The kitschy cowboy bar outside of town was best known for having cheap beer, dartboards in the back, and food with silly breakup names like the Let’s Just Be Friends Spinach Dip and the I’ll Call You Burger. To Tyler Reed, though, it was the buzz of the Thursday night crowd that mattered, and the stage and speakers that were half visible through the cracked-open office door.
“Checking out the local talent?” The question came from the other side of the room, where Chase was sprawled on a thrift store reject of a couch, flipping through song notes. Wearing tight jeans, glossy black boots, and a silver-plated belt buckle the size of a paperback, the younger man looked like your typical lead singer at a small-town dive bar—the kind who would unbutton his shirt halfway through the set and let it hang open through the encore if there were enough women on the dance floor making eye contact. Supposedly the kid could hold a tune, though, and Ty figured that was good enough. Wasn’t like he had anything to prove. He just wanted to play for a crowd.
Looking beyond the stage to where the bodies stacked at the bar were a pretty good mix of blue collar and tight skirts, Ty said, “Go figure. I thought we were the talent.”
“Not the tunes, man. The babes.” Tossing his notes, Chase sprang up and came across the room to prop a shoulder on the doorframe, scanning the room like the two of them were at a stock auction. “Three Ridges might not be more than a pimple on the map, but it’s got some mighty fine fillies.”
Fillies? Ty was tempted to ask if he had ever swung a leg over anything four-legged other than a barstool. They were just playing together for the night, though; there was no point in knocking the kid down. “I’m not really in the market.”
“You married?”
“Nope. Just not looking to start something serious.”
“Who said anything about serious?” Chase shot out a bony elbow that completely missed Ty. “I’m sure you’ve had your share of road hookups, being out on tour with a band like Higgs & Hicks.” The kid was trying so hard to be cool about Ty backing him up, like it was no biggie that the owner of the ’Burn had found a real road musician to fill in when Chase’s usual guitarist decided to splurge on some gas station sushi and wound up splurging from both ends.
Ty snagged the old, mellow-noted Martin guitar he had propped nearby, and strummed a chord before saying, “Last I checked, this wasn’t the road.”
And thank Christ for that. His first year or so with the mega-successful country band had given him exactly what he had needed at the time—a break from small-town gossip and room to clear his head. By year three, though, the cracks in the band’s foundation had started wearing on him. Or, rather, the fact that A.J. Higgs had the impulse control of a flea, Brower Hicks was a drunk on a downward spiral, and their rat-faced manager, Weasley, didn’t give a crap what was going on backstage as long as they were making money. And when Ty tried to make him care, tried to go about setting things right, he got shown the door.
Which was for the best, really. It had been past time for a change.
Chase gave a restless shrug. “Sure, Three Ridges isn’t the same as being on the road, but if things get too complicated, it’s no big deal to bail. There’s always another little cow town looking for someone to sling hay and fix tractors, and there’s always another bar with pretty girls ready to throw their panties up onstage.”
Ty figured he had been that young once. Now, though, he settled back in his chair and picked out the opening to “Home on the Range.” “What do you say we go through the set list again? I want to make sure we’re on the same page.”
And he’d far rather talk music than women.
• • •
“I’ll have a Let’s Get This Party Started Cosmo,” Ashley said as she and the other four members of the Girl Zone settled around their usual high-top bar table.
“Sure thing.” The waitress poised a pen that had a miniature cowboy boot dangling off the end. “Do you want it in a light-up glass?”
“Absolutely.” Why not? They were celebrating.
“White wine for me,” Shelby said, then shot Ashley a wink. “A regular glass is fine.” With a slick manicure and a soft summer sweater, both in a deep, rich crimson that brought out the highlights in her dark hair, the big-city advertising-exec-turned-cowboy’s-wife didn’t need a glass that blinked red, white, and blue to make a statement.
Danny wrinkled her nose at them. “You two are such girls. I’ll have a Corona.”
“That’s not exactly a manly-man’s beer,” Shelby pointed out.
“Better than a cosmo. In a blinky glass, no less.”
“Tomboy,” Ashley said.
“Priss,” Danny fired back, and they grinned at each other.
The two were a study in opposites. Where Ashley flirted, Danny was no-nonsense. Where Ashley flitted, Danny kept her hiking boots firmly planted. And where Ashley rushed headlong, Danny planned everything out to the last detail. But despite their differences, they totally clicked.
“Can I get you guys something to eat?” the waitress asked. “The It’s Not You It’s Me Loaded Potato Skins are fun to share.”
“Sounds good,” Krista said from the other side of the table. “Plus a basket of fries.”
“The You Frenched My Sister You Bastard Fries?”
