Chapter Ten
Maeve
I am standing in the most chaotic shop I have ever encountered.
Compared to Naomi’s witchy organised haven, Buck’s, which is in fact called Buck’s Boots, is a whole different kind of madness.
There are rows and rows of boots crammed in no logical order.
Cowboy hats dangle haphazardly from a rack in the corner, while a workbench sits buried beneath a fortress of leather scraps and half-finished boots.
Scattered across the work surface lies an array of tools: knives, hammers, rulers, threads, and needles.
Again, no organisation. Just pure chaos.
I am entirely surprised, though. It’s everything I imagined a small-town tack shop would be.
There’s the distinctive aroma of leather mixed with notes of wood and some sort of chemical smell that makes the whole place rather pungent. It's an unmistakably craftsman-like scent, and I just know it's going to cling to my clothes for hours.
“Here you go, little lady.” The shop owner, Buck, approaches with yet another pair of boots for me to try on.
“Give these ago.”
This must be the sixth pair I’ve tried on, and I honestly cannot, for the life of me, tell you the difference between any of them.
All were comfortable, all looked as nice as work boots could look.
But when Buck questioned me about my duties back at the ranch, all I could manage was “mucking out the stables” because that's literally all they've had me doing lately. Plus, the occasional random task helping Colt, but those are always supervised. As if I couldn’t be trusted to do a proper job without male supervision.
Christ, it's infuriating. Surely there are other jobs I could tackle.
If a man can manage them, how difficult can they actually be?
“Thank you, Buck,” I offer what I hope passes as an enthusiastic smile, trying not to look as over it as I feel. Trying on boots has turned out to be significantly less fun than it sounds, and my patience ran out approximately seven pairs ago.
Buck doesn't miss it. His weathered eyes study me for a moment, and then, in one swift motion, retracts his arms with the boots still firmly in his grasp.
Shit. Have I managed to piss off yet another cowboy?
But then, Buck's eyes soften and he straightens up with the quiet authority of a man who has made a decision.
“Alright, miss,” he says. “With the energy radiating off you right now, I feel it's my duty as this town's cowboy godmother to give you the full cowgirl experience.” He pauses, tilting his head. “What do you young ladies call it…a makeover montage?”
I blink at him, utterly baffled. A makeover montage? How the hell does this sixty-something-year-old cowboy, who probably only owns multiple pairs of the same Wranglers and shirts in different shades of plaid, know anything about makeover montages?
“My grandbabies may have taught me a thing or two about cheering up a woman,” he adds, his tone carrying that easy warmth of someone used to making people laugh.
The kind of tone I've only ever really seen in films—the dad joke delivery, the gentle teasing that never lands wrong.
“Though I suppose they're not babies anymore.” He sighs mockingly.
“And we can't forget the ex-wife. Though cheering her up usually left my credit card sobbing.”
A soft snort escapes me before I can catch it. “Thank you, sir, but my card is so dried out right now I doubt it could manage even a single tear.”
”I'm not trying to upsell you, little lady. You just look like you need some cheering up, and nobody leaves my store without a smile on their face. Now, come on! I've got a small selection of clothes and a pair of boots that I reckon have your name stitched on them.”
Twenty-something minutes later, I can confirm Buck was absolutely, positively right.
This is exactly what I needed. Trying on outfits that I’d never feel comfortable wearing in London, feeling like an absolute country icon.
My hair’s a static mess from the endless rotations of hats, sticking up like I’ve shoved my finger in a plug socket.
I suppose I’ll just have to buy one to hide the hat hair.
Everyone else wears them at the ranch anyway, surely it counts as uniform.
Morgan Wallen hums through a small portable speaker, one that Buck has bought out especially for this little makeover montage, setting the most perfect soundtrack for my little catwalk down the cluttered aisles of boots.
Ten out of ten vibes if I do say so myself.
And the boots Buck mentioned, they do indeed have my name stitched on them.
Although the price tag begs to differ.
Buck, bless his old sweet soul, has offered to put them aside, letting me pay them off bit by bit.
I can’t say I am not tempted, but they're nearly $300. Can I really justify that sort of money on boots? They’re not made to be trudging through stables in.
These are going out boots. Like out-out!
And I doubt there’ll be much time to do that while I am in Wildbrook Hollow.
And would I realistically wear them back in London? Probably not.
But still…
They’re gorgeous. A pale, powdery blue with navy embroidered floral vines swirling up the sides. The heel is barely there, just enough to give my short ass a lift without sacrificing comfort.
I spin. I twirl. I sway to Cowgirls, my favourite of Mr. Wallen’s, and it feels like I’m not wearing anything at all given how comfortable they are.
“Those don’t look like working boots.”
The gruff, straight-to-the-point voice startles me mid-spin.
“Afternoon, Wade,” Buck announces, confirming what I already. I'd have recognised that voice anywhere.
It's like the moment I start having fun, the bat signal goes up, and he comes swooping in to put a stop to it. Cowboy Batman. The crusader against good times.
The sass is bubbling in the depths of my soul, ready to be unleashed on this grump.
