But one very big thing we no longer share? Our vow to never marry for real.
My breath catches in my throat, and I swallow down my emotions, which are clearly all over the place. I don’t want to end up saying something I’ll regret, especially with a reporter wielding a microphone in the saloon.
So I clap my hands until I have everyone’s attention. “The Cowherd needs to close for a while,” I announce. “Everyone can come back later. Including you,” I say to my parents.
When my father comes over to protest, I lower my voice. “Please Daddy.”
My father takes one look at my face and simply nods.
“I’m sorry,” I say to the rest of the room, trying to keep my voice politely restrained. “We’ll open again shortly. You can look for the sign on the door.”
Dye and Rusty slink out first with George, followed by Logan’s brothers, my parents and Evan, and then the still-nameless reporter and his cameraman.
But Logan says—
“I’m staying. We need to talk.”
Chapter Six
“I don’t think this is a good time for a chat,” I tell Logan over my shoulder as I lock the front door. “I’m not exactly in the greatest of moods.”
His cell phone rings, and he stops at the bar to take the call while I go grab my shotgun plus two six-packs of Lone Star beer from the liquor room.
Not wanting to hear his phone conversation if it’s with his fiancée, I head for the gun range behind the bar, the unclaimed piece of property that divides The Cowherd from Wild Ranch. I’ve worked hard to become four-time target champion of Hunt County, and I don’t plan on losing my title anytime soon.
But right now, I just need to get out my aggressions. Logan, the hero of a made-up legend? Please.
But what if Mama’s right and that torn-out page from Vivian’s diary really is about me? Then my future is locked up with the ghost of Jane Austen.
Which would mean I needthecouple to be discovered this summer. And if Logan and his fiancée are the ones…
Stupid Mama using the legend to make me worry about imaginary threats. My only threat right now is the man chasing me outside. I know why Logan stayed behind. He wants his divorce papers. Well, he can sweat it out another day.
I toss off my heels and load my shotgun.
Before I can set up my targets, Mr. Bingley, the long-haired black cat The Cowherd unofficially adopted earlier this year, walks toward me and meows. When I bend down to pat him, he digs his claws into the bottom of my dress until I hear a tear.
“Oh, no!” I step back. “Mr. Bingley, you just ruined this dress!”
“Looks like it was already a pretty mess.” Logan grins as he pockets his phone and takes a seat on top of the outdoor picnic table about ten feet away.
“Shut up. This is my bridesmaid’s dress. I know it looks horrible.”
“You always look good, Mace, but it’s not exactly your style.”
I flush at his compliment. “No, not my type of dress.”
“Who picked it out—Mrs. Rattles?”
“Of course.”
“Fancy dress and a shotgun,” he teases me. “Somehow I don’t think this is the bridesmaid look Ginny’s mama was going for.”
“Probably not.”
I shoo Mr. Bingley back inside the bar then close the door so he can’t come back out.
I pace fifty feet through the hard-packed dirt and burnt grass to the target box. I set up my pyramid of beer cans in front of the bullet-ridden wall that remained after the last jailbreak and right before the prison was retired.
