3. Feed Store Collision
Feed Store Collision
Falon
Jerry's Feed grain, check; chain for the cattle gate, check; when I realize I've been staring at the same shelf of saddle soap for a solid thirty seconds.
My brain won't stop replaying Mom's casual little bombshell about Kevin Bennett being back in town.
Not that it matters. Kevin's been back for a couple of weeks now, and I've already bumped into him a few times. Once at the hardware store when he was picking up pliers, but as soon as I left, a quick look through the window showed me he just placed the pliers down on a bag of water softener and walked out; he didn’t even need or buy them. It was an excuse to talk to me. I ran into him again at the diner, which was common, but the weird things were the flowers and the basket of gluten-free muffins he had delivered to the ranch. I wasn’t even gluten free.
He was. The notes on the windshield. It just gets weird from there.
With each instance he was nice, polite, and a little overeager with the "we should catch up sometime" energy, but I was thinking enough was enough.
The problem is Kevin thinks "catch up" means a date, and I think it means exactly what it sounds like: two people who went to high school together catching up on what has changed and what hasn't, and then going about their separate lives. But with Kevin’s gifts, I was inclined to think he would read way too much into it.
I can handle Kevin.
What I can't handle is wasting time staring at products I don't need. "Get it together, Anderson," I mutter, giving myself a mental slap and moving on to the next item on the list.
The bell over the door chimes, and the spell is broken.
"Hey there, Jerry, do you have any post hole diggers?" A rancher I recognize but can't name calls out from near the register.
I refocus on Mom's list. Did she write 'horse cookies' or 'hose hookies'? She has got to work on her handwriting if I'm going to be getting her supplies. It has to be horse cookies, right? It's the only thing that makes sense.
I’m still trying to decipher mom’s Sanskrit when the rancher, Andy, I think, passes me in the aisle.
“Oh, hey there,” He pauses and smiles. “You're Rick Williams' girl, aren't you?”
“Yep, born and raised,” I try to joke and try not to let on how much the “Rick Williams’ girl” thing makes me want to scream.
“He’s a good man. Tell your daddy I said get well soon."
“I will. Thanks.”
I grab a bag of the molasses treats Dad's horse goes crazy for and add it to my basket while the man makes his way to the back. That's everything except the fly masks, which Jerry keeps behind the counter because apparently people steal them. Who steals fly masks?
"Jerry!" I call out as I head toward the register. "I need two fly masks for?—"
"Sundance and Missy? Yeah, I know," Jerry says without looking up from the invoice he's writing.
He's been running this place since before I was born, and he knows every animal on every ranch within twenty miles.
"Your mom mentioned you might forget, so she called and made sure I added it to the order. "
"You're a saint."
"No, I'm a businessman who likes repeat customers." He glances up with a grin. "Give me two minutes to grab those masks, and I'll ring you up. Oh, and Falon, tell your mother Sundance's fly mask is large. I pulled the right size."
"Thanks, take your time. I'll just—" I gesture vaguely at my basket.
Jerry disappears into the back room, and I set my basket on the counter, already mentally calculating whether I have enough cash or if I need to use the card. Mom's going to want a receipt either way because she tracks every expense in those spiral notebooks she's been using since the eighties.
He's back two minutes later with the fly masks and rings me up with his usual efficiency, adding them to my total and tucking the receipt into the bag with more care than necessary.
"I'll have that feed order ready in about ten minutes," Jerry says, already moving toward the register to help the next customer.
"Perfect. I'll pull around back!" I call over my shoulder, bags in hand, already pushing open the front door. "Make sure you include the grain on a separate line?—"
I walk directly into something solid.
Not something.
Someone.
Strong hands catch my shoulders, steadying me before I can fall backward. One of the bags slips from my grip, and one of those hands moves to catch it before it hits the ground.
"Whoa, sorry, I—" I start to say, turning to apologize, and the words die in my throat.
Bo Gates.
He's close. Too close. Close enough that I can see he's got the same hazel eyes I remember, the same scar through his left eyebrow from the hayloft incident when we were kids. Close enough that I catch the scent of clean soap and pine.
But he's different, too. Broader across the shoulders. Older in a way that has nothing to do with the eighteen months since I last saw him.
"Falon." My name comes out rough and surprised.
"Bo." It's barely a whisper, and I clear my throat, trying again. "You're—hi."
His mouth quirks, almost a smile. "Hi."
