Page 29 of Holding Hope

“Well, you know me! Stubborn, just like my daddy!”

Her voice wavered — a single, fragile note, like the sound of a dish cracking before it shatters.

Mrs. Finch kept scanning items, oblivious. “Right about that you are. Bless her heart, your mother — that house full of Kings.” She shuddered. “A bunch of stubborn, loud, hungry hooligans you lot are.”

Clarke rose onto her toes, her white dress swaying around the tops of her boots. “We thank the Good Lord every day for sending us a Mama who likes to cook, because we sure do love to eat!” She grazed Mrs. Finch’s arm again, still smiling.

“She was telling me just the other day how much she misses making meals when my brother was at home, because you know that boy loves him some fried catfish…”

There it was again—that forced laugh, that too-wide smile. Like a balloon stretched to the point of bursting. Like a watermelon wrapped in too many rubber bands.

I chewed the corner of my thumbnail, watching her.

How long had she been doing this?

How long had she been pretending?

Was Opal Springs not the safe place she’d made it sound like?

Was she performing even here?

“How is your brother? Is he still riding bulls in the city?” Mrs. Finch asked, finishing the last of the items—yellow and white yarn, black buttons, various charms—but making no move to end the conversation.

Clarke nodded, tapping her debit card against her palm. “Yes, he’s in Nashville for now but plans on being home in time for the Pelican Fly Day rodeo. Ethan should be coming with him—I know Arabella has been dying to see him.”

Mrs. Finch’s face flushed bright red. Flustered, she held out her hand for Clarke’s card.

“Well, you—you know how girls can be,” she said, running the card through the reader while Clarke stood there with a satisfied smile.

Whatever Clarke had said had clearly struck a nerve. I made a mental note to ask her about it later.

But first—I needed to know what Mrs. Finch meant about those three months.

Why had no one seen Clarke until now?

How bad had things gotten?

There was a new pep in Clarke’s step as we exited the fabric store. I walked around to the passenger side and tried the trick she’d shown me earlier.

“You look real pleased with yourself,” Clarke said with a little laugh as I climbed into the seat.

I smoothed my hands down my legs, settling in. I was proud of myself—a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

“I didn’t almost knock myself out this time,” I said.

She snorted and turned the key in the ignition.

“I saw.” Her smile stayed small, her eyes fixed on the road as we pulled away from town. “Oh, I forgot—did you actually want to check out the salon?”

I glanced down at my cuticles, then at the storefronts we’d passed. Nothing looked promising enough for me to trust them with anything involving my physical appearance.

Except for the Boot Barn knockoff, where I’d bought a wide-brimmed brown felt cowboy hat and a real pair of boots—mostly because Clarke didn’t seem eager to stop giving me shit about my Dr. Martens.

“No, I think my nails could use a break,” I said.

And I didn’t trust anyone here to do a Russian manicure.

But I kept that part to myself.