Mercy Ridge

Darkness swallowed the storefront while hooves hammered the wet wood of Main Street, each impact echoing like a pistol shot through Clara Whitllo's quiet evening. She held her breath as the heavy wooden door rattled beneath a brutal, demanding fist. The cold draft sweeping through the shop smelled of wet wool and fresh panic. The knock came after dark, sharp enough to make Clara Whitllo’s needle freeze halfway through a stitch. In Mercy Ridge, decent people rarely came calling after sunset, especially in a storm like this. Clara expected a desperate neighbor, a traveler with a ripped coat, perhaps someone needing a saddle strap repaired before morning. She never expected the lonely cowboy standing beneath her porch. Rain streamed from the brim of his black hat. Mud covered his boots in thick, dark patches. One hand gripped a broken saddlebag strap, while the other remained …