Chapter Thirteen
I don’t know how I let this happen.
One minute, I’m sitting at Ryse & Shine, minding my business, drinking coffee with my father, and the next, I’m walking down Main Street with Waylon Ludlow and his kid, after apparently “volunteering” to help a grown man shop for winter clothes like he’s incapable. And he probably is.
I blame Ruby.
That please was lethal.
She’s skipping now, her small hand wrapped in Waylon’s, hair bouncing beneath the big pink bow she’s wearing. She hums under her breath, boots scuffing the sidewalk. Waylon walks on her other side, carrying the yellow pastry box.
I walk half a step in front of them, hands shoved into my jacket pockets, leading them toward the boutique.
My goal is to get in and out as quickly as possible. The last thing I want is to spend my entire Sunday afternoon with Waylon Ludlow.
I don’t want to think about his body sprawled across hay bales in our barn.
Don’t want to remember the way my heart jumped into my throat when I screamed and he came awake, disoriented and very, very attractive.
Don’t want to unpack the fact that I’d expected something else entirely from him—the rich, careless cowboy I remembered, who didn’t feel guilt or embarrassment or gratitude.
And yet …
Here I am.
“Here we are,” I say when we reach the corner, stopping in front of Saddle Sisters Boutique.
Ruby gasps like she just spotted a unicorn.
The window display is eye-catching—cowgirl boots lined up in perfect rows, denim and suede jackets trimmed with wool, pastel-hued flannels folded neatly. But it’s the hats that do it. Cowgirl hats in every shade imaginable, perched atop mannequins’ heads like rustic crowns.
Ruby points with both hands. “Daddy! Look!” Her fingers go straight to a tiny cream-colored felt hat with a pale pink leather band.
Waylon smiles and scoops her up without hesitation, settling her on his hip, so she can see it better. She loops her arms around his neck automatically, like she’s done it a thousand times before.
“Can I get it?” she asks, hopeful, but not demanding. Like she’s used to being told no.
He studies the hat for a second, then looks at her. “We’ll see, kiddo. Let’s get you a few outfits first, okay? If we’ve got enough left, we’ll come back for it.”
Her face falls just a little.
“And if not,” he adds quickly, brushing his nose against hers, “I promise I’ll come back and get it for you after my next paycheck.”
That makes me pause.
Next paycheck.
I glance at him, really look this time. He’s dressed simply—jeans, boots, thermal. A worn, dark leather belt and cowboy hat.
The Ludlows are one of the wealthiest families in Wyoming.
Something doesn’t add up.
I don’t ask.
Instead, I turn toward the door. Waylon sets Ruby back on her feet and holds it open for both of us, his hand resting lightly against Ruby’s back as she toddles through.
“Shelby Storm!” Mrs. Burl calls from behind the counter.
She’s in her sixties, sharp-eyed and kind, with silver hair, cut into a short bob that never seems to move. She’s owned this shop since it opened six years ago.
“Hey, Mrs. Burl,” I say.
“The lace dress you order arrived yesterday,” she replies. “I was just about to call you.”
“Great. I’ll grab it before we leave.”
She nods, then turns her attention to Ruby. “Well, aren’t you just a picture?”
Ruby beams.
I lead them toward the back of the shop, where the children’s section lives—racks organized by size, fabrics soft but durable and meant to protect against the weather.
I crouch slightly to Ruby’s eye level. “All right,” I say, “let’s find you some warm clothes.”
Waylon hangs back, flipping through a rack with careful movements. I notice the way his eyes dart to the price tags, quick and subtle.
Something twists in my chest.
Without saying anything, I start pulling options I know won’t break the bank.
Cream corduroy pants—lined, sturdy, warm.
A soft powder-blue sweater that’ll go with anything.
Dark jeans with reinforced knees.
Two long-sleeved shirts on sale—buy one, get one free.
A few vibrant sweatshirts.
And a pink wool coat, thick enough to survive a Wyoming winter.
“These should fit,” I tell Ruby, holding them up against her.
She nods sweetly, like she’s happy with anything I choose.
I lead her into the dressing room while Waylon waits outside, pretending very hard not to hover.
One by one, Ruby steps out from behind the curtain, hands on her hips, spinning slightly.
Waylon’s face lights up every single time.
“You look beautiful.”
“That color’s perfect on you.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re basically a movie star.”
She eats up his praise, beaming so hard that I think her cheeks might hurt.
When we’re done, I hand Waylon the stack of clothes.
“That’s everything,” I say.
Ruby spots a shelf in the back corner and lets out a little gasp before running to it. Tiny toy horses. Plush ponies. Plastic figurines, arranged in careful rows.