Jenny snorted. “With a name like that? Sold.” Although she was Krista’s identical twin, the professional photographer—and local vet’s wife—had short, dark hair and an edgier style, in tight black.
“Okay. I’ll put that order right in.”
As the waitress bopped away with a jingle of the fake roweled spurs attached to her Smurf-blue boots, Ashley said, “Is it just me, or do the names of things change like every week around here?”
“It’s not you,” Danny confirmed. “I think they do it to keep us on our toes.”
“That, and it’s good branding.” Shelby tapped the drink menu. “You’re having relationship problems? Head down to the Rope Burn and order whatever fits your mood. The Kick Him To The Curb Wings, maybe. Not having problems with your relationship? You can feel all superior when you put in your order, because you and your sweetie would never say something like, ‘Let’s just be friends’ or ‘I love you, but I’m not in love with you.’ Single? Order a Come And Get Me Wrap and stick the flagged toothpick behind your ear, and everyone knows you’re looking for love. It’s brilliant, really.” And Shelby knew a few things about branding and market presence.
“Besides,” Krista added. “Since we just spent an extra minute or two talking about the menu, I’d say it’s mission accomplished.”
“Here are your drinks!” their waitress announced, arriving with a spur-jingle that somehow carried over the crowd noise. She offloaded the wine and beer, and then set Ashley’s tall glass in front of her and pushed the button on the bottom to activate the LED embedded in the stem, making red, white, and blue stripes move up and down.
As the waitress said something about being back in a minute with their food and jingle-jangled off, Shelby raised her wine, which looked classy and grown-up in its traditional housing. “To Ashley. Congratulations on being the new owner of Another Fyne Thing!”
Danny held up her beer. “To being your own boss!”
Jenny added her glass to the group salute. “To loving what you do.”
Krista raised hers. “To taking a leap of faith!”
“Hear, hear!” The four of them clinked, then looked expectantly at Ashley.
Who sat there, holding her blinky glass as she fought back a sudden wave of emotion. “I . . . You guys . . . Wow. I can’t breathe.”
Sometimes when she was out with her friends, it was hard not to feel like the little sister, even when Wyatt was miles away. The others were so educated, so accomplished, each of them a business owner in her own right. Now, suddenly, they were looking at her like she had done something important. Something they understood, even admired.
“So don’t breathe,” Jenny advised. “Drink.” That got another round of “Hear, hear!” and the five of them clinked and drank.
The first slug of cosmo tingled going down; the second spread a warm glow that eased the pressure in Ashley’s lungs and let the air back in. With it came some of the positive vibes she had been practicing. Della believes in you. The customers love you. The window displays rock. You can totally do this.
And she could. She would. Starting now.
“Speaking of the store,” she said, setting down her blinky glass, “I could use some brainstorming help.” Considering how many times she had helped the others spitball ideas for their businesses—everything from new theme weeks for Krista’s dude ranch or Danny’s adventure trekking business, to slogans and photo shoot locations for Shelby and Jenny—she got a buzz out of it being her turn.
Eyes lighting, Shelby beckoned. “Bring it on.”
“The second payment is due in forty-five days, and it’s going to be tight.” She had already filled them in on the financing. “The window display contest that Mayor Tepitt is running during the Midsummer Parade has a big cash prize, but it’s right before the money is due, and there’s no guarantee I’ll win.”
“I’d bet on it,” Danny said, lifting her beer. “Your windows rock. The way you linked the Easter egg one to a whole-town scavenger hunt? Genius.”
Jenny nodded. “I think my favorite was the one you did for the equinox, with the mannequins acting out how the sun, moon, and earth are aligned, with winter colors on one side and spring on the other.”
“That would be your favorite.” Krista rolled her eyes. “Geek.”
“Says the rodeo princess.”
“Anyway,” Ashley put in, raising her voice a little to interrupt before the twins got going, “Bakery Betty could give me a run for my money, especially if she does free samples again. I mean, really. Who doesn’t vote for brownie bites?”
“Bakery Betty?” Shelby asked, amused. “Do you call her that to her face?”
“Sometimes, especially when Fish and Chips Betty is there.” Ashley took a look around—you never knew who might be sitting a couple of tables down—and lowered her voice to confide, “When she took over the restaurant, I guess the Main Streeters agreed that Fish and Chips was better than calling her Clam Strips Betty.”
“Much better,” Jenny agreed. “Do you have a nickname?”
“Nope. I’m the only Ashley, and Feed Store Billy says I’m still too new. I’m working on them, though. One of these days, I’ll be Fyne Ashley, maybe, or Vintage Ashley, and you can say you knew me when.”
