Chapter Five
Sitting on the edge of the back porch, Hanson stared down at his bare feet submerged in a plastic basin of lukewarm, greenish water. Whatever atrocious-smelling concoction Alice Sweet had mixed up, it was working a minor miracle on the raw blisters covering his heels.
Drying a ceramic mug with a dish towel, Alice stepped out through the screen door. “How are they feeling?”
“Better.” Hanson flexed his toes, marveling at the sudden absence of stinging pain. “I don’t know what’s in this, but I wish I’d had it when I was in boot camp.”
“My grandmother swore by it.” Alice set the mug and towel on a small wicker table.
“Pulls the heat right out. But no amount of soaking is going to fix the real problem. If you insist on helping out while the crew is shaking this nasty bug that’s going around, you’re going to need a decent pair of boots that actually fit.
A good boot molds to the owner’s foot. Borrowing boots is rarely a good idea. ”
“If you can do without me for a bit, I thought maybe I could run to town and pick up a pair.” He didn’t mention that the mere thought of driving a stick shift again and potentially forgetting which way was up or down, and worse, actually doing someone harm, sent a spike of anxiety up his spine and back down to his toes.
“Good idea.” Alice nodded briskly. “Jess rode into town with Carson this morning. Her keys are on the hook by the door.” The slightest hint of a smile teased at the corners of the woman’s lips. “It’s an automatic. You shouldn’t have any more parking lot escapades.”
Escapades. That was not the word he’d have used. The relief that washed over him was entirely disproportionate to the situation. “Thanks. The sooner I get going, the sooner I’ll be back.”
Her smile a little brighter, Alice nodded and headed back into the house.
Standing up, he eased out of the basin. Stepping gingerly at first, by the time he reached the kitchen, there was no sign of the pain he’d endured once he’d pulled off the snug boots. “Not bad.” If he could bottle this stuff, he’d make a killing selling it to raw recruits.
Dressed in his regular khakis and most comfortable shoes, he found himself in the front seat of Jess’s car, keys in fist, staring at the dashboard.
He could do this. There would be no confusing first and reverse or brake and clutch.
Finding his way into town had been easy, as had coming back to the ranch.
It was the stick shift that rattled his already Swiss cheese brain.
Closing his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath, mentally repeating he could do this.
Eyes open, he turned the key in the ignition and waited as the engine roared to life.
Leaning back, what nervousness he’d felt earlier seemed to ebb. He could do this.
An hour later, Hanson stood in the center aisle of Honeysuckle’s only dedicated clothing store.
The sheer volume of choices for western wear was staggering.
He stared at a wall of leather that stretched twenty feet in either direction, trying to make sense of the options.
Square toe. Round toe. Ropers. His gaze drifted around to where the blue jeans were displayed.
Not the dark blue denim with sharply pressed seams he wore for an outing, but real jeans.
Work jeans. That would be his next stop.
Considering his boot choices once again, he reached out and pulled a sturdy-looking, dark brown boot from the middle shelf. It felt heavy enough, and the leather was thick.
“Those are going to ruin your feet by Tuesday.”
Hanson turned at the voice.
Arms crossed, Kat Sutton leaned against a display, a small paper bag tucked under one arm. Her blonde hair pulled back in a messy clip, she looked entirely too good for afternoon errands.
“Miss Sutton.” He lowered the boot slightly.
“Mr. Taylor.” She closed the distance between them, her gaze flicking from the boot in his hand to the wall of options.
“Those are steel-toed loggers. Unless you’re planning on dropping anvils on your feet, they’re going to feel like you strapped concrete blocks to your ankles. You’ll be begging for your loafers.”
Glancing down at the boot, then back to her, he’d never felt so far out of his league. In more ways than one. “Where should I look?”
Kat reached past him, her fingers skimming over a row of lighter, scuffed-looking boots before she pulled one down. “Here. Standard roper. Rubber sole, not leather. The rubber gives you grip when the barn floor gets wet.” She handed the boot toward him.
He took it. The footwear was significantly lighter than his choice, with a wider, flatter heel.
