All the hairs on the back of Julia Collier’s neck stood on end.
This was a bad idea. She shouldn’t have come here, not in the afternoon when there were so many people about. Putting the pickle jar back on the shelf with a small click, she tried to ignore the man at the end of the aisle.
One of her ex-husband’s goons, he’d been following her all day. Never approaching, never talking to her, just a constant visual reminder that Buddy owned the big mill outside town, and by extension Greenwood itself, and that she wasn’t welcome.
Standing for a moment in front of the pickles, she pushed back the tears that wanted to well up and spill over onto her cheeks. She wouldn’t cry, not in front of that asshole. There was no way she’d give him, or Buddy, or anyone, the satisfaction. Greenwood was a
