It would have to do.
The bell above the door chimed as I walked in, and the smell hit me immediately. Dust, leather oil, and something vaguely agricultural that I couldn’t quite place. The interior wasdim compared to the bright morning outside, my eyes taking a moment to adjust.
Rows of shelves stretched toward the back, stocked with everything from chicken feed to fence posts. But what caught my attention was the small section along the right wall. A pitiful display of clothing that looked like it had been there since the Reagan administration.
Jeans. All of them the same basic style in varying shades of blue. A rack of shirts with pearl snap buttons in plaids and solids. A shelf of cowboy hats gathering dust. And boots. Lots and lots of boots.
This was it. This was my entire shopping selection.
“Can I help you with something?”
I turned to see an old man standing behind the counter, staring at me. He was bald, weathered, and looked like he’d spent his entire life under those dying fluorescent lights.
“Just grabbing some clothing,” I said, pointing towards the far wall. “Is that all you have?”
“That’s all you need,” he grumbled. Then he looked me up and down, like I was the most ridiculous person in the world in my slacks and button-down dress shirt. “People around here work. Them’s workin’ clothes.”
“Got it,” I nodded, forcing a smile. “Thanks.”
I headed toward the wall of dusty clothes and stopped short. I had no clue what I was looking for or what things went together.
“You look like a deer in headlights,” a voice said.
A woman, probably in her sixties, had stepped up beside me. She had gray hair pulled back in a bun, a kind face, and the kind of tough facade that told me she didn’t put up with nobody’s bullshit. I liked her the moment I saw her.
“I’m not from around here?—”
“I gathered,” she grinned, giving me a once over. “The clothes and accent give you away.”
“That’s the thing,” I continued. “I’m trying to fit in. But I’ve never…” I gestured to the wall. “I’ve never worn this stuff. I don’t know where to start.”
I couldn’t tell if she was charmed by me or knew she was dealing with a rattlesnake. But either way, she just smiled, placing her basket on the shelf next to her before sticking out her hand. “My name’s Evelyn. I work over at the Nelson Ranch.”
“Dante Valenti,” I replied, shaking her hand. “I just moved to the Wesley Ranch.” I thought it best not to mention that I’d married Nick three days ago. I wasn’t sure what kind of people lived in this small town yet and I needed her help. “Well,” she sighed liked a mother aiding a helpless child. “Give me a spin and let’s see what we’re working with.”
I raised my arms, doing a slow turn like I was on some kind of runway. Evelyn circled me, her eyes assessing every detail of my outfit with the precision of a drill sergeant inspecting a recruit.
“Well,” she said, clicking her tongue. “You’ve got a good build. That’s half the battle right there. But these...” She plucked at my dress shirt with two fingers like it was contaminated. “These have got to go.”
“That bad?”
“Honey, you look like you’re part of the mafia.” My heart leaped into my throat, but she was already moving to the rack of pearl snap shirts, flipping through them with practiced efficiency. “Out here, if you’re not working cattle or fixing fence, you’re probably at the bar. And even then, nobody’s wearing whatever this is.” She gestured vaguely at my Brioni suit that cost over ten thousand dollars like it was a rag.
I couldn’t help but laugh. There was something refreshing about her bluntness. Back in Jersey, people either kissed my ass because of my last name or avoided me entirely. This woman didn’t seem to give a damn who I was.
“What do you suggest?” I asked.
She pulled out a dark blue shirt with white snaps and held it up against my chest, squinting. “This’ll work. Brings out your eyes.” She tossed it at me, and I caught it reflexively. “You’ll need at least four or five of these. Different colors. And get a couple flannels for when it gets cold. Which it will. This is Montana, not wherever the hell you’re from.”
“Jersey,” I nodded. “It gets cold there too.”
“Not like it does here,” she shot back, giving me a wink. “Trust me.”
I grabbed a few more shirts in different colors—a gray one, a dark green, something in burgundy that she insisted would look good on me. Each one felt stiff and foreign in my hands, nothing like the soft Egyptian cotton I was used to.
“Now jeans,” Evelyn said, moving to the stack of denim. “What size are you?”
“Thirty-two, thirty-four,” I said.