Krista’s laugh bubbled up. “Until you started at the shop, I had no idea that downtown Three Ridges was its own little world, with everybody up in each other’s business. And to think, you got claustrophobic at the dude ranch, with so many people coming and going all the time. Seems to me this is just another version of the fishbowl.”
“Maybe, but it’s my version. And at the end of the day, I can lock my customers out. You have to live with yours.”
Jenny lifted her glass. “To finding what’s right for ourselves, rather than letting other people tell us how it’s going to be.”
“Amen,” Ashley said, and clinked. “So, here’s the deal. I want to run a couple of special events at the store as a way to get customers through the door, and hopefully put product in their hands while they’re there. Which is where I could use some help. I was thinking of holding a sale and letting people spin a roulette wheel right at checkout to ‘win’ an extra discount. Or maybe having a fashion show. Or what about a handyman auction? Highest bidder gets stuff fixed around their house. I figure there aren’t enough eligible bachelors in Three Ridges for a sexier sort of auction, though that would tie in better with vintage clothing.”
Shelby whipped out her phone. “Hang on. Let me jot down a few notes.”
“What about a costume contest?” Krista suggested. “You know, sixties and seventies, that sort of thing. You could charge twenty bucks per entry, less if they buy everything from the store.”
But Shelby shook her head. “You don’t want the store to become a Halloween go-to, especially after Della did all that work for the Drama Club and helped out with the haunted house. Branding-wise, you need to focus on how you can make hip, trendy combinations with vintage clothes. That’s the message you’re trying to get out to your customers, right?”
“That’s exactly what I’m going for!” Ashley grinned, feeling suddenly like she was surrounded by a warm glow of friendship. Or was that that the cosmo? Probably a little of both.
“So no costumes.” Shelby hummed, tapping her lower lip. “But a contest isn’t a bad idea. Or the fashion show. You’ll want to make sure it stays really down-to-earth, though. None of that Fashion Week stuff of sending a model down the runway in a couple of Band-Aids and a skirt made out of twist ties.”
“Dang it, there went my signature piece.”
They bounced ideas back and forth for the next twenty minutes, through another round of drinks, and pretty soon Ashley decided she should totally claim the night as a business expense, because they were getting more planning done over drinks than she had in the past three weeks of sitting up late at night, moving numbers around on her laptop, and seesawing between I can totally do this and Eeek!
“Food!” Their server announced cheerfully, plopping down a couple of plates. “The It’s Not You Skins and the French My Sister Fries. Don’t they smell great?”
“Food.” Shelby snapped her fingers. “You could link one of these events to a can drive for the Three Ridges Food Bank.”
“Enough!” Jenny made a time-out with her hands. “Let’s eat. We should let some of these ideas percolate, anyway.” She raised an eyebrow in Ashley’s direction. “That cool with you, Miss I-Just-Bought-A-Big-Ass-Storefront-Downtown?”
Ashley stared at her—at all of them—with her throat tightening, and not in a bad way. Growing up, she hadn’t had that many friends—she had lived on the wrong side of town, wore the wrong clothes, grew too tall, said the wrong things, and always felt like she should be doing something to make up for her mom and Wyatt scrimping for everything . . . And even once she outgrew that awkwardness, her pool of friends had stayed small, limited to Kenny and his bandmates, who had been loud and self-involved, and hadn’t had much interest in her until it came time to pay the delivery guy for their pizza.
It was crazy, really, how much things had changed in the past year and a half.
“Yeah.” Her lips curved. “Thanks, guys. I mean it. Thanks for the ideas, for coming out tonight, for being happy for me, even though some people—cough-cough, Wyatt, cough-cough—think I’m completely nuts for jumping in like this . . . for all of it.”
“Well, we kind of think you’re nuts, too, but that’s why we love you.” Danny lifted her glass. “To Ashley!”
“To Ashley!” the others chorused, then clinked and drank, with Shelby giving Ashley’s glass an extra tap and adding, “We’re here for you, girlfriend.”
Forcing back a surge of emotion that the others might not understand—they had been friends for years, after all, and Krista and Jenny had spent their whole lives having each other’s backs—Ashley surveyed the heaping plates. “Did we really get potatoes and grease to go with an order of greasy potatoes?”
“See?” Shelby said. “Branding. They totally got you.”
“They got us,” Ashley corrected, sectioning off one of the loaded potato skins. “And I’m not sorry in the slightest. I’m celebrating.” She bit in with a moan. “God, are these good.”
“Was that a sex noise?”
“With a potato? Sounds uncomfortable.”
“Well, you did just say that pickings are slim in Three Ridges.”
