“He’s right outside. I’ll still technically be at the funeral.”
Tessa glanced across the room to where several of her best friends, fellow widows from the fire that took Mick, were gathered near the food table. Charlotte caught her eye and gave a little wave. Grace was readjusting the display of pastries she’d made in her bakery and donated today. Molly was deep in conversation with someone Tessa didn’t recognize, and Bonnie was doing her best to prevent her twins from turning a coat rack into a jungle gym.
These women—her women, her Worn-out Widows Sisterhood—had showed up in force today. Not because any of them had been close to Fern, but because that’s what people did in Cobbler Cove. They showed up. They brought casseroles. They made sure the bereaved weren’t alone in a drafty fellowship hall with a plate of deviled eggs and a daughter who was more interested in a farrier than a funeral.
“Fine,” Tessa relented. “Stay where I can see you from the window. And don’t pet the horse without asking.”
Makayla was gone before Tessa finished the sentence. She envied her daughter’s escape from the roomful of Fern’s friends, most elderly and mostly as cussed as Fern.
Tessa made her way toward the coffee pot. She needed caffeine right now like she needed oxygen. The week since Fern’s death had been a blur of phone calls, funeral arrangements, and the growing, gnawing suspicion that her former mother-in-law’s passing was about to complicate her life in ways she couldn’t yet fully see.
The will reading was tomorrow. The lawyer had called her twice to confirm she’d be there. Both times, his voice had held a note of something she couldn’t quite identify. Pity? Warning?
Whatever Fern did, you can handle it.
She poured herself a cup of coffee so strong it could strip paint and took a sip. It was terrible. She drank it anyway.
“You must be Tessa.”
She turned to find a tall, broad-shouldered man, holding a battered tan cowboy hat against his chest like a shield. He had the kind of face that belonged on the side of a feed store—square jaw, sun-weathered skin, eyes the color of bright Montana sky. His dark hair was slightly too long, curling over his collar, and he wore clean jeans and a pressed button-down that looked like it had been ironed with great reluctance.
He’d cleaned up for the funeral. She could tell because his boots, while polished, had a crescent of dried mud along the sole seam that polish couldn’t quite reach.
“I’m Dillon Steele,” he said. “I was Fern’s vet.”
“Her veteran?” Tessa asked blankly.
“Her veterinarian.”
Ahh. Right. Fern’s menagerie of misfit animals no one else would take. Aloud, she said politely, “Of course. Thank you for coming.” She extended her hand the way her mother had trained her—firm grip, eye contact, smile.
His hand was rough and warm and approximately twice the size of hers.
“Fern was a good woman,” he said. “A pain in the rear, but good.”
Tessa blinked. Nobody at funerals where she came from would dare speak ill of the dead. Nor would they show up in muddy boots and insult a dead woman with easy affection, either. But truth be told, both seemed imminently fitting for Fern’s memorial.
“She was a good person,” Tessa agreed carefully.
His gaze traveled over her with the same clinical assessment she imagined he used on livestock. She bristled. Had he just looked at her the way he’d look at a horse?
“You’re the daughter-in-law from New York City,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“I live in Cobbler Cove, actually. I’ve been here over a decade.”
“Huh.” He glanced at her pearls, heels, and handbag, which admittedly cost more than some of the trucks in the parking lot. “Could’ve fooled me.”
The words landed with a casual precision. He wasn’t being rude, exactly. He was being honest in that blunt, infuriating way people around here tended to be. As if tact was a foreign concept they’d never warmed up to.
“My daughter was born here, and I own the Fashion Bow-tique on Main Street,” she said coolly. “I’ve lived here over a decade.”
“Didn’t say you weren’t local. Just said you look like New York.” His mouth twitched and finally broke into a smile.
Don’t let him get to you. He’s just some cowboy vet with bad manners and a crooked smile that’s absolutely not charming.
“Well,” she said with bright, lethal politeness she wielded like a weapon, “it was lovely to meet you. I’m sure Fern appreciated your care for her animals.”
“Speaking of which, do you know what you’re going to do with them?”
