Page 4 of Cowboy Mountain Man

I turn on the radio to Channel 1031. A cheerful man tells me about savings on farm equipment. Somehow, this fails to help.

I pass signs for Hollowfield Farm’s world-famous pumpkin patch and corn maze. And another for the Covered Bridge Market, boasting apple donuts and historical re-enactors. No doubt plenty of town gossip, too. In the distance, Gothic spires rise, foreboding and severe—Hawthorne University.

“Looks like Edgar Allan Poe’s kinda vibe,” I mutter under my breath.

At the edge of a clearing, Woodbridge Falls, population 11,500, appears between the trees, tucked into a valley beneath steep, forested slopes. A huge welcome sign greets me complete with a list of upcoming events—Hawthorne Homecoming the first week of October, the Lantern Walk on the River in the middle of the month, Haunted Hayrides and the Harvest Gala at Riverstone.

“Pretty happening for a small town,” I joke to myself.

A creek runs alongside the road, flashing silver between rocks. Strings of little orange lights hang over Main Street. I slow to twenty-five. The pickup slows, too. At the first intersection, I turn right.

I haven’t checked where the inn is. I’m operating on the assumption that a town this size can only hide so many buildings. The truck follows, and my mouth goes dry.

I pass a hardware store, a bakery, and a woman wrestling a pumpkin into a display of hay bales.

There are people here.

Good.

I turn left at the next corner. The pickup turns left, too.

“Seriously?”

I look in the mirror, trying to see the driver. All I get is windshield glare.

Maybe the inn is this way, and he’s staying there, too. Maybe I’m about to give an innocent tourist the least welcoming introduction to Woodbridge Falls imaginable.

Then I turn left again. Back toward Main Street. The pickup follows.

Okay.

That’s enough.

I pull into a parking space outside the diner, beside a group of people sitting at an outdoor table. My tires bump the curb.

Nobody screams or points. Nobody does anything useful like announce that the truck belongs to Friendly Bob, who follows strangers around because he’s lonely, the vehicular version of a stray dog.

I put the car in park. The pickup rolls past. Slowly.

For a second, its passenger window lines up with mine. I can see my own pale face reflected in the tinted glass. Then it continues down the street and turns out of sight.

I sit there with my foot pressed hard against the brake. My phone buzzes. It’s Martin.

No authorized visits that I’m aware of. Please leave the property for now. I’ll contact the family and get back to you.

I read it twice. Then look at the corner where the truck disappeared.

“For now,” I whisper.

I’m already gone. Apparently, somebody noticed.

I eye the roads around me until I’m certain the pickup is gone. Then I head to the inn to check in, stomach growling. It’s quaint, at least two hundred years old, and has parking behind the building. Somehow that makes me feel safer. I leave my bag then head back to the rental car.

Back at the diner, I gather my phone, purse, and camera bag, keeping my eyes on the street as I open the door.

The diner smells like coffee, hot butter, and something frying. A bell jingles above my head.

A woman behind the counter looks up. “Sit anywhere, honey.”