Close Enough to Touch. Victoria Dahl
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was in Wyoming. She was standing on it.
“Damn,” she muttered.
The elderly man in front of her turned with a concerned smile. “Sorry, ma’am?”
Grace crossed her arms in defense. “Sorry about that. I was just…”
He smiled and put a hand to his balding head as if he meant to tip a hat. “Beg pardon.”
No one had ever begged her pardon before. Grace crossed her arms more tightly, unsure how to handle this situation. Thankfully, the man moved away before she was forced to respond.
Grace glanced warily around. After her years in L.A., she knew to keep her guard up against anyone who approached her on the street, no matter how kind and polite the people here might seem. Nobody did, so she edged toward the driver as he unlocked the luggage compartments of the bus. She was used to being alone, but she’d been surrounded by people on this bus for nearly two days. She felt almost panicked with the need to be free.
The driver began unloading the bags, laying them out in neat rows. Grace kept a sharp eye on his hands, waiting for her ancient camouflage duffel bag to appear.
No one else seemed to be watching as closely. The other passengers were hugging friends and family or idly chatting with each other as their eyes traveled along the horizon. She spared only the barest of glances toward the view of the mountains. Someone could walk up and grab a bag and be gone before anybody even noticed.
These folks were obviously not from L.A. Or…maybe their bags didn’t contain every ridiculous, precious thing in the world that belonged to them. Maybe their bags were just filled with dirty clothes and cheap souvenirs from a beach vacation. But when Grace’s bag appeared and was set on the ground, she jumped forward and dragged it away like a feral animal with a piece of precious meat. It was nearly too heavy for her to lift, but she’d have to find a way. She had no car, no spare money for a taxi—if they had such things here—and she hadn’t told her great-aunt when she’d be arriving. So she was hoofing it.
“Hoofing it,” she breathed, managing a laugh as she glanced around to see if there were any cows standing next to her. Unlike the rest of Wyoming, the town of Jackson seemed to be blessedly cow-free. It was also slightly larger than she’d expected, dashing her hope that she could simply wander down the main street until she spotted the address she was looking for. She’d have to ask for help. The idea made her grimace as she took a deep breath and looked around. Maybe she could just find a free map.
“Bingo,” she muttered as her eye fell on a big sign that spelled out Jackson Hole Information! in old-timey wooden letters. Grace had lived in Hollywood a long time. If there was one thing she knew, it was how to work a tourist trap.
She dragged her bag across the asphalt and onto the wooden…sidewalk? Grace blinked and looked down the street, then turned to look in the other direction. Yes, as far as the eye could see, the sidewalks were wooden, like an Old West town.
“Wow,” she muttered. These people were really trying hard, even if she had to admit that it was cute. Shaking her head, she pulled her bag down the sidewalk until she got to the brochure stand.
“Do you have a free map of the area?” she asked the matronly woman who’d turned away to straighten papers.
“Oh, hello!” the woman called as she spun around. “Good afternoon!”
“Hi. Um. I just need a map of the town. Something simple.”
The woman’s eyes flicked up to Grace’s hair for a moment, and Grace wondered what she must think of a purple-haired girl in combat boots asking about Jackson, but the woman’s smile didn’t waver. “Well, I won’t lie. There are a lot of choices. Here’s the official town map.” She laid out a folded brochure. “But—and don’t tell anyone I said this—I actually like the one the restaurant association puts out a little better.”
“Thanks.” Grace took both the brochures and opened the one the woman had recommended.
“What are you looking for, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart? Grace glanced down at her T-shirt. Yep. It still advertised an old L.A. burlesque club. “Just a street,” she said softly, hoping not to invite more questions.
“Which street?”
Grace cleared her throat and shifted, her gaze desperately boring into the map, hoping she could just find it herself. “Um, Sagebrush.”
“Sagebrush. That’s a long one. What’s the address?” The woman’s pink fingernail pointed toward the map, but it moved before Grace could register which street she was pointing to.
“Six-O-five West Sagebrush,” she said, sighing.
“Oh, that’s way over here!” The woman pointed again, and this time Grace saw it. A long line that meandered all the way through town and then followed the curve of a stream before it ended. It looked like quite a haul.
“Thank you,” Grace said. She folded the map and hefted her bag up, biting back a grunt as she worked the strap over her shoulder. “This way?” She tilted her head in the direction she thought she needed to go. She’d always been pretty good with that sort of thing.
“Yep!”
Grace took a deep breath and started walking. Her boots clomped on the wood.
“Oh, honey!”
Grace pretended she didn’t hear.
“Sweetie, stop! You can’t walk all that way.”
“I’m fine,” she called.
“But there’s a free bus!”
Her boots stopped clomping. “Free?”
“Totally free. In fact, it’ll stop right here in a few minutes. Comes every half hour.”
Grace turned back and eyed the woman suspiciously. “Will I have to go tour a new condo complex or something?”
“What? Oh, heavens no. It’s the town bus. It’ll stop just a few blocks from where you’re going. Six-O-five West Sagebrush. That’s the Stud Farm, isn’t it?”
“The what?” She dropped the bag. She’d heard tales that her great-aunt was a crazy old lady, but… “What?”
“Oh, never mind me.” The woman laughed. “That’s just a silly local nickname.”
“For what?”
“The building.”
Just as Grace was opening her mouth to demand a real answer, a hiss of brakes sounded from the curb. The bus had arrived, and she didn’t have time to get more information. She hauled up her bag, wrestled it onto her shoulder and jogged for the bus. As promised, there didn’t seem to be a fee. The driver glanced at her impatiently, and she felt a small jolt of comfort at that. The bus might be free, but the driver was just as jaded as every bus driver in L.A.
Slightly less suspicious, Grace took a seat close to the front so she wouldn’t have to haul the bag any farther, then dug the map back out to see which intersection she was looking for.
A few blocks later, the wooden walkways were replaced with cement, and the two-story buildings with front porches became less common. By the time they reached the right intersection, they’d passed a strip mall and a big grocery store. She felt slightly less disoriented as she grabbed the bellpull and hauled her bag down the steps.
She didn’t dare stop and look around as the bus pulled away. Her shoulders were already aching and the bag wasn’t getting any lighter, so she set off down the side street with her head down. Sagebrush was only four blocks down. No problem.
By the time she reached the next street, she was gasping for air. “Good Lord,” she muttered, stopping to take a few deep breaths. It didn’t help. Altitude, she reminded herself, finally giving in and setting the bag down. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on oxygen, and without the