Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

DAKOTA

D akota’s gaze clung to Landon like ivy to an old building, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw, rugged as the Copper Canyon terrain itself. His laughter, rich and warm, and his easy demeanor had wrapped around her like a lasso, pulling her toward him with an irresistible force. She turned back to watch from the door as he climbed into his pickup truck, the muscles beneath his shirt shifting with an ease that spoke of strength and an untamed spirit.

He hopped back in his vintage truck and turned over the engine. "All right then. Take care, Dakota," he'd said, with that half-smile that hinted at secrets and shared confidences.

"Always do," she’d replied, but her voice had faltered, betraying the weariness she was feeling.

Landon tipped his cowboy hat—a silent promise that lingered in the air. As the truck pulled away, Dakota felt the weight of her reality sink in. She was homeless, all but broke and adrift in a small western town. It wasn’t the first time, but never before had the thought clawed at her insides quite like now, as she watched Landon disappear into the night.

The diner was a sanctuary of sorts, its walls steeped in the aroma of coffee and fried food—a comforting blend that usually eased her mind. But tonight, the scents seemed too distant, as if they belonged to a world where she could not fully participate.

"Can I get you something, hon?" The woman behind the counter had a voice like melted butter, smooth and inviting.

Dakota turned from the window, her eyes having to adjust to the interior light. She counted the coins in her palm, their coldness a stark reminder of her situation. "Just a coffee, thanks."

"Coming right up." The waitress offered a smile, one that carried the warmth of home and hearth, things Dakota scarcely remembered.

She slid onto the stool, her fingers absently tapping the ancient Formica, the vinyl cool and smooth beneath her, and rested her elbows on the counter, gaze lost in the grain of the surface. As the waitress placed the steaming cup before her, Dakota forced a smile, her mind already weaving through the possibilities of what came next.

"Thanks." Dakota sipped the bitter brew, its heat seeping into her bones.

"Awful late for a young thing like you to be out by yourself." Concern laced the waitress's words, though she tried to mask it with casualness.

"Sometimes late is just early in disguise," Dakota quipped, her lips curving with wry amusement.

The woman chuckled. "You sound like one of those philosophers. You know, the kind who sees the glass half full no matter what."

"Or maybe I'm just good at pretending." Dakota's tone was light, but her gaze fell once more to the window where night clung to the horizon.

“Can I interest you in a piece of pie?”

“Thanks, but no. I’m good.”

“You sure? No charge. I was just going to take it home and eat it. We bake the desserts fresh each day. Come on, do me and my diet a favor and eat it.”

Dakota smiled, thinking one should never discount the kindness of strangers. She gave the waitress a small smile. “Thanks.”

The taillights of Landon's truck bled into the dusk, a dull red glow that flickered and then dissolved into the advancing night. Dakota's heart hitched, each throb an echo of longing for the man whose scent still lingered on her skin—a mixture of earth and leather.

‘Normal,’ she thought to herself—a word that tasted foreign on her tongue. What was normal for a girl with no home, no family, nothing but a cryptic message from a grandfather long since gone? In the hollow quiet of the diner, amid the soft clink of cutlery and low hum of conversation, the weight of her isolation settled upon her like a shroud.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh glare on the chrome and Formica that had known countless weary travelers like herself, searching for reprieve or perhaps redemption.

"Another cup, sweetheart?" The waitress's voice held the warmth of a Southern summer night, but Dakota could only nod, her thoughts adrift. "Rough day?" the waitress prodded gently, pouring the coffee with practiced ease.

"Something like that." Dakota managed a smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes, which remained haunted by a storm of what-ifs and maybes.

She cradled the warm mug between her hands, the steam rising in gentle wisps, carrying the rich, bitter aroma to her nostrils. She focused on the heat seeping into her palms, letting it ground her in the present, away from the fear of shelters and the shadowy figures of her past.

"Say, you're new around here, aren't you?" The waitress leaned in, curiosity brightening her features.

"Passing through," Dakota replied, her voice low, a safeguarded truth. She wasn't passing through—not really—but the less people knew, the safer she was.

"Ah, well, Redstone has its charms, if you know where to look." The waitress winked and moved down the counter to serve another customer, leaving Dakota to her solitude once more.

Dakota sipped her coffee slowly as she ate the pie, each mouthful a small anchor to the semblance of stability the diner offered. She allowed herself the luxury of closing her eyes, tuning in to the ambient sounds of the place—the gentle murmur of patrons, the scrape of silverware, the occasional laughter.

"Survival first," she murmured, opening her eyes to the reality of her situation. Her next steps were uncertain, but she was no stranger to adversity. With the dawn, she would find a job—a chance to earn her keep—and maybe decipher her grandfather’s last words.

"Tomorrow," she breathed, setting the empty mug down, "starts a new chapter."

