Page 5 of Wylder Ranch
I manage to get back to bed, change her diaper, and start her feeding without so much as a tear.
“Wow, baby girl. You’re in a good mood today, huh? Did you sleep well? Was it the flowers on the wall you like?” I say in my gentle Everly voice, the one I’ve acquired since she was born.
Her only response is to keep feeding, her big blue eyes flickering up at me as she does. Her mood continues as I burp her, run another bath, and get in, propping her up on my legs. She gurgles as I squeeze out warm water from a washcloth onto her belly.
“You like that?” I ask, repeating it all, and reveling in the smile she’s been giving me the past week. “Did I tell you how beautiful you are today?”
I top up the water twice to reheat it. We stay in there until it cools again, and by the time we’ve gotten out and I’ve dressed her, I begin to feel a hint of confidence that today might not totally blow up to shit.
When we step outside a couple of hours later, it’s colder than it appeared from the warmth of our room. The sun is playing peek-a-boo behind the clouds, and I stand in the middle of the street, wondering whether to go left or right. The porter from last night was nowhere around for me to ask for help. Instead, I head in the direction most other people seem to be walking.
Cold air blasts us as we turn the corner, and I pull my coat a little tighter to cover Everly. She’s strapped to my chest, and with any luck, she’ll soon be taking her first nap of the day. I pray she can’t hear my heart hammering because with every step forward, it feels like I’m getting closer to a cliff’s edge and not the main street of this town.
Valentine Nook is as cute in real life as its name suggests. The road is lined with old brick buildings, superquaint storefronts all painted in shades of green, and along the walls climb the roots of wisteria, which will look incredible when it blooms.
Two guys up ladders are removing black-and-orange bunting festooned from lamppost to lamppost, remnants of Halloween a couple of days ago. Most of the store stoops are still decorated with fall pumpkins, which no doubt will soon be replaced by Christmas ornaments. I can already tell it won’t be of the plastic blowup variety.
No inflatable Santas here.
This place will be tasteful wreaths, perhaps some Nutcrackers, maybe a few reindeer. . . because despite my nerves, it’s one of the prettiest streets I’ve ever seen. If I wasn’t loyal to Aspen, I’d say it’stheprettiest.
I bet it looks awesome for the holidays.
Shoppers amble along the cobbled sidewalk, stopping to peer into window after window. Others exit stores laden with bags and smile as they pass, their eyes flicking down to Everly against my chest. Every so often, I catch their chatter and the English accents.
As far as I can tell, the vibe of this small town isn’t too dissimilar to Aspen, which means if I want information, there’s only one place to go, and that’s the local bar. I walk the length of the main street until I find what I’m looking for—the sign swinging above the door says this place is the One True Love.
It’s funny how all bars smell the same. Kind of musty, kind of sweaty, and a little bit smoky from the days when smoking inside was acceptable. It’s all gross, but I find comfort in it because there’s so much life in a bar. They’re where you go to meet people,findpeople, and it doesn’t appear English ones are any different.
A fire crackles in an enormous hearth, and the stonesurround of the carved fireplace looks old enough to have been here since the dawn of time. Dark beams run the length of the main room, and while I know a lot of places back home add them for a cutesy charm, these feel original.
It’s busy, but not too busy. Quiet enough that I can see almost all the tables in here, with half of them occupied and only one person bussing tables. An older guy stands behind the bar, which is lined with the shiniest beer taps I’ve ever seen. He’s restocking the bottles on the shelves, and it seems as good a place as any to start.
“Excuse me.” I wait for him to finish what he’s doing.
The guy pushes the box onto the shelf, and once he’s sure it’s not going to fall, he turns around and peers at me over the top of his bifocals. A thick mustache droops down each side of his mouth, under which are a set of pursed lips, and I wait for him to tell me that babies aren’t allowed in here, even if theyaresleeping and barely six weeks old.
Instead of feeling intimidated, which I imagine is how many people feel, I’m immediately drawn to him. He reminds me of Joe, my father’s best friend, my occasional boss, my surrogate dad for the past six years, and you’d never find a grumpier—or more loving—older man in your life.
But it’s clear this guy’s going to let me do all the talking. Yep. He’s the English Joe all right.
“Could you help me?”
“That will depend on what you need help with,” he grumbles on a huff.
My nerves almost get the better of me. My mouth dries out and my heart stutters, but I manage to get the words out. “I’m looking for someone named Alex Burlington.Do you know where I might be able to find him?”
His eyes dart to the left, quick enough that I panic Alex might be in here right now. I only took a quick scan of the tables when I walked in, but I definitely didn’t see him.
“Alex, you say?” The guy picks up a glass and begins drying it.
His face is poker straight, but not enough to have me questioning whether this particular small town is the small town I’m looking for. The name is unique enough that I never forgot it. Because who’d forget a name as cute as Valentine Nook?
I nod and try again. “Yes, Alex Burlington. I understand he lives here . . . or near here. . . in this town. . . He told me he did.”
“American, eh?” His mouth rolls and disappears under the thick hair on his top lip, and he studies me. Eventually, he asks, “Are you friends with ’Oliday?”
I stare at him, confused. It takes a second to decipher the accent. “Um. . . No. I don’t know any?—”
