I glance out the window, expecting the old wooden train depot, but we’re on the wrong side of town for that. Ahead is a glass structure that looks much too new to be part of Gable’s historic charm, but sure enough, it has Riscoff Memorial Bus Terminal in large letters on the side.

Riscoff. That’s one major reason I don’t know if I’ll ever find peace here.

As soon as we hit the city limits a few minutes ago, my heart jacked up to aerobic rates and my skin started feeling too tight for my body. It was like every part of me knew we were in close proximity to him.

I force my breathing to slow and try to look at the name without feeling anything.

Fail.

So instead, I glare at it, like that’s going to help me find some inner strength that I haven’t already used up defending myself against the press and angry fans. Of course the bus terminal is named after their family. It would match everything else in this town emblazoned with the Riscoff name.

The hospital that’s probably only a mile from here. The courthouse that takes up one side of the town square. Then there’s Riscoff Bank and Trust two blocks over, near the Riscoff Art Gallery. And of course, there’s the granddaddy of them all on the other side of the river from downtown, Riscoff Timber.

The only thing that doesn’t have their name is the town itself. I’m pretty sure my ancestors are still smiling in their graves about snaring that honor—right before they jumped the Riscoffs’ gold claim and started a feud that’s lasted over 170 years. During that time, both families have proven over and over how capable they are of sustaining such hate and bitterness.

I did my part too, and I’m not proud of it.

I wait my turn, specifically for the woman beside me to move, so I can haul my ass off the bus. The driver unearths my luggage from underneath and leaves it on the sidewalk near the glass-fronted bus station. The bus rumbles to life again, and I watch as it rolls away. I’m left surrounded by the sum total remains of my former life, in the form of ridiculously overpriced Louis Vuitton luggage, while I wait for my chronically-late-from-birth cousin to come get me.

If it hadn’t been for Cricket begging me to come back to Gable, I probably would have stayed on the bus all the way to Canada. I hear they’re friendly up there . . . unless they’re Ricky Rango fans. At least in Gable, there’s no love lost for the hometown boy who made good. He managed to burn that bridge when he went off during a concert, ripping this whole town a new one.

“Ohhh, baby! Look at that sexy thing just waiting on a ride. You wanna come on up with me, girl?”

If the catcall had come from a man, I would have tensed and prepared to bolt, but no. That’s a voice I’d recognize even if it had been eighty years since I’d been home instead of ten.