“Try them on.”
He followed Kat from the end of the aisle to a short bench in front of a mirror. Taking a seat, he removed his shoes, tugged at his socks and slid his foot into the first boot. He’d barely gotten his toes into the bend when her hand grabbed his arm.
“No. I can tell already that’s going to be too snug a fit for a work boot. You don’t want to be floating in the boots, but you don’t want to wrestle them either.”
Another few minutes and she returned with a similar pair a half-size larger.
Of course, she was right. While sliding into the boots was still a bit stiff, it wasn’t the tug of war the previous pair had been. Pushing to his feet, he took a few steps one way then turned the other. “Not bad.”
“You’ll have to break them in. At first they’ll be a bit uncomfortable, but after you’re used to them, you won’t want to wear anything else.”
That thought made him chuckle. He could just imagine his buddies back in California’s reactions if he stepped off the plane in cowboy boots and work jeans. All he’d need was a Bonanza hat and he’d be laughed out of the state.
“Good?”
“Good.” He nodded.
“Okay then. Now jeans.” Kat pointed toward the back wall. “Real cowboys wear Wranglers. If you’re going to be a ranch hand, even temporarily, you need standard boot cut.”
His correct size in hand, Kat led the way to the dressing rooms.
“Try them on. See how they feel.”
To his surprise. The jeans and the boots fit to perfection. Though he supposed the denim would feel more like a second skin after a couple of washings, for now he felt like he belonged. Sort of.
As he approached Kat from the dressing room, a glint of something he couldn’t quite place flashed in her eyes before she nodded and gave him a thumbs up. Before he could respond, he felt a tug at his pant leg.
“Mama says you look like sin on a stick.”
Hanson blinked. He’d been told an array of euphemisms for being handsome, but never by a little girl who didn’t look to be more than three feet tall.
“Janine?” a voice hollered from across the store. “It’s time to go.” The woman began walking in her daughter’s direction, her pace quickening when she spotted her daughter with a stranger.
“I told the man what you said. I was going to tell him he might want to come to church with us on Sunday.”
The lady’s brows dipped in confusion before her eyes grew surprisingly wide. “Janine, it’s not nice to bother people when they’re shopping.” The woman took hold of the little girl’s hand and turning them away, looked at Hanson over her shoulder. “Sorry if she bothered you.”
“No bother at all.” He smiled.
“But Mama, you said he was sin on a stick. He should go to church.”
He had no idea who was more mortified, the woman practically running down the aisle, admonishing her daughter in low tones, or him with his cheeks flaring hot with embarrassment.
Hopefully Kat didn’t hear, but when he glanced in her direction to find her once again leaning against a display only this time, grinning like the cat who swallowed the proverbial canary, he had little doubt. She’d heard little Janine just fine.
Biting down hard on the inside of her cheek, Kat leaned her shoulders back against the display of leather belts.
It took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to burst out laughing.
The absolute horror on the woman’s face as she dragged little Janine down the aisle was second only to the deer-in-headlights panic currently frozen on Hanson’s features.
He stood there in his brand new Wranglers, staring at the empty aisle as if a ghost had just materialized and offered him a winning lottery ticket.
Unable to hold it in any longer, a laugh escaped Kat’s throat, bouncing off the quiet walls of the store.
Hanson’s gaze snapped to her. Color still rode high on his cheekbones. “You heard?”
“I think everyone in a three-block radius heard.” Kat pushed off the display rack, a belt in hand, she closed the distance between them. “First, you’ll need this. Don’t want your britches falling down while wrestling a cow.”
“I have no intention of wrestling cows.”
She nodded. “You’ll still need a sturdy belt, and, I should probably warn you, Sandra Estes is a lovely woman, but that daughter of hers is four going on forty.”
He let out a long, slow breath and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “Is there a protocol for this? Am I supposed to apologize to her husband?”
“For existing?” Kat chuckled, leading the way toward the checkout counter. “I think you’re safe. Her husband is the salt of the earth, but no one has ever accused him of looking like sin on a stick. Sandra was probably just having a weak moment.”
