I shouldn’t be surprised. There won’t be a person in Star Falls who doesn’t know that Mack Miller’s kid is building something on the side of the mountain. I just hadn’t expected that my face would be so easy to put to my name. The way this town gossips is another reason I’ve avoided coming back. People are just so in each other’s business. After my dad died, my mother cried for weeks, not because Dad was dead, but because she knew everyone would be talking about it, saying how she was better off as a widow.

“Well, well, well,” a woman’s voice says from behind me. “Look who just rode into town. Finally.”

Part of me wants to ignore it. Whoever it is doesn’t have malice in their tone, but by responding, I’ll be opening a can of worms—and I’m not sure I’m ready. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.

“Hey, you got a hug for an old friend?” the voice asks.

There’s no getting out of this. I turn on my stool and come face-to-face with Eva Maples. I haven’t seen her since the day I graduated high school.

“I haven’t seen you since the day we graduated high school,” she says. “Heard you were back in the area.” She pauses and gives me a look full of meaning—what meaning, I’m not sure. “You never made it into town until now.” She shakes her head disapprovingly, but holds out her arms. I bend and pull her into an awkward hug.

She laughs as she pulls away. “Never were a hugger, were you, Byron? Too much of the tortured poet in you.” She fiddles with the back of her apron. “You just drinking or you wanna order some food?” She leans in and whispers, “Don’t say I told you, but steer clear of the chicken meatballs.” She clears her throat and resumes her normal voice. I glance around to see who’s listening. Everyone, it seems, though at least they’re pretending not to. “The wings are the best.”

“Sounds good,” I say. “Do you have a side of broccoli?”

She laughs, pats me on the shoulder and walks off, like I just told her the funniest joke she’s heard this year. Except I wasn’t joking.

I’m still trying to figure out whether or not I’m going to get that side of broccoli when a heavy hand drops on my shoulder.

“So, Byron Miller. What you doing at Grizzly’s? I hear you have a fancy bar up on that mountain.” Jim Johnson—just the man I was looking for. Things might have changed over the last fifteen years, but apparently you can still always see Jim at Grizzly’s at eight on a weeknight. When I was growing up, Sundays were the only days Jim stayed away from the local watering hole.