It was then that I realized why Fletcher always kept me corralled at the ranch. It wasn’t because he wanted to protect me from the cattiness of the townspeople like he had said before. It wasn’t because he didn’t want me stressed out by their sneers, which could affect my chance of becoming pregnant again.

  No.

  Not in the least.

  Fletcher talked me into believing—convinced me—that he was protecting me when, in reality, he didn’t want me to learn just how thoroughly he’d been digging us in to debt and screwing people over. He knew that the first person who approached and questioned us would cause a shitstorm he didn’t want to ride out. I’d demand to see the finances I had trusted him with. That I’d see the credit cards he’d maxed out or that we were a few months behind on our mortgage payments. I’d explode over the home equity line of credit I thought had a zero balance when instead it was well over two hundred thousand dollars and climbing.

  Then I’d know the truth.

  For some reason, Rusty’s words hit me hard as I sit in the truck under the warming Texas sun. His unsolicited opinions about how I need to change the narrative. His comments about how I need to try to somehow prove myself again.

  Maybe it’s sitting here looking at this town I fell in love with when we first moved here with its quiet, homey charm that won me over and made me want to buy the ranch on the outskirts of town. Maybe it’s wondering how life would be if I could have some friends or support in this damn place.

  I study the boutiques that have sprouted up along Main Street, at the fancy salon that takes up four storefronts, at the abundance of cars in parking spots when it isn’t tourist season.

  Life has moved on while I’ve been sequestered and withering away.

  “Get out of the truck, Tatum,” I grumble, suddenly self-conscious, thinking of my reflection when I forced myself to look in the bathroom mirror last night after my shower.

  I know they will all be able to see the hollowness in my eyes and exhaustion weighing down on my shoulders and the uncertainty in my expression. The brassiness of my hair and my roughened palms. My body, which used to be lithe with taut muscles, now looks tougher and bulkier but unhealthy and gaunt all at the same time.

  “You have to start somewhere,” I say as I open the door of my truck and slide out of the seat.

  With a deep breath, I step onto the sidewalk. My sunglasses hide how my eyes flick left and right and take in the fresh coat of paint on all of the storefronts and the signs hanging from the streetlights that highlight different events coming up for Lone Star: the county fair, 4-H parade, and the next high school sports game.

  It’s a delicate dance being here in town. If my head is held too high, I’m the bitch who thinks she’s better than them. If I look down and avert my eyes, then I’ve been defeated and am guilty of everything they’ve accused me of, which tells them they’ve won.

  Neither is the truth, but at the same time, neither is a lie.

  Before I have a chance to lose my courage, I beeline it for the salon.

  “Welcome to Fiona’s, how may I help you?” the perfectly styled lady says from her seat behind her shabby-chic reception desk.

  “Yes, I called earlier about getting my hair trimmed and colored. Tatum Knox.” Her eyes whip up, telling me everything I already knew.

  That I was the topic of conversation around here after I called earlier.

  She recovers quickly. “Yes. Of course. I have you booked with Fiona herself. If you’ll follow me, we’ll get you started.”

  Stares follow me as I move through the expansive salon, which reminds me so very much of the kinds I used to go to when I was younger. When my life was about debutante balls and who was dating who.

  “Here you go. Fi will be right with you,” she says, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that her chair is in the back corner of the salon and that no other stylist is around her.

  “Tatum Knox. Blessed be,” Fiona’s distinctive voice calls to my right when she sees me. “You’re actually among the living now. Talk about a sight for sore eyes.”

  Fiona bends to where I’m seated and wraps her arms around me in a hug that is as unexpected as her warm welcome. When she steps back, my smile is instantaneous despite my jittery nerves.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi? That’s all you have to say to the woman you are letting down by letting all of that brassiness rent space on that head of yours? What? You don’t write. You don’t call. You let gray hairs grow and cancel appointments.”