“It’s not the pickings, slim or otherwise. This is the post-Kenny era, which means I’m focusing on myself, and now the store. Heck, I haven’t even kissed a guy since I crossed the Wyoming border.” Except for that one incident, but she wasn’t about to bring that up. “I don’t have time for kissing.”
Danny narrowed her eyes speculatively. “Hmm . . . Methinks the lady doth protest too much. And if you ask me, a girl can always find time for kissing, if it’s with the right guy.” To Krista, she said, “How about your new head wrangler? I heard he—”
“Stop!” Ashley ordered, holding up both hands. “Don’t even.”
“What? You don’t like cowboys?”
“I like cowboys just fine.” Almost as much as she liked musicians. “But I’m not dating the new head wrangler. I’m not dating anybody, thank you very much. I’ve got a store to run, events to plan, and a big, scary payment to make.” Besides which, she was pretty sour on the whole crappily-ever-after thing right now, and had zero faith in her own judgment when it came to men.
She was too much like her mother. And wasn’t that a terrifying thought?
“Hello?” The hail came from the stage, where Jolly Roger—the bar owner’s name was actually Roger Jolly, but he lived up to the nickname with his long, dark hair, grizzled beard, and the patch-and-peg-leg routine he pulled out for special occasions—stood at the mic and did a tap-tap. “Is this thing on? Testing, testing. Are we ready for some live music?”
The crowd buzz dimmed for a second, then burst out in applause.
“Awesome.” Ashley turned in her chair. “I could dance.” It would be a good way to burn off the potato skins, and grooving to the beat should quiet the jitters that came from having had a Very Big Day.
“I’d like to introduce tonight’s performers, who are guaranteed”—Jolly drew it out like the three-syllable word had become a dozen—“to get your boots tapping and your booties shaking. Let’s put them together, folks—your hands, I mean, not your booties—for Chasen Tail!”
The door behind him opened up and a guy came out, giving a big wave to the crowd. “Howdy, folks!” In his mid-twenties, with handsome features and sandy hair that brushed the collar of his shirt, he looked like someone had taken one of the cowboys from the crowd and turned the volume up a couple of notches.
“Oh!” Danny said. “I’ve seen him before. I like him.”
“Meh.” Shelby shrugged. “If a guy’s going to pop the buttons on his shirt halfway through the show, his abs should be required to be seriously ripped. And his stage name sucks. I mean, really? Chasen Tail? Ew.”
“I like his music,” Danny clarified. “I agree that the name is dumb. And the shirt thing doesn’t do much for a girl who’s got a better set of muscles waiting for her back home.”
“Now that’s just mean.” Ashley turned her back on the stage to complain across the table: “Some of us are living vicariously, you know.”
“I can already see this is going to be a killer crowd,” Chasen said behind her. “How about we give a round of applause to my boys?”
As the crowd whooped and hollered, Krista’s eyes went beyond Ashley, and lit. “That’s no boy. And speak of the devil. There’s my new head wrangler in his very fine flesh!” She waved. “Yoo-hoo, Tyler! Hey, Ty. Over here!”
Ashley froze, the name going through her like a bolt of hot lightning—searing and paralytic.
Wait.
What?
No. It couldn’t be.
Setting down the blinky glass with calm precision, she turned in her seat. Looked up at the stage. And stopped breathing while her brain sproinged back and forth between Oh, hell and Oh, my, with a bit of Wow thrown in.
Then back to: Oh, hell.
A drummer and a guitarist had set up behind the lead singer. The drummer was a cutie—young, flushed and nervous-looking, as if playing at the Rope Burn was the high point of his life to date. The guitarist was his exact opposite—thirtysomething, solid, and totally chilled out as he bent his head and strummed a couple of chords that should have gotten lost in the crowd noise, but thanks to some acoustic quirk of the room carried straight to Ashley.
She didn’t need to see the face beneath the shag of sun-streaked brown hair—she knew him by the mellow undertones and upper twang of the old Martin. And by the way his hands moved on the strings—slow and steady, but with an underlying strength that said here was a man who always hit the note he was going for.
Tyler Reed.
His head came up and his eyes locked on hers, as if she had said his name out loud. His gaze pierced her, brown eyes so dark they were almost black, putting a hot-cold-hot shiver in her belly.
Behind her, the others were talking about how he had come back to Mustang Ridge after spending the past few years touring with a country band, their voices sounding normal, as if the world hadn’t just shifted on its axis. As if it didn’t shift again when she got a good look at his face, with its high Viking cheekbones and the strong slash of a nose, bumped across the bridge where it had been broken by what he had called “a short dive off a long bucking bull.”
Last fall, at Krista and Wyatt’s wedding. Where they had totally hooked up.