I refocus on Mom's list. Did she write 'horse cookies' or 'hose hookies'? She has got to work on her handwriting if I'm going to be getting her supplies. It has to be horse cookies, right? It's the only thing that makes sense.
I’m still trying to decipher mom’s Sanskrit when the rancher, Andy, I think, passes me in the aisle.
“Oh, hey there,” He pauses and smiles. “You're Rick Williams' girl, aren't you?”
“Yep, born and raised,” I try to joke and try not to let on how much the “Rick Williams’ girl” thing makes me want to scream.
“He’s a good man. Tell your daddy I said get well soon."
“I will. Thanks.”
I grab a bag of the molasses treats Dad's horse goes crazy for and add it to my basket while the man makes his way to the back. That's everything except the fly masks, whichJerry keeps behind the counter because apparently people steal them. Who steals fly masks?
"Jerry!" I call out as I head toward the register. "I need two fly masks for?—"
"Sundance and Missy? Yeah, I know," Jerry says without looking up from the invoice he's writing. He's been running this place since before I was born, and he knows every animal on every ranch within twenty miles. "Your mom mentioned you might forget, so she called and made sure I added it to the order."
"You're a saint."
"No, I'm a businessman who likes repeat customers." He glances up with a grin. "Give me two minutes to grab those masks, and I'll ring you up. Oh, and Falon, tell your mother Sundance's fly mask is large. I pulled the right size."
"Thanks, take your time. I'll just—" I gesture vaguely at my basket.
Jerry disappears into the back room, and I set my basket on the counter, already mentally calculating whether I have enough cash or if I need to use the card. Mom's going to want a receipt either way because she tracks every expense in those spiral notebooks she's been using since the eighties.
He's back two minutes later with the fly masks and rings me up with his usual efficiency, adding them to my total and tucking the receipt into the bag with more care than necessary.
"I'll have that feed order ready in about ten minutes," Jerry says, already moving toward the register to help the next customer.
"Perfect. I'll pull around back!" I call over my shoulder, bags in hand, already pushing open the front door. "Make sure you include the grain on a separate line?—"
I walk directly into something solid.
Not something.
Someone.
Strong hands catch my shoulders, steadying me before I can fall backward. One of the bags slips from my grip, and one of those hands moves to catch it before it hits the ground.
"Whoa, sorry, I—" I start to say, turning to apologize, and the words die in my throat.
Bo Gates.
He's close. Too close. Close enough that I can see he's got the same hazel eyes I remember, the same scar through his left eyebrow from the hayloft incident when we were kids. Close enough that I catch the scent of clean soap and pine.
But he's different, too. Broader across the shoulders. Older in a way that has nothing to do with the eighteen months since I last saw him.
"Falon." My name comes out rough and surprised.
"Bo." It's barely a whisper, and I clear my throat, trying again. "You're—hi."
His mouth quirks, almost a smile. "Hi."
We stand there in the doorway for a long beat, his hands still on my shoulders, my heart doing gymnastics in my chest. Someone behind him clears their throat, and we both jolt, stepping aside at the same time and somehow managing to tangle up again in the process.
"Sorry." And this time his smile is real, if brief.
"I didn't know you were back," I manage, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear because I need something to do with my hands. "Tyler didn't mention?—"
