I pick up Fluffy from the porch steps and go hide in my room, ready to pass out. But once I get in bed, the frustration brings on a restless insomnia where no matter how tired I am my bloodshot eyes seem glued to the ceiling. At some point, I must doze off. But for most of the night, I toss and turn, thinking about the man sleeping one floor below me. By 5 a.m., I’m participating in another staring contest with the ceiling I can’t win. At five-thirty, I give up and decide to make better use of my time. I pull on nude leggings and a nude tank top, grab my tablet and yoga mat, and go downstairs. The house is silent, but I still tiptoe across the living room until I make it to the porch.
Hildi joins my workout after a couple of sun salutations, trying to jump on me whenever I’m in upward-facing dog. After a few more awkward transitions, we reach an agreement where she takes the end of my mat and I make do with the lower half. Toward the end of the training session, I’m in downward dog when I hear boots on the porch. I look between my legs and see jeans-clad legs turn the corner to then stop dead. I don’t see Travis’s face, but from where he’s standing, he must have a pretty spectacular view of my bottom sticking up in the air. The mayor mutters a curse under his breath, spins on his cowboy boots, and goes back to where he came from.
I shrug. He made his bed. Now he can lie in it—alone!
I follow the tutorial on my tablet through a few more sun salutations and finally, I’m free to collapse into corpse pose. Hildi immediately takes advantage of my supine position to lie down next to my face and drop her muzzle onto my chest.
Exhausted from the sleepless night and with the comforting warmth of Hildi by my side, I fall asleep. I wake up with a jolt, not sure how much later, but with the certainty that someone is watching me. Also, I’m covered with a soft blanket.
I blink and turn my head to the side. Travis is squatting on the porch one step down, smirking under his cowboy hat.
“For a moment I thought you were dead,” he says.
“That’s corpse pose for you,” I reply.
He reaches across me to pet the goat, placing his toned biceps right under my nose.
I’m not sure if goats can purr, but the noises of contentment Hildi is making under the mayor’s ministration definitely sound like it. And now I’m jealous of a farm animal.
“I’ve made coffee,” Travis says, his eyes crinkly in the hat’s shade. “And left a pot of water boiling if you want to make oatmeal.”
“You already had breakfast?”
“Yep, you were out for a while.” He stops petting Hildi. “Sorry not to keep you company, but I have some farm work to do before I head into town for the official fair kick-off.”
To Hildi’s displeasure, I pull up on my elbows. “What work?”
“I forgot to harvest the spring cabbage. But the good news is Mom is well enough to remember it needed to be done and scold me for not doing it.” Travis winks and stands up. “See you later, Baker.”
I hate the way my stomach flips and how I never seem able to tear my eyes from his departing derriere.
Hildi tries to sit fully on my lap now, mercifully distracting me. I pick her up. “Come on, you can sit next to me while I have breakfast. Deal?”
The goat bleats in return.
* * *
When I get out of the shower thirty minutes later, grunting sounds coming from outside catch my attention. Against my better judgment, I creak the bathroom window open, careful not to make any noise, and spy through the crack.
Travis is working in the field off to the right of the house. He’s wearing the same jeans and boots from earlier, but he’s taken off his T-shirt and stuffed it in the waistband of his pants so that now the white fabric hangs over his bottom like a lopsided tail. The mayor is driving a pitchfork into the ground to pluck the cabbages out while his back glistens with sweat in the early morning sun. From my hidden spot, I study the movement of all his flattened muscles as he wrestles the pitchfork in and out of the ground. Travis is following a hypnotic rhythm and looks so darn sensual I want to cry. Feeling like a total creep, I grab my phone and shoot a picture. I send it to my friends captioned: Prince Farming.
I wait for a response but then realize it’s probably too early on a Sunday for Taylor and Holly to be up. They still have social lives and must’ve gone out last night.
In front of the mirror, I take my time flattening my hair and doing my makeup. As for wardrobe, I opt for a pale-pink floral maxi dress with a spaghetti strap on one side, a short sleeve with ruffles on the other, and a high low asymmetrical skirt, also ruffled. Today, it’s okay to wear beaded sandals as I’m headed into town and nowhere near a dirt road.
When I get downstairs, there’s no sign of Travis. I peek out the window and confirm his truck is gone. Should I add showering at the speed of light to his superpowers?
I walk into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee to go and find Willette up and about tinkering with bowls and measuring cups.
“Willette, what are you doing out of bed?”
