Page 126 of Willow Ranch Cowboys

I stop.

Chamomile.

It’s sitting there in a little glass jar with dried blossoms, tied with twine.

I stare at it for a full five seconds.

This is the universe mocking me. It has to be.

Because Abilene and I literally shared chamomile tea in that cabin while the world burned outside, and it was the most intimate conversation I’ve had in years, and if I buy her chamomile now, I might as well writeI’ve been thinking about youon my forehead in permanent marker.

Which… is not inaccurate.

But still.

I clear my throat, grab the jar anyway, and add it to my growing “I’m definitely normal” pile.

Then I see it.

A small pot on the shelf near the register with a tiny painted label:WILDFLOWER SEED MIX — POLLINATOR FRIENDLY.

I freeze.

Bees.

Flowers.

Her whole world.

It’s not about the bees as a personality trait. It’s about the way she builds life around them. About how she makes something sweet out of disorder.

I pick up the packet carefully.

Three things now: hand salve, chamomile, wildflower seeds.

This is either charming or deeply unhinged.

Mrs. Larsen watches me drift toward the counter.

“Well,” she says, tapping a pen against the register. “Either you’ve taken up gardening and tea drinking, or you’re courting.”

I stop dead.

“No,” I say too quickly.

Her eyebrows lift. “No?”

“I mean…” I clear my throat. “That’s not… I’m not…”

She leans on the counter, delighted. “Wyatt Tucker is flustered. I’d like to mark this day on the calendar.”

“I’m not flustered,” I lie.

She glances pointedly at the chamomile jar. “Flower water says otherwise.”

I exhale slowly through my nose. “Can you just… ring these up?”

“Oh, I’ll ring them up,” she says, too cheerful. “But first, I’m going to guess.”