “Really?”
“Used to be, at least. Operated until the 1970s, if you can believe that. Now it’s a museum.”
My jaw falls open. I can almost see Resurrection’s fevered history. Bootleggers wreaking havoc on livers and wallets. Painted ladies waving men up from the balcony.
We continue our trek to The Corner Store, walking in sync. Every so often our arms brush, his muscles flexing, and warmth curls in my stomach. Charlie grudgingly points out various bits of history along the way. The alley where Billy Bones was shot down in 1886 after stealing a chicken. The four bear skulls guarding the town square, the place of thirteen recorded executions in Resurrection.
We’re nearly at our destination when a fawn-colored pit bull trudges out of the alleyway and blocks our path. Slobber drips from its lips, and I edge close to Charlie and grip his bicep. He stiffens.
“Charlie. Does that pit bull have a Newport in its mouth?” I ask. Then I do a double take. “Oh my god, he does.”
The edges of Charlie’s lips curl in the faintest smile. “That’s Hungry Hank. He lives on the streets.” An affectionate chuckle rumbles out of him. “He’s a bastard, aren’t you, boy?”
Worry churns in my stomach. “Hungry?” Stepping away from Charlie, I reach into the purse slung around my shoulder, searching for a granola bar in the jumbled mess of pill bottles and paperwork. “Poor thing.”
Once I find the snack, I tear off a corner, and hold it out. “Here you go, pup.”
The dog lunges.
Charlie lunges too. “Jesus, Ruby, don’t.” Worry laces his dark eyes as he snatches my hand, turning it over in his big palm like he’s looking for blood. All he gets is dog slobber. His gaze meets mine. “Did you just ...feed him?”
I smile brightly, watching as Hungry Hank devours the granola bar, wrapper and all. “He was hungry.”
My heart skips several beats as Charlie wipes my hand high and hard on his T-shirt, giving me a sneak peek of hard, chiseled stomach and ridged abs. “He’s a monster.”
“That’s what you think,” I tell him as Hungry Hank waddles away.
I break away from Charlie and we finish walking the short distance to The Corner Store.
Inside, it’s the most whimsical sight I’ve ever seen. The Corner Store is like some cowboy bodega with bright orange walls and aging newspaper clippings from the 1980s.