“Oh, hi, dear.” She glances at me, frazzled, and then goes back to her utensils. “I forgot to make a cake for the fair. Sagebrush Ranch always presents one for the charity auction. I mean, I usually make two, one for the auction and one for the baking competition…” She trails off as if losing her train of thought. “I can skip the competition, but I have to make a donation for the auction. People count on me.”
“Mmm, are you supposed to be up? Does Travis know you’re baking a cake?”
“No, he’d already left when I realized the fair was today. And I don’t care what the doctor says, I’m well enough to bake a simple vanilla cake.”
On the contrary, she’s pale, and the effort seems to be wearing her down alarmingly fast. I reach her side and support her by the elbow. “Willette, you should go back to bed.”
Travis’s mom looks up at me, lost for a second. “But the cake…”
“I’ll make the cake,” I offer on impulse. “That way, the ranch’s reputation will be saved and you won’t risk a relapse.”
Willette still has enough presence of mind to stare at me dubiously. “Are you sure you can bake?”
I smile at her. “I’m a master baker. I could bake in my sleep.” I’ve never lit an oven in my life. “Do you have a recipe?”
“Yes, darling, my recipe card is on the counter.”
“Then I won’t have a problem at all.”
I gently steer her back to her room and lower her into the bed. I’ve barely pulled the covers up to her chin before she’s already sleeping.
With a sigh, I return to the kitchen and stare at the mayhem on the counter. Ingredients are scattered all over: flour, baking powder, baking soda—what’s even the difference—butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla, and buttermilk. Plus a mix of spatulas, whisks, bowls, and measuring cups.
I kick off my sandals and tie on an apron. I pick up the recipe card and skim over the instructions. How hard can it be?
Line one says to preheat the oven to 350°F.
I fiddle with the knobs and the light inside the oven turns on. See? Easy peasy.
Half an hour later, I’m covered in flour head to toe, the kitchen is splattered in a soggy mix of butter and sugar after an incident involving the misjudgment of the mixer power, and I’m on my third attempt to separate an egg white from the yolk.
On the first try, I cracked the egg too hard and smashed the shell into a million tiny pieces. I didn’t care to retrieve them one by one, so I set that aside. The second time, I dropped the yolk at the last minute and it opened into the white. And now, I’ve almost made it to the finish line when the yolk bursts in my hand for no apparent reason and starts oozing into the bowl of albumen below, irremediably contaminating it.
I slam my palms on the counter. “You gotta be yolking me.”
On my phone, the YouTube tutorial on how to separate eggs gets interrupted by a notification.
Holly has finally woken up and sent me a heart on fire emoji.
I use vocal control to send her a reply.
To Taylor, To Holly
From Holly
To Taylor, To Holly
The screen lights up at once with another three-way video call.
Taylor picks up still wearing a sleep mask over her forehead. “What’s up? Why a call at dawn on a Sunday?”
I’m tempted to tell her nine-thirty hardly qualifies as dawn but abstain.
“Sammy is baking,” Holly fills her in.
“What?” Taylor’s eyes boggle. “Are you high on raw milk or something?”
“Yes,” I say. “I’m super drunk on unpasteurized dairy.”
“No, seriously,” Taylor says. “What possessed you to take on baking?”
I explain the fair situation and Taylor low whistles. “Wow, you must have it bad for the mayor if you’d do this for his mother.”
“Well,” Holly chips in, “have you seen the picture she sent this morning?”
“No,” Taylor says. Her screen goes momentarily black as she presumably checks her messages. I know when she’s seen the photo because she exclaims, “Holy cow, girl, that’s some serious country beefcake.”
“Can we go back to present matters? Can either of you help me bake an actual cake?”
Holly has some baking experience and under her careful guidance, I manage to produce a half-decent, if-only-a-bit-lopsided vanilla cake—frosting and all. I search the cabinets for a cake carrier, find one, and successfully transfer the cake without breaking it or it falling apart.
I’m a mess, but I don’t have time to take a second shower. I’m already terribly late as it is. As a last resort, I wipe the flour from my face, arms, and hair, retouch my makeup and I’m finally ready to go.
When I arrive in town, the main road leading to the festival is packed with people in their Sunday clothes—polo shirts, crisply pressed jeans, and summer dresses, heading toward the town square. Being this late, I have to park miles away from the actual fair entrance, and by the time I reach it, I’m cursing the day I agreed to produce this stupid movie. I’m sweating in the mid-morning sun. The cake feels like a ton of bricks in my arms, and these shoes weren’t made for marching half marathons. The sandals are perfectly fine when all I have to do is step off a cab and cross the street to a cocktail bar. But trudging all the way across Emerald—son-of-a-goat—Creek, isn’t their intended purpose.
