Falling For The Rebel Cowboy

“You can always order online from whatever fancy place you shop,” he said and got out, letting Sadie follow behind him. She quirked a brow, and he wondered if this morning’s tutoring session was making him snappy. Once again, it hadn’t gone well.

“I just thought I’d get him some clothes to play in while we’re here.”

“Kade won’t mind if Johnny keeps the ones we borrowed yesterday. Plenty more you can have.”

She didn’t say anything, but he could just imagine how pissed her father would be to know his grandson was wearing old hand-me-downs.

Wyatt opened the door to the general store and held it for her, and she walked by him at a fast pace, her heels clacking on the wood floor. “You might wanna look at getting some play clothes for yourself,” he murmured.

Marge walked up to them just then. She was a staple in town and ran a tight ship, but she had the biggest heart ever. Maybe that was why she and his mother had been best friends. “Marge, this is Francine Wentworth, from New York City. She needs some jeans and stuff. Maybe even a horse blanket, too.”

Francine rolled her eyes at him as she shook Marge’s hand. “Hi, Marge. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Welcome to our town, Francine.” Marge leaned in to hug him. “’Bout time you came to see me, Wyatt.” She grabbed a handful of his hair. “You need a haircut.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. Almost thirty years old and she could still make him feel like a rebellious twelve-year-old.

“Come on, Francine. I’ll show you around,” Marge said.

He stayed put a minute, watching Marge and Frankie interact. They’d just met yet were already talking like old friends, even if they were polar opposites. Marge, with her curly silver hair and reading glasses hung around her neck, old jeans and a pressed shirt. Frankie and her perfectly done blond hair and makeup, fancy coat and black suit.

He looked around the store, the merchandise. Another place in town that hadn’t changed over time. It always smelled the same in the general store—coffee, mothballs, penny candy, a wood-burning fire and new denim. Most days a group of older men sat by the stove and played checkers and gossiped.

He craned his neck to see the back of the store. Yup, three of them were back there, already in place. He winced—he’d have to pass them to get to what he needed. He and his friends had probably pranked—or worse—all of them at least once in his troubled youth.

He’d been to town a handful of times since coming home, tried to avoid locals when he did. No sense putting it off. He headed toward the kitchen supplies, and as he approached the checkers players, they all stopped talking. Wyatt nodded at them but didn’t stop. As soon as he passed them, they started talking again, this time in whispers.

The price you paid for being a teen rebel in a small town.

He looked around to see where Francine was and saw Marge had shown her to the shelves full of folded jeans. They were still chatting, which surprised him. What would a big-city woman have to talk about that much with someone she’d just met in a small town in Montana?

He studied Francine, noting how her face lit up when she laughed. She seemed much more relaxed now. More like the Frankie he called her in his head.

Picking up the rest of the items he needed for the ranch, he then headed for the hat section. He picked one out for Johnny that matched his own.

He set it on the counter with his other items as Marge set down a stack of clothes for Francine. He noticed there were some women’s jeans and shirts, even a hat and boots.

“Oh! I forgot a hat for John Allen,” Frankie said, starting to walk away.

“I got him one,” he said, pulling his wallet out.

She walked back to the counter and took it from his stack and laid it on hers. “Thanks.”

He pulled it back. “I said, I got it.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I want to.”

She glanced at the price tag, and bit her lip. “It’s kind of pricey for such a small hat.”

A bitter taste coated his tongue, and his lip curled up. “I can afford it. I’m not the poor ranch hand your dad accuses me of being. I had fun with Johnny, and I want to get this for him. He’s a great kid.”

She held her hands up. “That’s not what I meant at all. Sorry if I offended you... That’s sweet of you. I know he’ll love it.”

They finished their transactions, and as they left the store, Wyatt’s stomach growled. He stowed their packages in the back seat of the truck, then closed his door. “You want breakfast?”

“No, thanks. But I will have some coffee.”

They entered the diner next door, and Sadie followed them in.

Frankie looked at him. “Are dogs allowed in the diner?”

He waved at one of the waitresses, then opened a screen door to another room. Sadie trotted in and immediately lay on one of the dog beds. “So many people bring their dogs to town, they have this room set up with food and water bowls and stuff.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Very progressive for such a small town.”

“We’re not Podunkville,” he bit out. “Just makes it easier for dog owners, and we don’t have to leave them in vehicles.”

“That’s not what I—Never mind. Forget I said anything.” She huffed.

They sat in a back booth, and Patsy, their waitress, stopped by for their order. “Coffee?” She held the pot up.

Francine nodded. “Please.”

Patsy filled her cup, then turned to Wyatt. “You want the usual, honey?” she asked, filling his mug.

“Hey, Patsy. Yeah, thanks.” He pushed the laminated menu across the table. “Sure you don’t want something, Frankie? They have great food.”

She smiled at Patsy. “No, thank you, I never eat breakfast. Just black coffee.” She watched Patsy walk away, then looked at him. “You’re not going to quit with the Frankie, are you?”

“Hasn’t anyone ever called you that before?”

She shook her head. “Not even in school or on the playground.”

“Francine just seems too formal for you when you’re relaxed, laughing with Marge.” He paused, took a sip of hot coffee. “Or covered in mud.”

Her cheeks colored prettily, and her nose wrinkled.

“I’ll stop calling you that.”

She held up her hand. “No, it’s okay. I kind of like it. Reminds me I need to relax more often. Just promise you won’t do it in front of my colleagues.”

Patsy returned and set his food down and refilled their coffees. His mouth watered when he saw she’d included one of the diner’s famous cinnamon rolls.

He picked up his fork and glanced at Frankie.

“That roll is as big as my hand.” She held her hand over the cinnamon roll. “Correction, it’s as big as your hand.”