“So, men in this town…the good kind?” I asked, casually scanning the scenery for some rugged cowboy types. My search turned up…cows. Lots of cows.
Sheryn snorted. “Some are. Others? Certified dickweeds.”
“Always a few to ruin the reputation, huh?”
“Elia Lucas, the owner of The Lazy Moose? He’s a good kind.”
“Huh…” I caught the gleam in her eye. Matchmaking mode.
“But sorry, he’s married.”
I masked my embarrassment. Since when was I wrong about Sheryn?
“Got a brother?” I asked, feigning nonchalance. Maybe I was handing her a matchmaking opportunity on a silver platter.
“Far as I know, no.” Her answer was too quick.
She’s not taking the bait. Something was off with her. Or maybe she just figured no one in town would be interested in an ex-con.
“But your Nick is the good kind, yeah?” I teased.
She smirked. “My Nick? Well, there’s only one letter separating Nick and dick?—”
We burst out laughing.
“But seriously,” she continued, “Nick’s a sweetheart. He runs a feed store not far from the town center. Remember when I didn’t visit you for months?”
My laughter faded. “Rynnie, that was the worst stretch of my life in there.” The past crept in, but I shoved it back. “But I bet it was worse for you.”
She sighed, glancing at me before focusing back on the road. “He never left my side. He wasthere. Holding my hand, feeding me, and carrying me to the damn bathroom when I was too weak to move.”
“He did?” I said in admiration.
“And when I cried over my non-existent, stitchy boob? He made sure I knew it didn’t matter. He still touched me the same way. Still does.”
My throat tightened. “You deserve every bit of his love, you know that? And I must say, without even meeting him, Iapprove.”
Sheryn grinned. “Oh, you’re gonna love him.” Then sheshot me a wicked look, shaking her chest. “And look at my babies…both even and perky!”
I choked on a laugh. “Well, can’t argue with that.”
She wiggled her brows. “Breast cancer took one, but modern medicine gave metwo.”
“Sheryn!”
“What? If I paid for ‘em, I’m showing them off.” She flipped her hair dramatically. “You’ll get a front-row view at the wedding. I’m wearing a bustier gown.”
I muttered, “Why do I feel like this is less about fashion and more about revenge-glamming on cancer?”
“Because itabsolutelyis.”
That was Sheryn, unfiltered and unapologetic. Cancer didn’t make her softer or more cautious. If anything, it made her laugh harder.
Sheryn drove past the town center, and I took it in—the heart of Buffaloberry Hill, where life seemed to move at a pace that made sense.
Old brick storefronts lined the road, their windows filled with hand-painted signs boasting things likeBest Pie in MontanaandSaddle Repairs While You Wait.A few folks were sitting on benches, chatting, while a black retriever dozed in front of the bakery.
I looked left and right, absorbing it all. “This place is something.”
