The sound of tires crunching over gravel pulled Isobel’s gaze toward the window. Through the haze of her tears, she spotted Bella Rose’s dusty old pickup rolling into the drive, a trail of fine red dirt curling in the morning sun.
A moment later, the screen door creaked open, and Rose stepped in without knocking, her spurs giving a faint jingle with each step. “Heard you been keepin’ to yourself,” she said, setting her hat on the counter. One glance at Isobel’s blotchy eyes and slumped shoulders, and her voice softened. “Lord, honey… you look like you’ve been trampled.”
Isobel gave a watery laugh. “Feels about right.”
Rose crossed the room, boots scuffing against the floor, and perched on the arm of the couch beside her. “Wanna tell me who—or what—did the trampling?”
Isobel hesitated,