We stand there in the doorway for a long beat, his hands still on my shoulders, my heart doing gymnastics in my chest. Someone behind him clears their throat, and we both jolt, stepping aside at the same time and somehow managing to tangle up again in the process.
"Sorry." And this time his smile is real, if brief.
"I didn't know you were back," I manage, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear because I need something to do with my hands. "Tyler didn't mention?—"
"Last-minute decision." Bo shifts his weight, and I notice the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens. "Pearl needed some supplies, and being home alone was... I thought I'd help out."
There's something careful in the way he says it, but I don't push.
"That's nice of you. Pearl must be happy you're home."
"She made biscuits." His expression softens. "Three kinds."
"Of course she did." I hitch my purse higher on my shoulder, trying to look normal and not like my entire nervous system just short-circuited. "How long are you staying?"
"Not sure yet." He glances past me into the store, then back, like he's looking for an escape route or maybe working up to something. "How are your parents? Tyler mentioned your dad had an accident?"
"Fell off a ladder trying to fix the barn roof. Broke his leg in two places." I roll my eyes. "He's fine, just stubborn and grumpy about being stuck inside. You know how he is."
"Yeah." Something in his expression softens further. "I do."
Another beat of silence. This one feels heavier, like it's carrying the weight of eighteen months and all the things we're not saying.
"What about you?" Bo asks, and there's genuine curiosity in his voice. "What are you up to these days?"
"Same old stuff, mostly. Helping Mom and Dad with the ranch, picking up extra shifts at the co-op when they need me." I shrug, suddenly self-conscious about how small my life probably sounds. "I bought the old Anderson place a few months ago. It needs a lot of work, but it's mine."
"The Anderson farmhouse?" His eyebrows go up. "That's a big project."
"Yeah, well." I try for casual and land somewhere near defensive. "I'm good with my hands."
The corner of his mouth twitches. "I remember."
Heat crawls up my neck, and I'm suddenly very interested in the contents of my bags. "Anyway, it keeps me busy. What about you? What have you been doing since—" I stop myself before I say 'since Uncle Anthony's funeral,' because that feels like stepping on a landmine. "Since you left?"
"Reserves mostly. Some traveling." His jaw tightens again, and I watch him choose his next words carefully. "Trying to figure out what's next."
"That sounds... nice?"
"It's something." He almost smiles, and it's such a Bo expression, wry and a little sad, that it hits me square in the chest.
"Falon! Grain's ready!" Jerry's voice booms from somewhere around back, shattering whatever moment we were building.
"Coming!" I call back, stepping fully out of the doorway to let Bo through. "I should, I need to pick up the grain."
"Right. Yeah." Bo nods but doesn't move past me. "It's good to see you, Falon."
The way he says my name, low and careful, like it means something, makes my throat tight.
"You too, Bo."
I slip past him and head around the side of the building toward the loading area out back. I can feel his eyes on me the entire way, and when I risk a glance over my shoulder, he's still standing there in the doorway, watching me go.
Jerry's already got two bags of grain loaded on a hand truck when I pull my truck around back. Cooper, my Mom’s heeler, is in the back of my truck and wags his tail when he sees Jerry.
Cooper doesn’t have his tail cropped as the Blues do.
He generally prefers to stay home and keep the chickens in order, but I managed to coax him to come with me today.
Jerry pats Cooper, scratches his neck, then pulls out a bone from his front pocket.
Everwood is like the unannounced ranching community of the world.
There’s a dog in every truck and a few more at home.
Jerry’s learned a thing or two to get on the K9 good side.
When he’s done, he helps me load the bags into the bed with practiced efficiency, then brushes his hands on his jeans.
"That Bo Gates?" Jerry asks, keeping his voice low but not low enough.
"Yep."
"Thought he moved away."
"He did. He's back. Temporarily." I secure the tailgate and avoid Jerry's eyes. "For Pearl."
"Mm-hmm." Jerry's tone is loaded with about forty years of small-town knowing. "Give your folks my best."
"Will do. Thanks, Jerry."
I climb into the driver's seat and sit there for a moment, bags on the passenger seat, hands on the wheel.
Just one glance back toward the front.
He's gone. Already inside, probably. I don't know why I expected anything different.
I grip the steering wheel and force myself to breathe.
Just errands, I remind myself. Just another morning in Everwood.
But my hands are shaking, and I know, deep down, in the part of me that's been aware of Bo Gates since we were kids racing bikes down Main Street, that nothing about this morning is just anything.
He's back.
And I have absolutely no idea what that means.