Page 29 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

That makes me laugh. Properly. The moment catches me off guard, but I grab onto it quickly. I don’t really experience moments where people want to see me again after a single conversation. It feels good.

“I’d love that. I’ll message you later.”

“Good,” she says simply. Like it's already decided.

I gather the bags. As I reach the door, she calls after me, almost as an afterthought, “Say hi to Colt for me.”

There’s something in her tone I can’t quite place.

I just smile and make my way to my next destination, as directed by my boss.

Next mission: boots from Buck’s.

Chapter Ten

Maeve

I am standing in the most chaotic shop I have ever encountered. Compared to Naomi’s witchy organised haven, Buck’s, which is in fact called Buck’s Boots, is a whole different kind of madness. There are rows and rows of boots crammed in no logical order. Cowboy hats dangle haphazardly from a rack in the corner, while a workbench sits buried beneath a fortress of leather scraps and half-finished boots. Scattered across the work surface lies an array of tools: knives, hammers, rulers, threads, and needles. Again, no organisation. Just pure chaos.

I am entirely surprised, though. It’s everything I imagined a small-town tack shop would be.

There’s the distinctive aroma of leather mixed with notes of wood and some sort of chemical smell that makes the whole place rather pungent. It's an unmistakably craftsman-like scent, and I just know it's going to cling to my clothes for hours.

“Here you go, little lady.” The shop owner, Buck, approaches with yet another pair of boots for me to try on.

“Give these ago.”

This must be the sixth pair I’ve tried on, and I honestly cannot, for the life of me, tell you the difference between any of them. All were comfortable, all looked as nice as work boots could look. But when Buck questioned me about my duties back at the ranch, all I could manage was “mucking out the stables” because that's literally all they've had me doing lately. Plus, the occasional random task helping Colt, but those are always supervised. As if I couldn’t be trusted to do a proper job without male supervision. Christ, it's infuriating. Surely there are other jobs I could tackle. If a man can manage them, how difficult can they actually be?

“Thank you, Buck,” I offer what I hope passes as an enthusiastic smile, trying not to look as over it as I feel. Trying on boots has turned out to be significantly less fun than it sounds, and my patience ran out approximately seven pairs ago.

Buck doesn't miss it. His weathered eyes study me for a moment, and then, in one swift motion, retracts his arms with the boots still firmly in his grasp.

Shit. Have I managed to piss off yet another cowboy?

But then, Buck's eyes soften and he straightens up with the quiet authority of a man who has made a decision.

“Alright, miss,” he says. “With the energy radiating off you right now, I feel it's my duty as this town's cowboy godmother to give you the full cowgirl experience.” He pauses, tilting his head. “What do you young ladies call it…a makeover montage?”

I blink at him, utterly baffled. A makeover montage? How the hell does this sixty-something-year-old cowboy, who probably only owns multiple pairs of the same Wranglers and shirts in different shades of plaid, know anything about makeover montages?

“My grandbabies may have taught me a thing or two about cheering up a woman,” he adds, his tone carrying that easy warmth of someone used to making people laugh. The kind of tone I've only ever really seen in films—the dad joke delivery, the gentle teasing that never lands wrong. “Though I suppose they're not babies anymore.” He sighs mockingly. “And we can't forget the ex-wife. Though cheering her up usually left my credit card sobbing.”

A soft snort escapes me before I can catch it. “Thank you, sir, but my card is so dried out right now I doubt it could manage even a single tear.”

”I'm not trying to upsell you, little lady. You just look like you need some cheering up, and nobody leaves my store without a smile on their face. Now, come on! I've got a small selection of clothes and a pair of boots that I reckon have your name stitched on them.”

Twenty-something minutes later, I can confirm Buck was absolutely, positively right. This is exactly what I needed. Trying on outfits that I’d never feel comfortable wearing in London, feeling like an absolute country icon. My hair’s a static mess from the endless rotations of hats, sticking up like I’ve shoved my finger in a plug socket. I suppose I’ll just have to buy one to hide the hat hair. Everyone else wears them at the ranch anyway, surely it counts as uniform.

Morgan Wallen hums through a small portable speaker, one that Buck has bought out especially for this little makeover montage, setting the most perfect soundtrack for my little catwalk down the cluttered aisles of boots.

Ten out of ten vibes if I do say so myself.

And the boots Buck mentioned, they do indeed have my name stitched on them.

Although the price tag begs to differ.

Buck, bless his old sweet soul, has offered to put them aside, letting me pay them off bit by bit. I can’t say I am not tempted, but they're nearly $300. Can I really justify that sort of money on boots? They’re not made to be trudging through stables in. These are going out boots. Like out-out! And I doubt there’ll be much time to do that while I am in Wildbrook Hollow. And would I realistically wear them back in London? Probably not.