Dakota’s gaze went back to the muted reflection of neon letters spelling out "Open" in the diner's window. Just beneath, a smaller sign, "Help Wanted" scrawled in bold red, beckoned with the promise of something she desperately needed—a purpose, a place to belong. The ache of longing, a sensation as familiar as her own heartbeat, flared within her chest.

The clink of ceramic on Formica drew her attention as the woman behind the counter—her features soft in the warm glow of the overhead lights—refilled her mug with steaming coffee. Dakota's fingers brushed against the waitress's as she accepted the mug, the touch grounding, human.

"Anything else, hon?" the woman asked, a motherly lilt in her voice that tugged at something deep and forgotten in Dakota.

"Um, just this, thanks." Dakota's reply was a murmur, almost lost amidst the comforting hum of the diner. She poured some change onto the counter, counting each coin with meticulous care, ensuring she had enough for the small luxury before her.

She cradled the cup between her hands, the heat seeping into her skin, chasing away the chill that had settled in her bones. The aroma of the coffee mingled with the scent of fried onions and baked pies that wrapped around her like a worn quilt. She sipped, the liquid bittersweet on her tongue, as her thoughts wandered back to Landon Savage—his rugged charm, the way his presence seemed both a threat and a comfort.

Around her, life moved with a rhythm unique to late-night eateries; waitresses weaved between tables, laughter bubbled up from a booth in the corner, and the cook's spatula clattered against the griddle in a metallic staccato. Dakota watched it all through a veil of solitude, her mind turning over the possibilities that lay ahead, the questions that gnawed at her resolve.

Time slipped by, unnoticed, until the silence within her grew too loud to ignore. With a slow exhale, she set down her cup and turned her attention back to the woman behind the counter who was now polishing a glass with a worn dish towel.

"Excuse me," Dakota's voice held a new firmness, a subtle defiance against the uncertainty clawing at her edges. She cleared her throat, her eyes locking with the waitress's. "About the help wanted sign..."

"Interested, are you?" The woman leaned forward, interest piqued, and the towel came to rest on the counter.

"Yes," Dakota replied, pushing past the fear of risk and exposure. "I'm looking for work."

"Is that right?" The waitress appraised her with a practiced eye, one that had likely seen all manner of folks pass through the doors seeking respite or redemption. "You got any experience?"

"Enough to learn quick and work hard," Dakota said, her words steeped in earnestness. There was a raw edge to her purpose, a flicker that lent strength to her plea. “I did work in a bakery once. I can make all kinds of dessert and breakfast pastries.”

The waitress nodded slowly, the corners of her mouth lifting in a faint smile. "What’s your name?”

“Dakota. Dakota Westwood.”

“Well then, Dakota Westwood, let's see if we can't put that to the test."

And just like that, amid the clatter of the diner and the warmth of strangers, a sliver of hope threaded its way into Dakota's guarded heart. The clink of porcelain on the counter punctuated their negotiation, the scent of coffee heavy between them as the woman's eyes narrowed, dissecting Dakota's every word.

"Can you start tomorrow, bright and early?" the woman finally asked, her tone a mix of challenge and camaraderie.

Dakota nodded, the tightness in her chest easing ever so slightly. "Yes, I can."

"Good," the woman said with a brisk nod, her voice softening. "Then you're hired, Dakota." She scribbled something on a notepad and slid it across the counter. "Be here at five. We open early for the ranch hands looking for a strong cup before heading out to the fields."

"Thank you," Dakota breathed, a lifeline thrown in the turbulent sea of her thoughts. The prospect of work was a tether to normalcy she desperately craved, even if nothing about her life was truly normal.

She toyed with the empty mug, her mind racing through a checklist of necessities. A job secured, now she needed a place to stay. Dakota felt the old fear stir within her, the memory of her ex's shadow darkening the threshold of a shelter long ago. No, she couldn't risk those places again.

"Is there a... library around here?" Dakota asked, her voice casual, masking the turbulence beneath. She hoped her inquiry sounded like idle curiosity rather than the desperate strategizing it was.

"Down the road," the woman replied, pointing with a thumb over her shoulder. "Closed for the evening though."

"Perfect," Dakota said with a smile that didn't quite reach her wary eyes. "I'll check it out tomorrow."

She lingered a few minutes more, her gaze absently tracing the patterns of wear in the laminate countertop. The diner hummed with an undercurrent of life and hunger, but Dakota felt outside of it, an observer peering in through frosted glass. The warmth from the coffee still lingered in her palms, offering a small comfort that she clung to.

Eventually, she swiveled and stood. Her movements were deliberate as she walked away from the counter, each step weighted with the gravity of her situation. With one last glance at the walls of the diner, Dakota stepped into the cool embrace of the night.