When I finally reach the fair entrance, I have to begrudgingly concede how pretty the main square looks. The festival entrance is marked by an arc decorated with a rainbow of flowers and bright banners. To the sides of the arc, red velvet drapes with the words ‘Emerald Creek’ emblazoned in gold leaf cover the metal fences delimiting the perimeter of the fair.
I step under the arc and take a deep breath. The air is filled with the scent of happiness, good cheer, and fresh-baked loaves of bread and cakes.
The crowd surrounding me is cheery. Children laugh and chase each other around, while birds chirp along with an eclectic array of festival music—boogaloo, bossa nova, rock—that is drifting on the summer breeze. The hot sun warms my skin. I tilt my head up and breathe in once again the sweet, earthy aroma of fresh-baked goods.
White tents dot the inner and outer perimeter of the square and both sides of the roads leading to the center. I sigh in despair. Where am I supposed to drop off this thing? If I have to check every stand, I’m going to have more blisters than skin on my feet come evening.
I spot a free bench and sink onto it, dejected. I should probably call Celia. My assistant should’ve already arrived and maybe she knows where to find the charity cake stand.
I’m taking my phone out when someone drops onto the bench next to me.
The mayor has changed into a black suit, his jacket casually strung over his shoulder in the heat. Travis looks at me, devastatingly handsome as always, and says, “I’d lost hope of seeing you today.”
“I got deterred by an unexpected baking crash course.”
Travis raises an eyebrow. “You can bake?”
I lift the cake carrier. “Evidence says I can.”
The mayor seems even more taken aback. “Why did you suddenly decide to take on baking on a random Sunday? You’re aware the first prize for the competition is just a wooden spoon?”
“This is for the charity auction. After you left, I found your mom in the kitchen all frantic about how she’d forgotten to bake a cake for the charity event. The only way I could make her go back to bed was by promising to make the cake myself—by the way, you’re going to have to do a lot of dishes when you come home tonight. No objections this time, I promise.”
The mayor stares at me, dumbstruck, eyes wide with surprise and perhaps some other emotion I can’t pinpoint. His mouth gapes open with no smart retort coming my way.
“My, my,” I say. “If all it took to render you speechless was baking a cake, I would’ve done it a lot sooner.”
Travis laughs despite himself. “I’m not sure whether to be flattered or offended.”
I sigh. “You’re weird.”
“I’m not. I’m just… You’re full of surprises, Baker, that’s all.”
Travis lays a hand on my shoulder, and I try not to let my body get all excited at his touch. “I’m in your debt again and the least I can do is relieve you of the cake and buy you a pair of shoes you can actually walk in.”
“My shoes are perfectly fine.”
“Baker, I saw you hobble all the way to the bench like a spancelled goat.”
Can’t argue with that.
“Do they even sell shoes at the fair?”
Travis’s smile is killer as he says, “Shoes, perhaps not, but cowboy boots? Always!”
Travis asks me to wait for him while he drops off the cake—I wouldn’t have a choice either way. I couldn’t walk another yard in these beaded torture devices if my life depended on it. But when the mayor comes back, I still make a brave attempt at standing and walking. Travis takes one look at me and, shaking his head, scoops me up into his arms.
“Put me down. You can’t parade me like this in front of the whole town. Can you imagine the gossip?”
“And you can’t walk in those shoes, so it’s either you go in my arms or you can piggyback.”
That’d be even more infamous. Also, being in his arms isn’t the worst thing. I lace my fingers behind the nape of his neck and breathe him in.
He smells like summer and sin, a delicious mix of man sweat, clean cotton, and sage.
Travis carries me to a stand with racks and racks filled with leather boots, from the simplest brown leather ones to the most decorated, embroidered cowgirl boots.
The mayor drops me on a stool and, even in the day’s heat, I shiver at being suddenly deprived of the warmth of his chest pressed against me.
“Mr. Mayor,” the lady behind the stand greets us. “What can I do for you today? And how is poor Willette? I heard she’s down with pneumonia.”
“Mom is recuperating fast, you know her. And I told you a million times, Gladys, just call me Travis.”
“Sorry, but you’re still the mayor of this town last I checked.” The lady scolds him, but her eyes are narrowed with mirth. “So, what brings you to my stand today?”
“I’d like to buy a pair of boots for a friend,” Travis says.
“Oh.” The lady pauses, her eyes sparkling with interest now. “Sure, looking for anything in particular?”
Travis turns to me. “See anything you like?”
