Page 4 of Roped in Rawhide

I’ve never felt such a strong urge to hug a stranger. That’s some legit girl code if I’ve ever seen it.

Rather than launch myself at her, I watch as the fierce woman pauses to give Betty Lou a handful of the corn, peas, and seeds mixture from the labeled dish. Our duck quacks in thanks before gobbling up her snack.

“Adorable,” the lady coos. “I’ll see you soon.”

That’s what they all say. Many of our customers shop here more frequently just because of her.

The female merganser randomly stopped by last spring and has been visiting us regularly ever since. She’s become somewhat of a mascot at Keaton’s General Store. Her spot on the floor is near the exit so she can come and go as she pleases.

There’s a jingle from the bell, which drags me back to the moment and announces the woman’s departure. There are three other customers browsing the shelves while the solo loiterer just stares at me.

“You’re trespassing.” My glower doesn’t possess the necessary bite to chase him off.

Chance Benson has the audacity to smirk. Such a pretentious ass. “Hey, Wildflower.”

“Don’t call me that,” I spit.

“It gets a reaction.”

“Not a good one.”

The seams of his Western shirt strain tight when he shrugs his broad shoulders. “Better than a cold shoulder.”

I grind my teeth rather than chew him out. There are shoppers nearby and I don’t need my parents pissed at me again. Since graduating college, I’ve stumbled into the manager position at my family’s general store. Unfortunately, Chance couldn’t care less about anyone but his agenda.

His cowboy boots are planted wide on the checkered tile floor, showing off his towering frame and stubborn streak. The man couldn’t take a hint if I branded it on his forehead.

Tattoos decorate both of his crossed arms. He’d barely started his collection when our friendship went up in flames. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to being curious about the designs he’s chosen to permanently carry on his skin. That doesn’t mean I’ll ever ask him, though.

“What do you want?”

“A conversation.”

Which is the answer I expected. It’s always the same. But I’m not willing to give him more than he’s already taken from me.

“You need to leave. I’m working.”

Chance doesn’t so much as blink. “Not until you talk to me.”

“I’m talking to you,” I retort. “It’s just not what you want to hear.”

“Will you just—”

“No,” I snap. “I won’t do anything for you except show you the door. Don’t let it hit you on the way out.”

“C’mon, Gemma. Let me say my piece.”

“Oh. My. Gosh.” My palm smacks the counter as my patience officially meets its maker. “You lost the privilege to ask anything of me when you blew up our friendship. I don’t give a shit about what you have to say. Haven’t I made that clear every single time you force me to repeat myself?”

We’ve been stuck in this standoff for over a year. The first time he had the nerve to approach me was at his niece’s sixth birthday party last February. I shut him down then just as I’ve been doing in all the months since. We’re in the thick of June now. Another summer has arrived and my answer hasn’t changed.

My only reprieve is when Chance goes on the road to chase a payday. For whatever reason, he’s stuck to rodeos close to home this summer. It’s putting me more on edge with each passing day.

The pressure throbs in my leg. There’s also a dull ache in my left elbow that never quits. The scars are hidden beneath my cardigan sleeve and the long skirt of my dress, but I still feel like I’m exposed.

Chance saunters closer as if invited, eyeing the fist I hadn’t realized I’d clenched. “Are you in pain?”

“I’m not yours to worry about.”