Page 1 of Where We Call Home

Rhodes (Three Months Earlier)

Every Thursday night was the same.

I’d leave work, hit the grocery store late enough to avoid the crowds, grab some takeout, and head home to eat in front of the TV—alone.

It was the part of my routine I liked best.

First, because I didn’t have to spend half my time helping little old ladies reach the top shelf—not that I minded, but after a long day, I craved peace and quiet. Second, because it minimized the chance of running into particular people, which did wonders for my sanity.

This Thursday was no different. I moved through the aisles on autopilot, mentally checking off my list. I used to write things down, but nine times out of ten, I’d leave the list at home anyway. Eventually, I just stopped bothering.

At the register, the same teenage girl rang me up.Indie, her name tag read. We’d never introduced ourselves, but over time, we’d settled into an unspoken rhythm—her faint, practiced smile, mirrored by mine, and only the necessary words exchanged.

She took my money, counted out my change, and I did what I always did: tilted my head back, pretending to admire the fluorescent lights while the soft hum of country music drifted through the empty store.

It was late. Quiet. Just the way I liked it.

Indie held out my change, waiting for me to notice. A simplehere you gomight’ve been nice, but that wasn’t how we did things.

This was our thing, it was silent, steady, predictable.

And I wasn’t one to mess with routine.

Bag in hand, I gave her my usual closed-lip smile and stepped outside into the sticky May heat.

Summer was coming fast, and before long, I’d be sweating through my days on the ranch. Not that I minded. The hard work was good for burning off excess energy and emotions. My therapist swore by physical exertion as a tool for mental clarity. Lucky for me, I had a built-in outlet.

Pausing beside my truck, I drew in a deep breath and glanced up at the sky. The sunset stretched in soft golds and pinks, the last light of the day clinging to the horizon.

Main Street lay in front of me, a familiar stretch of small-town life—the hardware store, coffee shop, a handful of restaurants, the grocery store, and The Tequila Cowboy. Everything within walking distance.

One of the many perks of Faircloud.

One of the many reasons I stayed.

Before climbing into my truck, movement down the cobblestone sidewalk caught my eye.

I turned, squinting to get a better look.

A woman in the distance wrestled with a large cardboard box, trying and failing to shove it into the passenger seat of a classic Camaro.

Curiosity piqued, I tilted my head like a puzzled puppy.

Whoever she was, I didn’t recognize her, and in a town as small as Faircloud, that was rare.

She had split-dyed hair—jet black on one side, golden blonde on the other, with a few highlights weaving between. Overalls and cowboy boots completed the look, her tattooed arms flexing as she struggled with the box. I couldn’t make out the designs from here, but her entire presence wasstriking. Different.

And I couldn’t seem to look away.

She clearly needed help, so being the gentleman my mama raised me to be, I set my groceries in the truck and approached her cautiously. The last thing I wanted was to startle her and send her running.

“Excuse me, do you need a hand?” I asked, my voice calm, easy.

She turned sharply, blowing a stray strand of hair from her face with an exasperated sigh.

Andholy shit.

Theo Matthews.

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