Page 12 of When the Smoke Clears

“You get married?”

My brow creases.

“Your name. You signed Isla Rae.” He pauses. “But your name was Tanner in high school.”

I exhale heavily, resisting the urge to drive away, whether his foot is in the way or not. Instead, I simply say, “My name has changed.”

His mouth hangs open like he’s buffering, before he gives up with a shrug. “If you’re going to be here awhile, we should hang out.”

Before I have a chance to decline his offer, he continues. “Unless you’re here for Wild. I remember you two were pretty close back in the day.”

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel as the leather bites into my skin. “I’m just passing through. Like I said.”

“Yeah, uh, okay. Well, if you change your mind, I’m at The Rusty Nail most nights.”

Why doesn’t that surprise me?

“Take care, Isla.” With that, he turns on his heel and heads back to his truck. He’s nearly there when I step out of my car and call after him.

“Can you do me a favor and not tell anyone I’m here? I’d really appreciate it.”

He stops, turns toward me, scratching the back of his neck, looking a bit sheepish. “Yeah. Sure thing, Isla.”

He’s definitely going to tell someone.

Approaching the southern edge of town, the barbed wire fencing of Wildhaven Ranch comes into view. My heart beats faster, a rhythm that signals that I’ve arrived.

Beyond the fence, a herd of cattle grazes. Dandelions and scruffy brush pepper the roadside, swaying as the breeze dances through them.

Without thinking, I roll down the window, allowing the gust of wind to rush in. The aroma of cow manure mingles with the scent of blooming weeds, filling the car as birds chirp overhead.

The town smells like rain and regret, like it’s been waiting for me to come back and apologize for leaving.

The sensory overload is almost too much, and my chest tightens. The urge to cry wells up inside me, the tears threatening to spill over, but I swallow them back, feeling the lump in my throat.

Once I leave the ranch behind and turn onto Main Street, the changes over the past 10 years become more apparent.

Wildhaven still holds onto its small-town charm. The hardware store stands just as it did, its paint peeling and the old sign teetering, ready to drop at any moment. But it’s the new developments that catch my eye; a few modern shops and an upscale bistro with outdoor seating.

The gas station on the corner is a welcome sight. It remains unchanged, and adjacent to it stands the place I’ll call home for the brief days I’m here—the Mountain View Inn.

The building has a rustic-looking exterior and a charming porch. After scanning online, there weren’t many options, but this place had everything I needed: a bed and a sturdy lock on the door.

I check in without encountering anyone familiar, which is a small victory. I sit on the bed, its patchwork quilt colorful and new, and let myself absorb the room’s quiet for a moment before reaching for my phone to call Alan.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Alan. This is Isla Rae.” I twist a corner of the bedspread absently between my fingers. “Can we meet this afternoon?”

“I’m happy you made it here safely, Isla. Unfortunately, I’m tied up for the rest of the day. How about tomorrow at 9 AM?”

My shoulders slump, but I offer false cheer. “Sure. That works.”

“I’ll see you here at the office.”

“Thank you.”

I wander to the window and gaze at the mountains etched against the horizon. I had almost forgotten how beautiful this town is. My awe is interrupted by a low growl in my stomach, reminding me that the junk food I relied on during my trip has exhausted its usefulness.