“I thought I was allowed to explore?” My tone sharpens, making it clear I won't be shoved back into whatever awkward corner he tried putting me in earlier.
“I just decided to explore Buck's wonderful store.
And for the record, I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing when it comes to working boots. City girl, remember?” I drag out the last two words just enough to land the point.
“If you tell me what kind of work this little lady does, I can set her up just fine,” Buck cuts in, calm and unbothered, like Wade's presence barely registers.
“But my God, Wade, let the girl have some fun.
She's leaving my shop with the smile I promised her, and I won't have you stomping in here with that grumpy front of yours and undoing my hard work.”
A front? Am I right? Is there more to Wade Carter deep below the surface? And if so, why is he so God damn distant?
Wade grunts—of course. “Well, you know full well she ain’t gonna be doing cattle roping. So, between ropers and working boots, it’s not exactly rocket science.”
“Don’t be giving me attitude, boy,” Buck fires back, his voice carrying that playful but stern edge.
Oh, Buck. My new favourite person.
Wade exhales slowly. “Apologies, Buck. It’s been a long day. I didn’t sleep—things have been on my mind.”
I don’t even need to guess what those things are. I already know. And I also know that I need to address this the moment when we are alone. Draw a line. Just move on so I can work and enjoy my time here while it lasts.
Buck, ever the saviour, pulls out a pair of plain working boots I tried on earlier. I let the men talk while I begrudgingly peel off the gorgeous boots, replacing them with my torture devices.
“Thank you for my makeover montage,” I say, handing the boots back over to him. “I’ll just take those bits over there. Including this hat, if that’s okay?”
“Course it is,” Buck says, slipping the blue boots behind the counter. “I’ll keep these aside for you, let you think on ’em.”
“That’d be great,” I smile, letting him know he achieved his goal.
Wade takes the bags from Buck before I even have the chance, carrying them out toward the truck without a word. I hang back a moment, watching his broad shoulders disappear ahead of me, mind racing.
He chucks the bags in the back of the truck and circles to the passenger side just as I approach.
Without a word, he opens the door and waits until I've climbed in before shutting it firmly behind me.
It's such a small thing. And I know it's just manners, probably just a southern charm thing.
But I'm such an acts-of-service person that something about it quietly gets me every time.
Even though it probably means fuck all to him.
Anyway, now’s a good time to rip the bandage off.
“Mr Cart—Wade.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“We need to talk about last night. What you saw… is totally normal, and I refuse to be ashamed of it. I didn’t know you were still in the house.
And yes. Fine. I find you attractive because, well…
” My hand waves vaguely in his direction.
“Look at you. But I don’t particularly like you.
You’re an asshole to me and pretty much everyone else.
You don’t give anyone the time of day, and you just grunt. Which, by the way, is infuriating.”
I suck in a breath because, apparently, I forgot that’s an option between sentences.
“And you. You walked in. I don’t know why, but that was inappropriate.
I am your employee. Not your personal porn show that you can waltz in on.
But for the sake of work and my sanity, I am willing to forget about it and move on. “
Wade’s lips part like he’s about to respond, but I do not let him. My hand shoots up, index finger raised, indicating for him to shush. “Oh, and let’s stop with those comments. Don’t act like you don’t know what I am going on about, because you do.”
And… Scene.
The silence stretches longer than expected, long enough to kickstart my anxiety.
Finally, he leans back in his seat, arms stretched across the steering wheel.
“Can I speak yet? Or are you gonna shush me again?”
I nod.
“Well, I can’t say I was expecting that verbal vomit,” he says.
I huff a short laugh through my nose. “Consider it a one-time performance.”
“So, I am not special then?” His tone is almost teasing.
My jaw drops. “Did you not hear the part where I said I don’t like you?”
“Oh, I heard.” He tips his hat back. He’s staring me down like he’s got me figured out. “Doesn’t mean I believe it.”
My unimpressed stare must land, because seconds later, he follows up with, “Fine. You’re right.”
The simplicity of it stuns me. Who would have thought he could respond without a smart remark? Not me.
He glances my way once, “I shouldn’t have walked in last night. That’s on me. I… couldn’t stop myself, for some bizarre reason.”
I blink, kind of stunned.
“Look, it won’t happen again. I’m sorry,” he says with actual sincerity.
“Thanks,” I say with a soft smile.
He nods once. “So, clean slate?”
I extend my hand across to him, “Clean slate. Like civil, grown adults.”
His palm is rough and warm when it closes around mine.
“Civil, huh?” His brow arches, playful again. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling. “See? Those are the kind of comments I was going on about!” I sit straighter, meeting his gaze. “But while I’m getting more than one word out of you, I want more than stable duty. I didn’t fly across the ocean to shovel shit. I can handle a lot more than you think.”
His thumb taps the steering wheel; I can almost see the buffering symbol above his head as he thinks. And just when I am about to demand a response, he finally says, “We’ll see.”
That’s it. Two words. But the way he says them—calm and steady—changes the energy between us. It feels lighter than it did on the way here, and I can’t help feeling more hopeful that, going forward, things at Meadow Bell Ranch are going to be smooth sailing.