  I sit there and look at her, uncertain how to exactly voice my reasons, which are only justifiable by my standards. “Um . . . uh—”

  “Such nonsense,” she says as she grabs my hand and squeezes. “I don’t care why you kept canceling, all I care about is that you’re here. That you’ve finally shown that gorgeous face of yours.” She pats me on the shoulders. “Now, let’s get that mess on your head fixed up so you can feel like your old self again. You might still look great, but darling, I can make you look fabulous.”

  I laugh, and for the first time since getting out of the truck, I feel as if I can breathe. “I missed you.”

  She puts the cape on and squeezes my shoulder again. “I don’t get a chance to miss you at all. Hell, you’re still the talk of the town even when you’re not here.”

  “Jesus.” I roll my eyes, loving that she’s still the same and they haven’t poisoned her opinion of me yet. “That bad?”

  “Nothing is ever as bad as it seems. Just be glad they’re still talking.”

  We fall into small talk as she adds color to my hair. She doesn’t once demand to know why I pretended not to be home the last time she came out to the house for my regularly scheduled appointment. She doesn’t ask about the ranch or the horses or where in the hell I’ve been over the past year.

  All she says is that it’s good to see me.

  All she talks about is the town happenings to catch me up to speed.

  All she does is deflect anyone who wanders by to see if they can get any information to gossip about.

  “Your scars are looking great,” she murmurs absently as her hands massage my scalp in the washbowl.

  My hand goes instinctively to the white lines on the underside of my jaw and lower part of my neck. The screech of brakes and utter fear that held me hostage return momentarily as if the car running me off the road happened yesterday, not two years ago.

  “I used the concoction you told me about.” I meet her eyes as she leans over me, her hands still rubbing in circles. “That, and they’ve faded with time.”

  “Time fades all scars. Even the ones we can’t see,” she says with a wink and squeezes the excess water from my hair. When she helps me sit up to wrap a towel around it, the other clients sitting near the bowls glance my way before texting furiously.

  “You’d think you were royalty the way these ladies are burning up their phones,” she jokes when she begins to trim.

  “It’s ridiculous.”

  “It is. Fletcher was a dick. No one else in this town will say that to your face, but you know me, I will. Ginger might too. But, I’m sorry, you’re better off without him.”

  The part of me that isn’t used to having any sort of support fights back the tears. “I know, it’s just . . .”

  “Hard? Shitty? Hurtful? Yeah, it’s every single one of those and a whole slew more, but in this town, women don’t stand behind women. They only hide behind their husbands.” She says this just a touch too loudly as she snips two inches off my hair. “Good thing I’ve had enough husbands to know they aren’t worth standing behind.”

  Her laugh sounds off in the brightly lit salon. One of the reasons she’s my ally is because the people here have judged her just as harshly. If it weren’t for the fact that she’s the best stylist in town, they would treat her as they treat me.

  As if her husbands never screwed anyone over and whatever they did was her fault.

  “So, you were out and about taking photos the other day?” she leads. How did my walk out on Old Sawmill Road last week become town news? Rusty mentioned it too. Is it a crime to need a few minutes to myself with scenery other than the ranch? The irony is I didn’t have my camera on me. The fact that someone added that detail shouldn’t surprise me. “Honey, people in this town know the minute you step off your land. Get any good shots?”

  “Don’t play that off,” I say, not bothering to correct her. “What are they saying now?”

  “Nothing you need to care about.”

  “Seriously, Fi. What is being said?”

  She smiles tightly, the lines at her eyes crinkling in a way that tells me she isn’t going to tell me because she’s protecting me. It’s the same look she’d give me when she’d come out for her house calls to do my hair and knew what was being said about Fletcher in town but didn’t want to let me know.

  She holds her finger up before switching on the blow-dryer, and I know the moment is lost. There’s no way she can shout over the sound and not let everyone else in the salon hear her.