“Right.” He fell into step beside her, a quiet, resigned amusement settling over his features. “A weak moment.” Shaking his head, he returned to the dressing room, reemerging in his casual California look.
Walking alongside him, Kat caught herself studying his profile. The rigid, defensive posture from the Sweet kitchen was completely gone. In its place was a man who seemed remarkably capable of laughing at himself, even when he was entirely out of his depth.
“Now that you have that devilish cowboy look down pat.” She couldn’t resist teasing him just a little. “I suppose the next step is signing you up for the rodeo.”
He set the clothing they’d chosen on the counter and shot her a sideways glance. “Rodeo?”
“Oh, absolutely.” She tapped her index finger against her chin, pretending to consider him seriously.
“The boots are a good start, but it won’t be truly complete until you win a buckle the size of a dinner plate.
We’ll put you on a bronc. Nothing too crazy for your first time.
Maybe something named ‘Widow Maker’ or ‘Sudden Impact’. ”
“I see.” Hanson pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “And what exactly does busting a bronc entail? Is there a manual?”
“It’s mostly physics.” Kat offered a bright, entirely unhelpful smile to the cashier, a high school girl who was currently staring wide-eyed at Hanson—apparently Sandra Estes wasn’t the only one who liked what she saw.
“You hold on to a leather strap, and the horse tries to launch you into the stratosphere. Eight seconds gets you a score. Less than eight seconds and you might dust it off or you might get stomped on.”
“Every man’s dream.” Holding back a smile, he pulled out a credit card, handing it to the cashier. “Do I really look that crazy to you?”
Biting the inside of her cheek again, she hefted a lazy shoulder and smiled up at him. “Who am I to judge?”
A low chuckle rumbled in Hanson’s chest. The sound was surprisingly warm, drawing Kat’s attention to the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he was genuinely amused.
“I think any rodeo attempts might have to wait until I master driving a manual transmission in a straight line. Put me fifty feet in the air rigging a bridge under fire, I’m your guy.
Ask me to remember how to shift into reverse? Not so much.”
The self-deprecation caught her slightly off guard. Most of the men she knew in Honeysuckle—including the Sweet brothers—would have puffed out their chests and made a joke about conquering the beast. Hanson simply acknowledged his limits without a trace of bitterness.
“Fair enough,” she said.
The cashier bagged the items, her gaze still darting shyly toward Hanson as she handed the heavy paper sack across the counter. “You’re all set, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Stepping out of the air-conditioned store, the afternoon heat wrapped around them instantly. The sidewalk was relatively quiet, just a few trucks rolling past on Main Street. Kat shifted her own small paper bag under her arm, suddenly aware that their errand was over.
“I appreciate the help, Miss Sutton.” Hanson paused near the edge of the curb. “If you hadn’t stepped in, I’m fairly certain Alice Sweet would have made me muck stalls barefoot to teach me a lesson.”
“She absolutely would have.” Kat smiled, looking up at him. Without the barrier of anger or misunderstanding between them, she realized exactly how tall he was. “And please, it’s Kat.”
He nodded once. “Kat.”
The way he said her name—careful, deliberate—sent a completely unexpected flutter straight through her stomach.
“Well,” she took a step toward where her car was parked down the block, “try not to break in those boots all at once. Blisters are no joke.”
“Alice has a swamp-water remedy for that.”
“Then you’re in good hands.” She lifted a hand in a quick wave. “Drive safe, Hanson.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Walking away, Kat didn’t look back until she reached her car.
When she finally glanced over her shoulder, Hanson was just climbing into Jess’s sedan.
He moved carefully, his focus absolute, navigating the simple task of getting behind the wheel with a quiet determination that shouldn’t have been attractive.
Sliding into her own driver’s seat, Kat let out a long breath.
The annoyance she’d felt in the parking lot felt like it belonged to a different lifetime.
Sandra Estes might have lacked subtlety, but as Kat pulled out onto Main Street, she had to admit the woman’s assessment hadn’t been entirely wrong.