Mostly.
Becca was just sitting down to take a quick break between clients when the door to the salon opened and Amy peeked in. Her friend was dressed in a peach dress with a nipped waist and a swingy skirt that made her look lean and beautiful, setting off her dark ponytail. She wore a look of concern on her face as she slipped inside. “Knock-knock. Got a moment?”
“Of course,” Becca said, forcing a smile to her face. She was getting pretty good at faking it, even though her cheeks hurt. “Come on in.”
Amy hurried inside, shutting the door behind her, and then bit her lip. “I couldn’t help but notice that Hank’s little girl wasn’t in class today. I know she struggled yesterday. Is everything all right? I was going to call and check in, but since you and I are friends . . .” She trailed off and gave Becca a curious look.
“Oh. Yeah.” Becca cleared her throat, trying to rid herself of the knot that was growing. “Hank has decided that his daughter doesn’t need preschool. Or any school. He’s taking her back to Alaska.” She managed to say it quite calmly, and then ruined her facade by starting to cry.
“Oh, honey.” Amy’s voice was full of sympathy as she moved to Becca’s side and pulled her close in a hug. “I feel responsible. Like it’s my fault she had a bad day—”
“It’s not you,” Becca said between sobs. It wasn’t. The day at school had just brought the whole topic to the surface. It had to come out at some point, and it would have never been easy to discuss. In a way, it was good that it had come out early, before Becca had tossed more of her life away on another man who didn’t want to give her his forever.
So she cried and told Amy all about it, and her friend made sympathetic noises and called him a jerk and promised to come over later that night with popcorn and wine and a chick flick. Then Amy had to leave again, and Becca’s next client came in, and somehow she managed to make it through the rest of the day.
And through the evening, watching movies with Amy and drinking wine. They finished early because Amy had school in the morning, and Becca checked her phone again before bedtime, downing her last glass of wine in irritation as the stupid phone remained silent. Well, she was just as stubborn as Hank. If he didn’t want to talk, she didn’t want to talk, either.
She’d told him she loved him. She’d also told him she wouldn’t go to Alaska. If he didn’t want to make it work, that was on him.
It still hurt, though.
Days passed, and her heart continued to ache like an open wound. She’d occasionally see a big, tall man around town with a dark beard and her heart would skip a beat . . . only to realize it was one of his brothers. They never failed to pass by her salon and peer into the windows, as if checking up on her. So she made sure to laugh a little harder than she felt, tried to seem a bit more joyous than she really was, and basically acted like she was having the best time in her life when she was secretly dying inside.
Becca missed him, though. She missed Hank’s big presence, his steadfast protectiveness, and his quiet calm. She missed his capable hands and his scratchy beard and everything about him. She missed Libby, too. She missed the little girl’s sweet laughter and her constant questions, and the array of drawings pinned on one wall of the salon reminded her of just how much she’d miss the little one when they were truly gone to Alaska.
She knew they hadn’t gone yet. The rumor mill chugged constantly in Painted Barrel, and word was that Doc up at the Swinging C was looking for more experienced ranch hands but hadn’t found any yet. She supposed she should have been glad about that, but it just made her pain linger, like slowly peeling off a Band-Aid. She wanted to rip it free, to get the pain over with in one quick, searing bolt, and then move on with her life.
Of course, life didn’t work out that way. It never did. After all, Greg had never left Painted Barrel, and so she’d had to deal with his presence constantly in her face after the Wedding That Wasn’t. And she’d gotten through that.
She’d get through this, too.
It was as if thinking about Greg brought him out of the woodwork. The next day, he walked into her salon with a bouquet of daisies and a smile on her face, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. She kinda felt like doing both.
“Becca! How’s my favorite girl?” He threw his arms wide, indicating he wanted a hug, as he strolled into her salon.
Ugh. How was his favorite girl? Sick of your shit, she wanted to say, and a laugh bubbled up in her throat. She was so tired of pretending to be just fine, just fine. With Greg here in her face—with flowers, no less—she couldn’t decide if this was some sick brand of karma playing out or if she was just going to be tortured to death by the universe.
“Hi, Greg.” She went into his arms and let him hug her, and the scent of his cologne was in her face, and for a moment she felt weirdly comforted. He patted her back and rubbed her shoulders, making soft, comforting noises. “Thanks,” she said after a moment and pulled away. This time, her smile was a little easier, a little more genuine. It had been nice to be hugged, even if it was by Greg, of all people.
“Heard the bad news,” he told her in a grave voice and held the flowers out to her. “For you.”
“Bad news, huh?”
“Oh yeah, it’s all over town about how the big cowboy dumped you.”
She winced at that. Was that what people were saying? “Mm.”
“You know I never found you too clingy,” he told her magnanimously. “You’re just very affectionate.”
Great. This was what she needed to make her day even worse. Becca wanted to just run away and hide. Instead, she went to the back room to get a vase, and Alaska looked up from her spot on her puppy bed. The tiny black tail wagged with excitement to see her, and it brought a real smile to Becca’s face. She put the flowers in a vase and then scooped up her little companion, kissing his ear softly.
The look on Greg’s face was nothing short of horror when she returned. “When did you get a dog?”