I turn my gaze to the stand. Well, boots are still shoes, and I like everything. Wrapped in the scent of rich leather, I take in the rows and rows of orderly boots; this must be the only stand in the fair that doesn’t smell like sugary powder.
All the boots are gorgeous, honestly, but my gaze keeps being drawn to the top right corner, toward a soft brown suede snip-toe pair with a well-worn distressed finish and white flowers embroidered on the sides.
“Those.” I point.
Gladys follows my finger to the top of the rack and grabs the correct pair. “Excellent choice. This is our softest leather and so pretty at that, too. What size do you wear, dear?”
“Eight,” I say. “Eight and a half.”
“Eight should be fine. These boots have some wiggle room.” Gladys searches under the counter and hands a shoe box to Travis.
He drops the box onto the rug that covers the pavement and then stands up again, moving to check out the rack sitting opposite the stools. “We need socks as well.” His back shakes with a chuckle. “I think I’ve found an appropriate pair.”
He turns to me and hands me a pair of brown-green socks with a goat peeking her muzzle out of a fence. “Hildi is convinced you’re her new best friend. That goat is going to be crushed when you leave.”
And dare I say that, for the first time since arriving in Emerald Creek, I don’t sigh with relief at the idea of leaving. I might even be feeling a little wistful.
“I’m going to miss her, too.”
I kick my sandals off with avenging satisfaction and pull the socks on. Thankfully, none of the blisters have busted yet and I can try the boots on pain-free.
I stand up and almost moan at how amazing they feel. Soft, supple leather wraps my feet in comfort like I’m walking on a cloud.
“You’re right,” I say to Gladys. “They’re comfortable, a perfect fit.”
I could walk a thousand miles in these boots and they wouldn’t hurt.
The lady smiles at me. “Sturdy but soft at the same time and easy on the eyes, too.” She glances at the mayor furtively, and I’m not sure if we’re still talking about boots. “A solid choice.”
“How much do I owe you, Gladys?” Travis asks.
“What?” I grab him by the elbow. “You can’t pay for these.”
“Sure I can,” Travis insists. “It’s my way of saying thank you for everything you did for my mom.”
I lower my gaze, embarrassed. “Well, thank you.”
“Mayor Hunt,” a voice from behind us speaks.
Gladys looks past me and Travis and I turn around to find Duncan in full sheriff’s uniform approaching us.
“Hello, Sheriff West,” Travis says with a scowl, mock-copying Duncan’s use of official titles.
The sheriff gives me a nod. “Samantha, looking as charming as always.” He nods at my feet. “Nice boots.”
“Ah,” I sigh. “You don’t look too bad yourself. What do they say about men and uniforms?”
Travis’s scowl deepens. “Are you here to flirt with fair patrons or on official business?”
The sheriff tips his hat at me. “As much as I’d like to banter with you all day, sunshine, I’m afraid I come on official business. Actually, I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Vis-Vis. I thought you, too, were attending the fair in an official capacity and not to flirt with the pretty city girl.”
“We’re not flirting. This was merely a foot rescue mission. Why do you need me? What’s happened?”
“One of Templeton’s ponies knocked down two crates of the Reinhard’s jam, and now old Buck is threatening to sue Doug if he doesn’t pay for the damage. But Doug is claiming Reinhard is charging him double. And Buck is responding that the goods are his and he can price them however he wants. The gentlemen looked like they were about to exchange blows, so I left Officer Parker to keep them apart. But a higher authority might help solve the matter in a more civil fashion.”
Travis gives him a considering look, then nods, resigned. “I’ll be right there.”
He turns back to me. “I’m sorry, Baker, but I’ve got to go.”
“It’s fine,” I say, remembering I’m actually here to work. “I should go find my crew, anyway. See you around.”
Travis gives me one last lingering look, then turns toward the sheriff and they walk away to solve the conflict.
I catch a few people staring at me and I squirm. Gossip about me and the mayor will definitely spread after the fair. Uncomfortable under the keen eye of the townsfolks—sorry, guys, I’m not about to become your first lady—I stuff my sandals in the box and leave the stand, waving goodbye to Gladys.
I find Celia and the crew intent on shooting background footage close to our mockup booth and ask her to bring me up to speed on the workings of the day. Her report is brief: no issues, everything is proceeding on schedule.
We spend the rest of Sunday supervising the crew and pitching in when needed.
After the sun has almost completely set, Lionel declares himself satisfied he’s exploited the last shard of natural lighting and is ready to call it a day.
Celia, once again, opts to return to Lake View Acres with Jerry, so I walk back to the truck alone—never gladder for my new boots. Will Travis already be home? I should really thank him again for the gift.