My journey had taken me north, through Colorado and Wyoming. I’d spent last night in Missoula, not wanting to arrive at the ranch at dinnertime. Really, I was a coward and had needed one more night to work up the courage for what I was about to do.
So I’d stayed in town and found a cheap nail salon for a last-minute mani-pedi. This morning, I’d taken care with my appearance, going for the makeup treatment and adding loose waves to my long hair.
The tattered boyfriend jeans I’d been wearing on repeat were traded for a pair of dark wash skinnies. My green sweater brought out the caramel flecks in my hazel eyes and my tan booties had enough of a heel that they took my outfit from casual to chic.
Still, I’d wished for one of my designer suits.
I’d worn blazers, pencil skirts and six-inch heels, almost exclusively, over the past decade. Since leaving West Virginia, my laid-back attire of jeans, oversized sweaters and sandals had been an adjustment. I didn’t feel prepared. Powerful.
My wardrobe in Boston had become an armor of sorts. When I’d walked into the office in a suit, my hair twisted into a tight chignon, no one had questioned who was in charge. I needed that armor today—a bit of the old Gemma to help me get through this.
But the suits were all in storage. Today, I had to face this without airs. I’d be vulnerable. Humble. Sincere. Because today wasn’t about conquering the world or turning a profit. Today was about making things right with a friend.
The trees along the road were changing. Stark yellow and orange leaves popped against an evergreen backdrop. The fall air was crisp and, if I hadn’t spent time on my hair this morning, I would have driven with the convertible’s top down.
The miles disappeared too quickly and when the first sign for the Greer Ranch and Mountain Resort came into view, my stomach somersaulted.
I could do this. I had to do this. I hadn’t made many apologies, lately. Arrogant as it was, I did my best not to screw up, and for the most part, I had a good track record.
This would bruise my ego but would be worth it.
I turned off the highway, my heart pounding, and traversed the gravel road that led from the highway toward the lodge. Being here, on this road, took me back to another lifetime. I struggled to keep my eyes on the road as I took it all in. The mountains. The meadows. The buildings coming into view past a grove of trees.
It was exactly as I’d remembered. In the past decade, the Greer Ranch hadn’t seemed to change.
The lodge was a rustic log building and the focal point for guests—or it had been when I’d worked here. Behind it was an enormous barn beside a doubly enormous stable.
All three were the same, rich brown color. The windows of the lodge gleamed in the morning Montana sunshine. Maroon and golden mums spilled from a toppled whiskey barrel beside the front steps. Three wooden rocking chairs were positioned to the left of the hand-carved front door.
I’d once cleaned those windows. I’d planted flowers in that barrel. I’d rocked in one of those chairs and walked through that front door.
Katherine had been the one to pick Montana. She’d found us jobs at this guest ranch when Londyn and I had agreed to come along. The three of us had packed our meager belongings, bought bus tickets and waited for her to turn eighteen. Then we’d said goodbye to Karson, Clara, Aria and our beloved junkyard, setting out from California to Montana on a Greyhound bus because we’d craved adventure. Not for money or power or fame, but for an experience worth retelling.
We’d been so excited. So eager. We’d been so free.
No, not we. Me. I’d been excited and eager and free.
Somewhere along the way, that eighteen-year-old girl had gotten lost.
I parked the Cadillac in one of the guest spaces, not designated by a curb, but by an old-fashioned hitching post. My hands were suddenly like Jell-O and it took all my strength to shove the car in park.
Was it too late to turn around?
Yes.
I was here and damn it, I was doing this. With my eyes closed, I sucked in a calming breath and blew it out with an audible whoosh. When was the last time I’d been this nervous?
Leaning heavily into the door, I shoved it open. My purse stayed in the passenger seat because there was no such thing as petty theft at the Greer Ranch. The guests here didn’t need to steal and I doubted any employee would dare cross the Greers—they were too well respected and that likely hadn’t changed.
I swallowed down the lump in my throat and began the trek to the porch. My fingers gripped the wooden railing as my unsteady legs climbed the five stairs. Then with another shaky breath, I turned the knob on the door and walked inside.
The smell of cedar and cinnamon filled my nostrils. Someone had started a wood fire in the hearth. The couches surrounding the fireplace and rock chimney were the same chocolate leather. The plaid toss pillows looked new.
I tipped my chin to take in the vaulted ceiling’s wooden beams. A wide, sweeping staircase ran to my right and another to my left, both the same wood color as the floor. Directly in front of me was the reception desk, currently unoccupied. And behind me, above the door, was a mounted, eight-point bull elk bust.
Clive.
Londyn, Katherine and I had affectionately named the elk Clive the month after we’d arrived. None of us had ever seen a taxidermic animal before Clive, and we’d thought he’d deserved a name.
I smiled, happy he was still here. Happy that, besides minor changes, this place hadn’t changed.
It was like stepping back in time, to the days when my younger self had two best friends and ambitions bigger than the sky.
This room hadn’t changed.
But the woman standing in it sure had.
I walked to the counter, spying a silver service bell that hadn’t been there before. I touched my finger to the plunger and the ding chorused through the room.
“One minute!” a voice called from the hallway that ran behind the staircase on my left. One minute was actually ten seconds. A flash of white hair caught my eye first as a woman emerged, drying her hands on a white towel.
“Morning.” She smiled and my heart melted.
I’d missed that smile.
“Good morning,” I said, praying she’d recognize me. Though I wouldn’t fault her if she didn’t. I’d only worked here for eight months, eleven years ago. The Greers had likely met a hundred seasonal workers since.
“What can I do for”—her head cocked to the side and her eyes widened—“Gemma?”
Thank God. She hadn’t forgotten me. “Hi, Carol.”
“Oh my word, Gemma!” She threw the towel on the reception desk and came right into my space, pulling me into a tight embrace. “My God, girl. How long has it been?”
“About eleven years.” I laughed. “It’s good to see you, Carol.”
“Honey, you are just . . .” She let me go to look me up and down. “Stunning. Though you always were.”
“And you are as beautiful as always.”
“Please.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m old.”
The lines around Carol’s eyes and mouth had deepened over the years but her hair was the same bright white, braided in a long, thick rope that draped over one shoulder. Her eyes were the same welcoming brown.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Where have you been all these years? Can you stay for dinner?”