Her heart, a drumbeat of silent yearning, sent a faint echo into the vastness of Copper Canyon—a silent plea for refuge among the pages and quiet corners of a library yet unseen.

Dakota made her way toward the haven of knowledge and silence. The library was easy to spot. It loomed ahead, a grand old structure of weathered brick and shadowed windows, its presence both imposing and inviting in the moonlit night. She circled it like a wary predator, the small park beside it offering convenient camouflage among its trees and benches— places where lovers might sit during the day, whispering sweet nothings that now seemed so distant from Dakota's stark reality.

The windows, old and sturdy, reflected back the darkness of the world, yet she searched for a vulnerability within their panes. In the rear, where the light of the streetlamps didn't quite reach, she found a stairwell leading down to a basement door. Testing the windows with a delicate touch, she feigned casualness, though her heart pounded with the threat of exposure.

She found the window pane closest to the lock and tapped at it just hard enough to break the one piece of glass. The sound of breaking glass was softer than she anticipated, quickly swallowed by the night's embrace. She reached through the fractured opening, fingers searching until they found the lock and turned it with a quiet click.

Once inside, the musty scent of forgotten spaces greeted her—the basement was a catacomb of discarded items and dust-covered shelves. Prowling the area, her eyes adjusted to the dimness, picking out shapes and forms that could be repurposed for her needs. She found planks of wood leaning against a mildewed wall, remnants of some past repair, and dragged them to cover the broken window. Working methodically, her hands deft and sure despite the tremor of adrenaline, she patched up the pane, mimicking the look of a temporary fix until proper repairs could be made.

It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do. The basement seemed abandoned, a place lost to time where the echoes of footsteps rarely ventured. She settled into this forgotten corner, allowing herself to breathe, to listen to the stillness that promised safety, if only for the night. Shadows danced at the edge of her vision, each one holding a tale of what might lurk just beyond sight, tales that Dakota knew all too well.

In the quiet solitude of the library's underbelly, Dakota allowed herself a sliver of hope. Perhaps here, in the refuge of books and knowledge, she could find the strength to face tomorrow and whatever it might bring.

Dakota had always loved libraries and after it seemed the town had shut down for the night, she ventured upstairs to the main floor. The moonlight streamed in through tall, arched windows, casting silvery patterns on the walls and illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air. The Victorian architecture loomed around her—a testament to the building's grand past, now silent and still as if holding its breath.

She passed by rows of bookshelves, their spines a kaleidoscope of faded colors and forgotten stories. Each room she entered was a shelter of solitude, the cozy reading nooks untouched and awaiting the warmth of daybreak readers. Multi-levels revealed themselves in creaky floorboards and winding staircases that seemed to sigh beneath her weight, telling tales of countless footsteps that had traveled them before.

Her senses were alight with the scent of old paper and polished wood, the mustiness of time lingering in the air like a ghost of bygone eras. She imagined the echoes of hushed voices and rustling pages that once filled these spaces, now replaced by the quiet thrumming of her own pulse.

Eventually, Dakota found a washroom, tucked away like a secret at the end of a narrow hallway. The porcelain sink was cold to the touch, the mirror above it speckled with age. She washed herself with a care born from necessity, the water sluicing away the grime of the outside world. Her clothes, few as they were, she rinsed and wrung out, the fabric heavy in her hands.

Afterwards, she retreated back to the basement, her makeshift shelter. She hung her clothes to dry on a line she fashioned from an old piece of rope she found amongst the relics of the past. They hung there, limp and dripping, like the flags of a weary traveler claiming temporary respite. Tomorrow she would figure out how to fetch her satchel from where she’d stashed it on the Savage ranch before Landon had found her.

In the far corner of the basement, hidden under a shroud of darkness and cobwebs, Dakota discovered an old sofa. Its upholstery was frayed, the cushions worn, but to her, it was a luxury she hadn't felt in too long. She settled onto it, her body sinking into the soft folds, and pulled an aged, patchwork quilt she'd found over herself. The fabric smelled faintly of lavender and mothballs—a comforting scent that whispered of home.

As she lay there, her thoughts drifted unbidden to Landon Savage. His image rose in her mind, vivid as the moon outside—tall, intriguing, with eyes that seemed to pierce through the veils of her carefully guarded heart. Could there be something between them, something real and enduring amidst the chaos of her life?

Probably not, she mused, pushing away the tendrils of hope that sought to take root in her chest. But in the silence of the library, surrounded by the ghosts of stories untold, Dakota allowed herself the indulgence of dreaming. For tonight, within these walls, she was safe. And in sleep, at least, she could imagine a different ending—one where the girl with no place in this world found solace in the arms of a cowboy who walked with shadows. As she closed her eyes, she heard the mournful howl of a wolf from somewhere outside of town. Perhaps she and the wolf would both find their solace in the night.