“It was a gift.” The best one she’d ever gotten.
“Can you send it back?” He looked disgusted. “They’re so unclean. Tell me you didn’t kiss it or let it lick your face.”
Becca kissed Alaska’s ear again, just for good measure.
Greg’s lip curled like he was seeing something obscene. “I swear you’re just doing that to get my goat. You know how much I don’t like animals. They belong outdoors, not as pets.”
She kissed Alaska’s cute puppy face again. “Actually, Greg, it may be shocking to you, but I don’t think about you much at all anymore.”
He did look rather shocked at her bald statement, and then he sighed. “I didn’t come here to fight, you know. I thought you might be feeling down and I wanted to come and make sure you were okay. I know how attached you get and how hard you fall. And even though you may not like me much anymore, I still care about you. I always have.”
There was sincerity in his eyes, and that made her sigh. He was always very good at apologizing and she nodded and set the puppy down. “I appreciate you checking in, but I’m fine. I promise.” The words almost sounded believable. Almost.
“I don’t think you are,” he said softly. “You’re the most giving, loving person I’ve ever met, Becca, and if he gave you up, then he’s an idiot.”
For some reason, that made her lower lip tremble. “What does that make you, then?” she asked in a shaky voice.
“Oh, I didn’t say I wasn’t an idiot.”
Becca chuckled, hugging her arms to her chest. Well, at least he wasn’t denying that.
“I just . . . I hate that he hurt you.” Greg reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, warm and friendly. “Whether you believe it or not, we’ve been friends for even longer than we were romantic, and I still want to be your friend. I miss you.”
That touched her. He was right; they’d been friends since childhood, having both
grown up in the small town. It was hard to hate Greg, especially when he was obviously trying his best to reach out to her. Suddenly having him as a friend again sounded really, really nice.
“And if I’m honest,” Greg continued, “my hair has never looked worse and my stylist won’t see me.”
She laughed, and then suddenly she was laughing and crying both. He tugged her into a hug and she let him hold her, stroking her back. Of course, she compared that hug to the ones Hank gave her and found it lacking. Everything about Greg was lacking when compared to Hank, really. He wasn’t as big and strong, didn’t smell as nice, didn’t hold her as firmly. She missed Hank. God, she missed him so, so much. Breaking up with Greg for the final time had been upsetting, but she’d been outraged and betrayed.
With the breakup with Hank? She just felt so hollow. Like she’d never be happy again. Funny how one person could bring so much light into her world so quickly . . .
And then just as quickly take it away again.
For a moment—for a crazy, brief moment—she wanted to call Hank and tell him that she’d changed her mind. That a hair salon wasn’t worth her happiness and she’d go to Alaska with him. She’d give it a shot, living out in the rough, even though it wasn’t the life she wanted. Suddenly, a life without Hank and Libby didn’t seem like one she wanted, either.
But she’d confessed her love to him and had gotten nothing in return. He hadn’t even called.
So she was just . . . sad. Clingy, like everyone always said.
Becca sighed.
A hand squeezed her ass and Greg buried his face against her hair. “I’ve missed you.”
Becca froze. She jerked away and gave him a look of shock. “Did you come here to cop a feel? To scoop up the pieces and see if you could get laid? Seriously, Greg?” Why did she keep thinking a tiger would ever change its stripes?
“Sorry?” he said, posing it more as a question than a statement. He wasn’t sorry, just saying whatever would defuse her anger.
She took another step back and saw a big body move away from her window, a brown Stetson perched on the man’s head.
That was one of Hank’s younger brothers. He’d been checking in on her—like they had for the last while, ever since she and Hank had been over—and he’d seen everything. He’d seen Greg grabbing her like a schoolboy.
It probably looked terrible.
She should have run after him and tried to explain herself . . . but why? Hank didn’t love her. He hadn’t even tried to keep her. She was surrounded by men who were just using her, it seemed. Becca laughed, the sound brittle and pained even to her own ears, and scooped her puppy up again, burying her face against her soft fur. At least this would keep Greg off her.
“I think someone saw us,” Greg said, curious. “Pretty sure I just saw Hannah across the street. Should I go and try to explain? You know how she loves to gossip.”
She shook her head. “Why bother? Let them think what they want.” She didn’t care anymore.
* * *
* * *
Hank stabbed his pitchfork into the square hay bale in front of him as if it had personally offended him. Sometimes it felt good to stab at things like that. After all, he couldn’t shout at the world about how angry he was. He couldn’t stomp around all day, because his daughter would get upset and the others would nag him. So he stabbed hay with pitchforks and tried not to think about Becca. Becca, who’d told him she loved him with shining eyes. Becca, who gutted him in the next moment by declaring she would never move to Alaska.
He stabbed at the hay again, spearing a clump and tossing it into the wheelbarrow. It had been over a week since he’d last seen her and it still felt as if someone had shotgunned him in the gut. Actually, that might have hurt less. The pain would have certainly been over a lot quicker. Dating Adria—ha, if he could even think of it as that—had never been this tough. He’d never been caught up in emotions. When he’d found out the truth about her and she’d admitted it, he’d just felt . . . stupid. Like he should have known better. But with Becca?
