Again, no response.
Walking back into the main part of the barn where the heater was nonexistent, the crisp air came with a wave of shivers, making me grateful I’d grabbed my jacket.
“Shit,” I heard from near the tack room, followed by a loud thud.
“Are you good?” I yelled back, but still got no answer. A tad worried, I put a little effort in my step, reaching the door in no time. “George?”
“Oh. Shit.” My eyes caught a backside that most definitely didn’t belong to a sixty-eight-year-old man.
“That’s what I’m sayin’.”
There it was. The low rumble of his gravel voice.
“Stetson?” I questioned.
“I’d love to respond with your name, but unfortunately you ran away before I could get that from you the other night,” he said with his smart-ass mouth.
“Scarlett, I wasn’t expecting you for a little bit.” George’s voice rang from behind us, his six-foot frame standing just outside the tack room.
“Scarlett,” Stetson repeated, the T stuck to his tongue like honey.
“That’s me. I’m Scarlett,” I said.
“Fitting.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I harped.
“It’s fiery.” He chuckled. “Just like you.”
“You might be on to something there, Stetson,” George chimed in, mimicking Stetson’s laugh but sounding far less angelic than him.
I whipped my head in George’s direction. “Hey now, aren’t you supposed to be on my team?”
“I never said it was a bad thing. Quite the opposite,” Stetson disputed.
I was grateful my head was facing George at that moment because I could feel a little army of red soldiers marching toward my cheeks.
“How do you two know each other?”
“Remember that show I told you about? The one I played at Booker Baker’s farm about a month ago, when I first got into town?” Stetson said.
George nodded.
“Scarlett was there”—it was as if he were testing emphasis points in my name, lingering on the L a little longer than normal this time—“and I had the pleasure of sharing a dance with her. Or rather a few seconds of a dance before she scurried off into the night.” He laughed. “She was like the Southern version of Cinderella, except she didn’t leave her boot behind, so instead of being Prince Charming, I was just another lost cowboy.”
The last sentence caught my attention enough to make me peer up and into his direction. Those baby blues were already locked on me, letting me know he knew exactly what he’d said.
Another lost cowboy.
“You left the poor man all alone?” George asked.
“I imagine he was just fine,” I said. “Plus, I’m sure he had a few autographs he needed to sign.” I shot a raised eyebrow right back at him.
Two could play this game.
“Oh, nowthatI’m sure of. Our town hasn’t stopped talking about you since the second you stepped foot on Quincey Falls soil. Not very often does a big-time star come play a private show, let alone take up residence here.”
Great.