  So, I sit with my thoughts. I let the doubt own me, and the want to just get the hell away from here is just as strong as my need to prove them all wrong. That I’m nothing like my husband. That I’m nothing like the woman they’ve made me out to be.

  The question is, do I believe it or am I turning a blind eye because I’m afraid to know the truth?

  “And voila!” she says as she switches the blow-dryer off and unfastens the cape from around my neck. “As good as new.”

  I laugh. “Far from it, but—” I stare at myself in the mirror. At my hair, which is a couple of inches shorter but looks completely different. At the shiny color that has replaced the dull flatness I walked in here with. At the little bit of life in my eyes. “It’s a start.”

  “Damn right it’s a start.” She pulls me into a hug so that her lips are close to my ear as she whispers, “I miss you. I gave you space because you asked for it, but I’m sick of giving it. Next time I come visit you at the ranch, I’m not going to let you pretend not to be there. I’d love to see your gorgeous face more than once every few months as you pass through town.”

  My cheeks flush with emotion as I struggle with how to respond. “You might, but no one else does.”

  “Pshaw.” She waves her hand my way. “So what? Between the article and your husband, you’re doomed for life? Don’t give them the satisfaction, girl. Get out and live, Tate, or life is going to pass you by.”

  I meet her eyes and wish that taking her advice was as easy as she makes it seem, but it isn’t. It never has been. I walked away from everything I’d ever known for a man who I thought would be my everything. And he walked us into a town, a life, and a lifetime that I’m now stuck in alone.

  “It’s easier than it seems.”

  “Everything is.”

  “How much do I owe?” I ask to try to change the topic.

  “It’s on the house.”

  “Thank you, but that’s not necess—”

  “You can pay me back by introducing me to your new ranch manager.” She laughs and wiggles her eyebrows.

  “My new—what?” I look around as if the crystal chandelier above holds the answer to her question.

  “Long. Lean. Hotter than fuck. That Jack is a nice piece of eye candy to admire . . . and, uh, imagine other things about too.”

  The image of Jack standing on my porch, arms crossed over his chest, and a smirk on his lips flashes through my mind.

  “He’s not my manager—”

  “Why the hell not?” She smacks a hand against the counter. “Everyone knows why he’s in town. Even the women who hate you are rooting for you—if not a little bit jealous—and the men are hating him already.”

  “I doubt anyone is rooting for me,” I counter. “And he isn’t my—”

  “That’s not a good enough reason.” She props her hands on her hips and really hears me for the first time. “If you’re not coming into town because you’re afraid of what they’re going to say, you sure as hell can be coming at home.”

  “Jesus, Fi.” I cough the words out.

  “We’ve established that Fletcher screwed you. Sure, you loved him, but I’m pretty damn sure he ruined that after you found out what he did to you. Why is it a bad thing to hire a man who might work you just as good in the sheets as he works on the ranch?” She raises her eyebrows as I sputter for a response. “C’mon. You know that passed through your mind. Then you got angry for thinking it. Then you denied that you ever thought it.”

  I stare at her with my jaw lax and my eyes wide.

  “It’s called moving on. We’ve all been there. Hell, I’ve been there six times,” she says, referring to her failed marriages. “I know everything you went through was a hundred times worse than what I did so the guilt must be astronomical, but screw the guilt. Have some fun. Ride the cowboy.”

  I bite back my laugh and suddenly turn sober. “Wait, is he telling people he’s working at the ranch?”

  She just smiles and shrugs. “It isn’t what a man says”—she winks— “but what a man does that matters.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He’s stayed here in town well after you told him you didn’t want any. I’d say that’s a man who’s willing to weather a little woman’s wrath, and nothing’s wrong with that.”

  “I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Oh, look. My next client is here.” She offers a sly smirk. “I need to go assist her,” Fi says as she rushes to the doorway. I’m about to call her bluff when I see her helping an octogenarian through the salon.

  So, I stand there awkwardly because the ease I had with Fiona disappeared when she did. I glance around and meet the eyes of another stylist, who looks my way and then averts her attention just as quickly.

