I had come prepared for embarrassment, maybe anger, maybe one of those awkward rural jokes men make when they think a woman in a tailored coat doesn’t belong near livestock.
I was not prepared for a sentence that sounded like evidence.
“My father is Raymond Hart,” I said, trying to regain control of the moment. “Your neighbor.”
“I know who your father is.”
His voice was calm. Too calm.
“My name is Camille,” I said.
“I know that too.”
That bothered me more than it should have.
In Denver, people knew me because my name was on glass doors, press releases, charity boards, healthcare panels, and acquisition rumors.
Out here, on this quiet road outside Ridgway, I was just a woman standing in gravel with the wrong shoes.
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