She sipped her tea and wished momentarily that she’d taken the time to start a fire in the hearth to complete the ambience, then decided it didn’t matter. The little tree in front of the bay windows blazed with light and color, and Brynne found herself feeling almost festive, even though her feet still hurt and there was a twinge in her lower back.

She stayed in the tub for a long time, adding hot water when necessary, and finishing her tea.

She’d be glad when the holidays were over—Christmas had been quiet, with friends and staff members gathering downstairs to celebrate—and Brynne had enjoyed a long video call with her parents.

They were at their condo in Arizona this month, playing golf and attending flea markets, having the time of their lives, to hear them tell it. Brynne worried about them often, out there on the open road in their cumbersome RV, but they seemed happy, referring to themselves and their occasional traveling companions as the Geriatric Gypsies. They’d be swinging back through Painted Pony Creek come summer, to live in the house they still owned, over on Pine Street, the house Brynne had grown up in.

Her dad would tinker with the RV, keep the lawn trimmed with his ancient push mower and swap yarns with his cronies over at Sully’s on hot afternoons, while her mom would garden and haunt the café during working hours, making sure things were shipshape.

It wasn’t that Alice Bailey interfered, exactly. She’d run the place, along with her husband, for close to forty years, that was all, and she had a vested interest, emotional if not financial.

Brynne enjoyed having her mom around—mostly. Alice always introduced new recipes to the menu, and her many, many friends came from all over Wild Horse County to lunch and sip sweet tea and hear all about the Baileys’ adventures on the road.

In the quiet times, though, when it was just Alice and Brynne, and sometimes Brynne’s dad, Mike, Alice asked questions.

Had Brynne been seeing anyone special?

She was over that man from Boston, right?

Was she sure she wanted to stay in Painted Pony Creek? Maybe she ought to sell the business—Alice swore she and Mike wouldn’t mind—and spend a year in Paris or possibly Florence, just painting.

Or what about New York? She’d probably love New York, all that color and motion and sensual stimulation...

Brynne sighed, finished her bath and let the tub drain as she wrapped herself in a fluffy towel and stepped out onto the mat.