  Heat creeps into my cheeks, permeating every part of me like a firestorm and making the room feel as if it’s closing in on me. My heart starts to race, and I struggle to draw in a breath.

  The panic attack hits me out of nowhere.

  I used to have them all the time after Fletcher died and I’d found out about everything. They used to hold me hostage, curled in a ball, for hours on end, but I thought I’d shaken them.

  I look frantically for the bathroom and run toward it the moment I see it, knowing I’m just adding more to the gossip mill. With the door shut and my hands braced on the counter, I close my eyes and focus on my breathing. On hoping that I didn’t just cause a scene over nothing and calming myself down.

  On forcing myself to relax.

  And just as fierce as the panic attack is my fury at myself.

  It takes everything I have to meet my own eyes in the mirror. Sure, my hair looks better than it has in months, but nothing else does.

  The hollow look still haunts my eyes. The straight line of my mouth still looks tense. The weight on my shoulders is still unbearable.

  Who is this woman who is a mere shadow of herself?

  When did I let this happen?

  I never cared what they thought of me—correction, I told myself I didn’t care what they thought of me. Fletcher only reinforced it by keeping me separated from them.

  So what am I going to do about it?

  Tears burn and well and my knuckles turn white as I grip the edge of the sink. As I struggle to control my emotions and let the anger at myself burn away the doubt and the insecurity and discord I’ve allowed to be sewn into the very fabric of who I am.

  This is no way to live.

  None.

  The epiphany that I need to make a change has been staring me in the face. I know that if I really mean the promise I’ve made to myself, that I’m going to turn things around, then I have to start with myself.

  The sound of my sigh fills the small space, but it’s the alarm bell I need to wake myself up.

  “No more, Tate,” I whisper harshly, not wanting to give the people beyond the closed door anything else to talk about. “No. More.”

  I take a moment more to wipe the beads of sweat from my face, pinch some color into my cheeks, add a touch of lipstick I found in the recesses of my purse, and then I leave the salon with a fake smile as if I’m perfectly fine.

  With clammy hands, I force myself to walk through town, past the posters announcing the high school’s latest production of Annie Oakley, and beneath the banners on Main Street that announce the county fair is headed our way this summer. Even the old timer’s sitting in Hal’s Donut Shoppe with their coffee cups empty, their donuts long gone, and their opinions filling the air, are different.

  Life has moved on. I may still be stuck in the ruts that lead the way out to the south end of the ranch where Fletcher was buried, but life has moved on.

  Am I terrified?

  Hell, yes.

  But of what though?

  Of living.

  The acknowledgment hits me out of nowhere. Pair it with Jack’s bold statements the other day, mix them with Rusty’s comments about how I need to win the town over, and throw in Fiona’s words about how I should take advantage of a new ranch manager, and it’s the perfect storm to shake me awake when I’ve been sleepwalking through life.

  So, when I spot Jack’s truck parked in the lot next to Ginger’s, a surge of confidence washes through me. It’s matched with temper too, but the longer I stare at it, the more I realize all of these feelings, these realizations, within me came to life the minute he stepped on my porch.

  The minute he somehow entered my life.

  5

  JACK

  “When’s your next gig?”

  Pursing my lips, I take my time studying the beer Ginger just placed in front of me before glancing over to the man. His hair is red, his freckles coat every inch of his skin, and for a giant of a man, he moves with a surprising ease behind the bar. His smile is genuine, and his laugh tugs at the corners of my mouth when he lets it loose.

  With a shrug, I lean back in my chair and think about the daunting prospect of returning home and facing the shitstorm I left behind, but I welcome his question. I’ve been in and out of here for the past week, mixing with locals and listening to the town gossip, but Ginger has steered clear of me. I just can’t figure out if it’s because he’s one of the few in town who actually like Tate or because he just doesn’t care to get to know me.