She drops to her knees and grabs a plush pony, hugging it tight. “It looks like Honey.”
I follow her and catch Waylon’s reflection in the mirror on the far wall.
He’s calculating.
I watch him covertly slide two of the sweatshirts back onto the rack, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’s trying not to feel guilty about it.
Ruby toddles back to him, pony clutched to her chest. “Can I have it?”
He hesitates. Just for a second.
“Yeah,” he says finally, “you can.”
“I was going to get that for her,” I say quickly.
He looks startled. “Shelby—”
“It’s her welcome-to-Wildhaven gift.”
Ruby’s eyes go wide. “Really?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
Waylon opens his mouth to argue, but I wave him off and head to the counter before he can say another word.
Mrs. Burl has the lace dress already bagged, and I set the plushie on the counter and ask her to add it to the purchase and pay. Then step aside so Waylon can do the same.
Outside, I hand Ruby the toy. She clutches it like a treasure.
I notice then that the hat is still in the window.
She’s forgotten all about it.
Waylon’s eyes go to it too. Just a quick flicker, and then they’re back on Ruby.
He walks us back toward Ryse & Shine, still clutching the pastry box, bags swinging lightly in his fingers.
He seems lost in his thoughts as he watches Ruby walking a step ahead of us. Halfway there, he clears his throat.
“I wanted to ask you something,” he says.
“Uh-oh.”
He chuckles. “It’s about lessons.”
I glance at him. “Caison mentioned it,” I say. “What exactly are you interested in?”
“Barrel racing,” he says. “Ruby saw it on TV with Pop. Hasn’t stopped talking about it since.”
I nod slowly. “I don’t usually start girls that young. Six or seven is more typical.”
“I get that,” he says. “But some kids start at four.”
He mentions a name I know well. Dusky Lynn Hall.
I snort. “Dusky’s a prodigy.”
“She is,” he agrees. “But at five years old, she’s tearing up the youth circuit. Winning belts and blowing minds with impressive runs.”
“I know, but like I said, she’s an exception.”
“Maybe Ruby is an exception.”
I shake my head. “All parents think that about their kids. But I can tell you from experience, nine out of ten are wrong.”
“Not the worst odds I’ve ever faced.”
“I bet not.”
“If you’d had the chance to start younger, would you have wanted to?” he asks.
The question lands heavier than he probably intended.
“Yeah,” I admit quietly, “I would have.”
He nods. “I don’t care if Ruby’s great. I don’t care if she does a few lessons and then decides it’s not for her. But she’s excited. And I want her to try everything that interests her. Pick it up, try it on, see if it fits.”
“I can appreciate that, but I just—”
He turns to face me. “I grew up with a man who never asked me what I wanted. He decided the day I was born what and who I would be and forced me to take every step that would get me right where he wanted me. I just want her to have something that’s hers.
And maybe it’s too early to let her make big decisions, but what will this hurt? ”
Well, damn.
He needs to stop talking because it’s making it very hard for me to continue to loathe him. And everything in me wants to continue.
His voice softens. “Her life got turned upside down. She’s in a foreign place. Without her mother.”
I swallow. And curiosity has me wanting to ask more about her mother, but I bite my tongue because Ruby is within earshot.
It’s not my business anyway.
“Holland wants to pay,” he adds. “And you can charge him triple if you want. Really stick it to him.”
That makes me laugh.
“No, seriously. I insist.”
“I’ll see if I have a horse mild enough for her,” I say. “I’ll let you know.”
“We’ve got a pony at Ironhorse,” he says. “Her name’s Honey. Giles suggested I teach Ruby to ride on her. She’s real gentle, and she and Ruby have bonded. I can have her trailered over if you decide to work with her.”
“I’ll think about it.”
We reach his truck. He loads the bags into the back.
“We can walk you over to the market. Help you shop,” he offers. “It’s the least we could do.”
“Not necessary. I only have a few things to pick up, and I already know the sizes and colors of every grocery item I need,” I joke.
Waylon chuckles, and there go those damn dimples again.
“Thanks,” he says. “For everything.”
Ruby suddenly runs over and throws her arms around my waist.
I hug her back without hesitation.
Waylon buckles her into her car seat, careful and attentive, then straightens and gives me a small nod before climbing into the driver’s seat.
He rolls down his window. “I’m gonna call you next week about those lessons.”
I throw my hand up and wave without answering and watch them drive away.
And for the first time, I think maybe I’ve misjudged him.
Just a little.
Nah. He’s still a jackass.