Is he divorced? Or is he just not wearing his ring? Lots of ranchers and cowboys don’t wear their wedding ring when working, because it can get tangled up in ropes and machinery, but Brick’s always worn his. But that’s Brick. He’s rock solid and after twenty-five years of marriage still completely devoted to his wife, Charlotte.

The waitress sets Dane’s steaming plate on the counter. “Your food’s here,” I say to him, aware of the awkwardness and hating it.

“You take care, Shey.”

“Thanks, Dane. You too.”

And then I’m outside, where the sun’s just beginning to sink on the horizon, painting the sky layers of lavender and red.

For a moment I’m lost, filled with emotions both bitter and sweet.

He was the last person I expected to see, the last person I wanted to see. My legs feel wooden as I head for the truck and climb behind the steering wheel.

Starting the engine, I feel the most ridiculous urge to cry.

The past once hurt so much. The present is a mess, and I can’t even see a future.

Can’t even imagine where we’re supposed to go from here.

The red sky and rolling countryside stretch in all directions as I leave historic Highway 80 and take the turnoff toward our ranch. The oak trees look like hulking giants in the twilight, and meadowlarks warble from their nests in the lavender-shrouded fields.

Usually I love this drive. Usually I find the landscape with the hills in the distance beautiful, but tonight I feel cornered. Empty. Trapped.

The problem with a small town is that everyone knows you.

The problem with a small town is that you know everyone.

I slow down as an owl swoops low over the road in front of me. I turn my head and see a jackrabbit running. Poor little jackrabbit. Hope it makes its way home.

It’s quiet when I pull up in front of the old brick-and-clapboard ranch house. The house is dimly lit, and Brick’s blue truck is still parked out front. I open the front door, and the living room is empty. No sound comes from the back. Maybe everyone’s still in the barn.

And then I hear voices coming from the kitchen. I shut the door, set my purse on the table next to the sofa, and head to the kitchen, where I see Brick sitting at the oak table next to Cooper with Cooper’s math book open between them. But they’re not doing math. The kitchen’s warm, and I can smell something savory cooking in the oven.

It’s a tranquil scene and touchingly domestic.

“Hi, guys,” I say, leaning over to kiss the top of Coop’s head. I ruffle Brick’s short hair, the sun-bleached strands just starting to gray. “Something smells good.”

“Charlotte sent dinner over. She knew you were working, and since she had to attend a hospital fund-raiser, she made us all dinner.”

“You do know you have the best wife,” I say, opening the oven and peeking in. Pork chop casserole, and the sauce is bubbling and the chops are just starting to turn golden brown.

“I’m a little fond of her,” Brick admits.

“Me too.” I straighten, open the fridge, note the four chilled beer bottles that have been in the door for the past three weeks. No one in our family is much of a drinker, but Mama still had a fit when she saw the beer in my refrigerator. “Are you thirsty? Want a beer?”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m good, and Coop here has just one more problem and then he’s done.”

I put together a salad while Brick finishes helping Cooper. As soon as Cooper finishes his math, he packs up his books and binders and takes off for his room, where I’m sure he’s gone to play his PSP. The boys have been begging me to buy an Xbox or a Wii since we moved here, but I’ve refused.