She pushed open the door of Gable Mercantile, the bell overhead chiming bright and cheerful, a sound that didn’t match the way her stomach clenched.
The store smelled like flour dust and cured meat and coffee beans. Warmth held the room in a sleepy grip, and for a second Lena felt like a stray dog that had wandered into a church.
Behind the counter, Mr. Harold Gable peered over his spectacles. He was built like a barrel and looked like he’d been born already tired.
“Afternoon,” he said. Then his eyes flicked down and sharpened. “Lena Hart. You look like you’ve walked the whole county.”
“Just the long part,” she replied.
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