The pain kept going. On and on, like it was going to destroy him from the inside out.
She loved him.
She wouldn’t live with him, though. Wouldn’t leave to go to Alaska with him, because apparently cutting people’s hair was more important than being with him. And wasn’t that just the kicker? He wasn’t as important as her business was. He wasn’t as important as making money. Him and Libby both.
And he’d wanted her with him forever. He’d wanted to watch the gray hairs thread through her pretty hair. He’d wanted to fill her belly with the children she said she wanted. He wanted to turn into a wrinkled, horny old man right next to her and pinch her butt for the next seventy years and laugh about it. He wanted to have a life with her, damn it.
And she flat out refused.
“You think it’s dead yet?” Jack drawled from behind him, voice flat.
Hank turned, the pitchfork in his hands. He glared at his brother. “What?”
“That hay you’re stabbin’. You think it’s dead yet?”
He just rolled his eyes at his sarcastic little brother. “I’m busy. What do you want?”
“Just wanted to tell you that I was in town.”
Hank stiffened, waiting. Both Caleb and Jack had taken it upon themselves to spy on Becca while Hank moped at the ranch. They said it was their brotherly duty, and he hated that he was so eager for them to report back, but he was. He wanted to know what Becca looked like every day, if she looked sad, if her shop was busy, if she was taking care of the puppy . . . if she missed him. If she felt as destroyed as he did. So far, the reports had not been encouraging. Caleb had said that every time he saw her, she was always helping a client, her hands in someone’s hair or slapping foil on their head—women and their beauty treatments, he’d never understand them. He’d also said she was super smiley and happy, and that made Hank want to stab even more hay. Couldn’t she look the littlest bit sad that she’d stomped all over his damned heart? He was dying by inches and she was having the time of her life, it seemed.
Jack was silent, which irked Hank’s already bad mood.
“Well?” he prompted when his brother kept watching him.
“You’re not gonna like it.”
His entire body tensed. Was she hurt? Sick? Did she need him? “Is she okay?”
“I looked in on that salon of hers and saw that blond guy was all over her, squeezing her ass and trying to cop a feel. You know, her ex? Didn’t take him long to move in on her again.”
Hank saw red. The entire barn was suddenly covered in a red haze. That creep was touching Becca? Trying to get into her pants? He knew Becca—she’d never indicated anything but anger and frustration at her ex. She’d told him plenty of times that the guy always came wheedling his way back, looking for another chance. “He was grabbing her? You’re sure?” When Jack nodded, he clutched the pitchfork so hard that he could feel splinters digging into his calluses. “You think she’s still up there at the salon?”
“I’m guessing so. Why?”
“Because I’m going to go murder him for touching her,” Hank growled. He’d take the pitchfork with him, scare the daylights out of that little shit of a man—
Jack stepped in front of him—and nearly got a pitchfork tine in the belly. “Whoa there.” He put his hands up. “How do you know she wants to be rescued?”
“Because she hates that guy. He embarrassed her in front of everyone. You think she wants anything to do with him?”
Jack carefully maneuvered around the pitchfork and put a hand on Hank’s shoulder. “She’s a grown woman. She can take care of herself. Besides, I’m pretty sure she told him off. I parked down the street and he left a few minutes after I did, all grumpy and shit.”
That made Hank feel a little better, but only slightly. Every muscle in his body was tense
with the need to protect Becca from someone trying to take advantage of her. It didn’t matter that she didn’t love him enough to move to Alaska with him. He cared about her. Hell, his whole body lit up just thinking about her. She was special and gentle, and she needed someone to champion her and protect her, and even if she didn’t want Hank anymore, he’d still look out for her because he fucking loved her.
“You’re growling.”
“What?” he practically snarled at his brother.
“You’re just growling at nothing.” Jack frowned up at Hank. “You okay, man?”
“No, I’m not okay. Why would you ask something so stupid?”
“She’s fine, okay?” Jack shook his head, a look of wonder on his face. “I don’t get why you care. You said it’s over, right? We’re going back to Alaska, remember? Uncle Ennis is looking for new hands. One’s coming next week for a dry run. The moment he’s set up, we’re back home in the wild. That’s what we wanted, remember?”
Hank wasn’t sure anymore. All he knew was that he wanted Becca, and some other jerk was trying to touch her and Hank wasn’t there to save her. He flung down the pitchfork and stormed into the main house to check on his daughter. At least the sight of Libby would make him feel better.
Unfortunately, inside the house wasn’t much better. Caleb sat in the kitchen with Libby, coloring with her. Uncle Ennis—who was supposed to be watching his daughter—was nowhere to be seen. “Where’s Doc?”
“Someone had a horse emergency,” Caleb said, shrugging. “He’ll be back later.”
“Look, Daddy.” Libby held up her paper. “I drew a family!”
His jaw clenched when he saw the paper. It was him in a hat—if he squinted hard—but even with her childish scribbles of a drawing, he could see that there was a dark-haired woman at his side in a pink dress and a tiny girl next to them. “Good job.”
The Cowboy Meets His Match Page 21
