Kit inhaled the chill of the early spring evening, hoping it would clear the Arch-induced melancholy from her heart. “What I want is to travel. To move to Spain or South America or someplace where I will never have to see or hear about Arch Hoffman again. But I don’t get to do that. I have to look after Dad. So owning the Saddle is a pretty good plan B.”
“Are you sure you can’t fix things for your dad? Did you ever go talk with that ex-boss of his?”
“Mr. Ellis.” The evil rancher. “Yes, he finally agreed to meet with me last week. But it didn’t help much. He showed me all these papers. Said my dad borrowed money against his pension years ago and never paid it back. So he’s only entitled to a hundred dollars a month.”
“What about Social Security?”
“It helps a little. But not enough. Even if it did, even if I could travel, Dad’s depressed. He’s lost without his work. I swear if I didn’t stop by his house every day, he’d never get out of bed.”
“I’m sorry.” Lila’s eyes were wide with sympathy. She understood hard times—had seen plenty of her own. “Well, it is a good plan B. I can see you owning the bar, and you’re certainly a great manager. Almost no one complains ever since you took over the scheduling from Chris.”
“Almost no one?” Kit teased.
“Well, Tim and I were grousing last week because neither of us wanted to work a Monday. No tips.”
“Everyone has to work a Monday sometimes. I’m doing it tonight.”
Lila grinned. “We know. It’s just fun to complain. But don’t worry. Even if we give you a hard time, we still love you.”
Kit was suddenly self-conscious. “Well, it might not happen anyway. Who knows if I can save enough? Or if Chris will want to sell it? Or if the bank will give me a loan to do it?”
“It will work out,” Lila assured her. “But are you certain you don’t want me to take your shift tonight?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Kit raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you want to go home? Did you and Ethan have a fight?”
Lila sighed. “No. It’s the opposite, actually. Ever since we moved in together I’ve become so...I don’t know...attached. He has his veterans’ support group tonight and if I’m sitting at home, I’ll miss him. And then I’ll feel like a lame, dependent girlfriend. I don’t want that.”
“You mean fiancée,” Kit corrected. “And it’s good that you miss him. It means you like him a lot. Which is great, since you’re marrying him.”
Lila grinned, just like she did every time Kit mentioned Ethan or marriage. “I guess you’re right. It’s just a little weird.”
“You’re not used to being in love yet. You’re still getting used to feeling safe and settled.” Kit gave Lila a light kiss on the cheek. “It’s good to see you so happy. Go cook him a meal or something wifely like that. Or work on your photographs—the show is only a couple months away.”
“Don’t remind me. I’m so nervous. Which is why I’m probably going to cook. Procrastination is my solace.”
“Your photos are gorgeous.” Lila took photos of ordinary life around Benson. But somehow she made a simple piece of sagebrush look like a feather, or a high mountain ridge look like it was molded from glistening silver. “Trust me. Every tourist in Mammoth is going to buy one when they walk into that gallery.”
“I hope so.” Lila glanced at the stack of books in Kit’s arms. “Want me to take those for you?” She tucked her own book under her arm and held out her hands. “You can stop by tomorrow to pick them up.”
Kit didn’t comment on Lila’s change of subject. She was private—probably uncomfortable even admitting she was nervous. “No, thanks. It’s Monday night. The bar will be empty, just like you said. If I get my work finished, I might have time to read.”
“Call me if you get bored with your self-help. We can chat.”
“Will do,” Kit promised.
They started down the steps. Lila’s white Jeep was parked behind Kit’s red one. When they’d first met, they’d bonded over their almost-identical cars.
Kit shot one last glance at the stoplight, then shook her head. Lila was right. It had been over a year since Arch had gotten out of jail. Over a year since he’d told her he loved another woman. Kit had to move on.
Maybe she’d find the magical words she was looking for in these books. Some insight that would end this endless heartache. But she was getting the feeling that the words she needed to hear hadn’t been written yet.
Or maybe there was no cure for a love like hers. Sometimes she wondered if she’d missed Arch so much, for so long, that missing him had become another part of her. An extra limb she’d grown, like an obsolete tail, crafted from layers of her own stupidity, slowing her down as it dragged along the ground.
Kit climbed into her Jeep and dumped the books on the passenger seat. It was a short drive to the Dusty Saddle. She rolled down her windows, hoping that the rain-tossed breeze would blow some sense of hope in along with it. A promise of something new to help her get over this musty old heartache.
* * *
THE HANDS OF the old Budweiser clock above the bar were moving backward. Kit was sure of it. As she watched, it paused, then the minute hand lurched backward, like it was trying to gather the momentum to go forward. But it never did.
Kind of like her life, Kit thought. She definitely lacked momentum. Arch’s moving on, Lila’s getting married, had made that pretty clear.
She wiped a tiny smudge on the bar. The Dusty Saddle was never busy on Mondays, but tonight it was completely empty. The regulars must be home nursing their weekend hangovers. The younger crowd was probably at the High Country Sports Bar, which offered all the games on its multiple TV screens, and drink promotions to go with them.
She’d hoped to keep busy tonight, but she’d unpacked the order in the first hour of her shift. Finished the inventory in the second hour. Then she’d scrubbed every possible surface during the next three hours. Now she had three hours to go and nothing but silence to keep her company. The Dusty Saddle was located on the edge of town, and since Benson was nestled against the east side of the Sierras, it was eerily quiet. If Kit poked her head out the door, she could probably hear coyotes howl. Or maybe an owl or two.
She went behind the bar to get a glass of ice water. Then she pulled a book off the stack she’d left there. Healing a Broken Heart by someone named Dr. Melinda Mellton. The doctor’s calm, radiant smile on the cover had pulled Kit in. She wanted to look and feel that happy. And even if Dr. Melinda’s contented glow was Photoshopped, the word healing in the title held some promise.
Kit leafed through the first few pages, stopping at the section called “The Broken Heart Questionnaire.” Dr. Melinda wanted to know if she was having trouble eating or sleeping, how long she’d been sad, was she dreaming of the person she’d lost. The questions went on for two pages. Mentally answering yes to almost every one, Kit read the analysis of her results. Melinda informed her that, given the number of times Kit had answered yes, it was clear that
