Chapter One

Reese

The early-morning air nips at my skin, reminding me that summer hasn’t quite arrived yet in Montana. I hug my jacket tighter around my body as I make my way to work, cursing myself for forgetting to put on gloves today.

I’ve worked at the Maplewood Springs Visitor Center and Museum for five years and adore every second of it. I love helping tourists find the perfect souvenir or the right map for their planned hikes, but if I’m completely honest, I find running the museum even more exciting. As a self-proclaimed history nerd, I can’t get enough of digging into local history and showcasing it so others can also enjoy it.

The charming visitor center sits at the edge of town, perched like a postcard against the backdrop of Mount Hartley’s craggy peaks. The mountains look especially dramatic this morning. They cast long, moody shadows in the soft light of the rising sun, like they’re showing off and reminding me who truly rules this part of the world.

“Look at us,” they seem to say. “We’re majestic and rugged, and you’re just a woman who forgot her gloves.”

I can’t say they’re wrong. Even though I live within walking distance from work, it’s far enough to freeze my unprotected fingers off. The stupid thing is that I know how cold morningscan get in Maplewood Springs. I’ve lived here my entire life and realize how deceiving the weather can be. Some people think that sunshine automatically means warm temperatures, but it’s more complicated than that.

I blow into my cold hands as Maplewood Spring’s Visitor Center and Museum comes into view and make my way to the front door. The building has plenty of small mountain town charm, with its log cabin-style exterior, overflowing flower boxes, and a hand-painted sign that reads:“Welcome to Maplewood Springs! Gateway to Adventure.”

I think the tagline sounds a bit cheesy, but hey, it works. Tourists flock here all year round to hike the trails, soak in the views, and enjoy everything our small town has to offer.

Behind me, Main Street is still waking up. Amelia from Summit Sweets, the town’s bakery, hasn’t flipped her sign to “Open” yet, but I can smell the cinnamon rolls from here. I briefly consider abandoning all responsibility to stuff my face. Two hikers stroll by the bakery, wearing matching neon rain jackets so bright they must be visible from the International Space Station.

I get my key out of my pocket and slide it into the lock, giving it a jiggle. Nothing. I jiggle harder. Still nothing. Ugh! This lock is a drama queen and insists on making every morning an ordeal.

“Come on,” I mumble. “Work with me. Please.”

Begging works because the lock finally clicks. The familiar creak of the wooden door echoes through the empty building as I push it open and flick on the lights. The interior of the visitor center-slash-museum comes to life with its polished wooden floors, shelves stocked with maps, guidebooks, and a truly staggering variety of bear-themed souvenirs. Behind a glass door, a glimpse of my favorite plate, the museum, can be seen. Glass display cases full of local history fill the entire room.

I step inside and smile as I let my gaze wander the space before heading to the backroom to brew a fresh pot of coffee while I still have some time. In half an hour, this place will be buzzing with tourists. They’ll want maps, directions, and answers to burning questions like“Do you have gluten-free trail mix?”or“At what time do the bears usually come out?”

Seriously, someone asked me that exact question the other day. I thought they were joking, but they weren’t. I almost felt bad that I had to break the news that bears don’t have a strict schedule for making an appearance. This is the rugged wilderness, after all, not a timed Broadway Show.

With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, I walk around the space and tidy whatever needs tidying. Then, I take fifteen glorious minutes to catch up on the latest copy ofHistoric Gems Quarterly. Yes, it’s as thrilling as it sounds, and no, I won’t apologize for my love of obscure artifacts and questionable hairstyles from the 1800s. There’s something about a well-placed bonnet that speaks to me, I guess.

I plop down behind the counter, flipping to an article titled “Buttoned Up: The Surprising Evolution of Victorian Shirt Buttons.”

I let out a contented sigh. My coffee is still steaming, the museum smells faintly of pine and lemon cleaner, and for a moment, life is perfect.

That is until I hear the clunk of hiking boots on the wooden steps outside.

I glance at the clock. We’re not open yet, but tourists always seem to think “Closed” is more of a suggestion than a rule.

Sure enough, the door handle jiggles, followed by a loud knock.

“Hello? Are you open? I need to grab a map of the area real quick!” a male voice calls out.

I take a deep, calming breath and remind myself that I love my job. Tourists bring money to the town. They’re not here to ruin my peaceful me-time before a long day of work—they’re just enthusiastic.

I put my magazine on the counter and walk toward the door, opening it with a smile.

“Good morning,” I greet the elderly couple standing outside. “We open in fifteen minutes, but I can help you now if it’s urgent.”

“Oh, thanks. I didn’t know if the ‘closed’ sign meant you were really closed. Sometimes, places open early. We thought we’d chance it,” the man says.

The woman, whom I assume is his wife, nods enthusiastically. “That’s right. All we need is a map of the area. We’ll be in and out before you can blink.”

I glance inside, my gaze lingering on my steaming mug of coffee and the article about Victorian shirt buttons. I’d love to get back to reading, but I realize I won’t be able to relax with two customers waiting outside and possibly staring at me for half an hour, so I flip the sign to “Open.”

“Well, I was about to open anyway,” I lie. “Please, come in and let me grab that map for you.”

“Actually,” the man says, his grin widening, “while we’re here, could you recommend a map for some hiking trails for my wife and me? I’m Dan, by the way, and this is Donna.”