Seventeen-year-old Chloe Matthews is done with guys, done with her ex, and done with the cowboys of the Grand Teton Mountains. She refuses to get hurt again.
All that matters now are the horses. Every horse Chloe helps is another piece of herself pu...
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Inside Cowboy Coffee Co. on Cache Street in Jackson, Wyoming
The next morning, I tried to walk as normally as I could as I helped Mom open the café. My left thigh felt slightly better after a night of ice packs and ibuprofen, but it was still very tender. All I wanted was to hurry up and get out to Spotted Horse to check on Penny, to see how she was adjusting to her new home.
A shadow fell across the front door. Sheriff Peterson. I flinched and shuffled into the back room. Did he know Penny was gone? Was he coming in to bust me?
"Sheriff's here," Mom said as she continued to stack her fresh blueberry muffins on a platter in the front case. "Can you grab his coffee?"
"Sure." Anything to keep my probably guilty-looking face out of sight.
"Just cream, no sugar," she said in a sing-song voice. She and the sheriff exchanged pleasant good-mornings. Which meant he had no idea Penny was gone.
I slid a to-go cup off the stack and reached for the coffee pot. The phone rang and I grabbed it because I couldn't handle having the inevitable chit-chat with the sheriff if Mom picked up the phone.
"Cowboy Coffee," I said into the receiver. "Can I help you?"
Nobody answered.
"Hello?" I stuck the phone between my ear and shoulder and picked up the coffee pot.
Someone breathed.
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. My hands began to shake. The coffee pot almost slid out of my hand in my haste to hang up the phone. The to-go cup clattered to the floor.
"Chloe?" Mom said. "How's that coffee coming?"
"Um, fine." I grabbed another cup. Half of the coffee made it in, the other half spilled on the counter. People prank-called all the time. It was probably just some stupid kid. But my hands shook so hard I could barely get the cream into the wide-mouthed cup.
I hurried out of the back room, sending fits down my thigh, and stuck the cup out toward the sheriff. Mom frowned at the coffee running down the side. I tried to keep my hand steady.
Mom took the cup and set it on the counter. "Who was on the phone?"
"Wrong number." My voice cracked.
"Then why are you shaking?"
The sheriff leaned toward me. "Was it him?"
"I don't . . . think so." I shifted from foot to foot, ignoring the burning in my thigh. "It was someone breathing but not talking. Probably just some stupid kids."
The sheriff's jaw tensed. "Did you say your name?"
"No."
"Good." He nodded. "Never answer with your name. Any of you. Just keep it generic."
