Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 144435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
"Love you too, brat."
"Bye!"
Chapter Three
CORDELIA
Welcome to Winthrop. Population: I'm going to die in the mountains.
"This is doable," I whisper to myself, creeping down the main street leading through downtown Winthrop. "You're a fierce, independent woman and you can handle this." It's a lie I tell myself when something is most definitely not doable and I'm crazy for even thinking it.
Deacon did not mention that my two weeks were going to be spent 140 years in the past. But either I drove through a portal into the 1880s or Winthrop fell through a portal from the 1880s, because half the town looks like it came straight from one of the old western movies my grandpa used to watch. You know, the ones where they settled disputes by a gunfight in the middle of the street at high noon. The wooden buildings have elaborate false fronts with painted signs and tin awnings held up by wooden posts. There are even hitching posts for horses out front.
What there isn't is cell reception. I'm from Seattle. We have more tech firms and IT headquarters than the south has churches. The fact that this town exists in a cellular dead zone is giving me anxiety.
Or maybe that's the sheer number of trees pressing in on me from every side. Panic already tries to claw its way up my throat, threatening to escape in hysterical laughter.
I should have stuck to conquering my fear of singing in public. A shot of liquid courage, a trip to the karaoke bar, a little off-key Mariah Carey, and boom! Mission accomplished.
I'm far less likely to die on stage than I am out here.
I sigh, shaking my head at myself. When did I turn into such a negative Nancy? Winthrop might not be what I expected, but it's beautiful. Even my anxiety can't deny that. If the ghosts of Wyatt Earp and Jesse James still roam the earth, they probably hang out in places like this.
The saloon where Deacon told me to meet him comes into view ahead and I slow to a crawl, gaping. The false front rounds out at the top before meeting in a fancy point at the very top of the building. I'm sure the design probably has a name, but I don't know anything about old west architecture. Actual swinging doors adorn the front, with a big porch.
Oh, I bet the barkeep gets to throw people off of it a lot! I hope I get to see it while I'm here. Tabitha and Gem will think that's hysterical. Though, judging by the lack of cars out front, I'm guessing my odds aren't high today.
I pull into the nearly vacant lot, parking in an empty spot in the middle of the lot. And then I sit for a minute, trying to calm my freaking nerves before I go in and meet Deacon Cromwell, the grumpy mountain man I badgered into hiring me. I don't know who he's expecting, but I kind of doubt it's a plus-size hot mess with curly pink hair and a flair for the dramatic.
The pink hair isn't an issue in Seattle. My clients love me regardless of what I do with my hair. But this is about as far from Seattle as you can get without leaving the state. People here may not see it the same way. Deacon may not.
Well, too bad for him.
I grab my phone and send a quick text message to the girls, letting them know I made it safely. Hopefully it'll go through at some point this century. Once that's done, I take a breath and climb from the car. The cold wind hits me right in the face, stealing my breath. And then it hits the skirt of my dress, lifting it like a hot air balloon heading for takeoff.
"No!" I squeak, trying to battle it back down. Except nature fights back. My boots slide on the icy cement. I yelp, grabbing for the car door. The wind grabs my dress. I let go of the door to grab the dress, only to slide again. "I didn't even do anything bad, karma!"
"You wore that damn dress with a pair of lace panties, Sunshine," a man growls behind me, his voice all too familiar. "I'd say karma's spanking your pretty little ass for it."
I squeak again, releasing the car door to yank my dress down over my butt. My cheeks—the ones on my face—flame bright red as I spin around. Or attempt to spin around, anyway. With my boots slipping and sliding and my arms glued to my sides to keep my dress down, I waddle like a freaking penguin more than spin gracefully.
If anyone is watching this scene unfold, they're either recording me for the internet, or crying on the floor. I was not built for ice. Clearly.