Chapter One
Maisy
The sun is dipping low, painting the sky in haunting shades of orange and gold. For a moment, I remember the feel of my mom’s arms as she held me close and my papa’s soft rumbling voice when he passed me a hot chocolate.
Like I have every day for four months, I will myself not to cry. I’m alone at the Courage County Barbershop but this is a small town. People are always watching, and I won’t give anyone a front row seat to my grief. Some things in life are private, especially my pain.
I finish sweeping up the hair on the floor and put a hand to my back as I straighten. At least, the day is done…or it is for most people.
I’ll go home and look after three rambunctious boys. The triplets my parents adopted just two years ago are six now. They don’t understand why mama and papa haven’t come home to them. They ask me for them every night. I always point to the stars and remind them that they’re at the big farm in the sky.
After I get them fed and bathed and put down for sleep, I’ll go out to the barn and muck stalls. I’ll do everything I can to keep the animals that my parents left behind clean and warm. I’ll work until the wee morning and collapse in bed long enough to grab a couple of hours of sleep before I start the whole process of working, parenting, and farming again.
The farm has been in my family for six generations. Papa’s chest would always puff out when he told me that. What he didn’t tell me was the farm was in danger of going under or that in an effort to save money, he’d canceled his life insurance policy. There wasn’t even money to bury them except that the town church took up donations to give them proper headstones.
If I’d known how hard things were, I wouldn’t have gone away to a fancy school out of state with an outrageous tuition cost. I would have stayed home. I would have found a way to help my parents. Maybe they’d both still be alive if…I shake my head. The thoughts do me no good. They just lead me in circles, wondering what I could have done different.
The bell over the door rings, surprising me. I thought I’d locked up already. My feet are tired and my back aches. Still, I’m not willing to turn down a potential tip. Since my parents passed, I look at everything differently now. Especially money.
Now, I calculate the price of toilet paper by how many haircuts I’ll have to give. I count how many loaves of bread a good tip can provide and if the tip isn’t good, I start thinking about how many meals I can skip to make sure my brothers eat.
Things will be different once I marry Tristan. He’s going to wipe out the debt on my family’s farm in exchange for our marriage. His family is one of the richest in town and this will keep a roof over our heads.
He came into the barbershop the day I got the notice of the foreclosure. He could tell I was upset and listened as I told him my troubles. I’m not normally the type to talk but I was pretty upset then. He took me out for lunch a couple times that week. Then around the third meal together, he told me he’d hatched a plan that could save my family’s farm.
I agreed because I didn’t know what else to do. I know this marriage may not be the best thing for me. I mean, he’s movie-star handsome, but he knows it. He struts around like a peacock and the thought of being his makes bile rise in my throat. Still, I made a promise, and I’ll stand by my word.
This is the only way out so I’ll take it with my head held high and the little dignity I can muster. After all, Whitlocks don’t whine. How many times did Papa say that when the crops failed to yield enough, or half his herd died due to contaminated drinking water? He was a strong man and I’m going to make him proud.
When I turn to greet my customer, my heart leaps in my chest and my breath comes out in a whoosh.
Striker.
I’ve seen him around town. Lately, he seems to have a tendency to show up where I am, but I know that has to be nothing more than my imagination. He’s probably twice my age with thick brown hair covered by a Stetson. His long beard is peppered with gray, and every time I see it, I want to run my fingers through it. I want to know if it’s just as soft as I’m thinking it would be.
His black work shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, showing off muscular forearms that are covered in tattoos. My eyes skim higher, appreciating the swells of his biceps. More tattoos are there, disappearing under his sleeves. I want to tell him to take it off. I want to see all of them, to map his skin and know it intimately.
But it’s more than the beard and tattoos. Striker is attractive because of the way he looks at me with that brown gaze. It’s always filled with masculine hunger and primal need, like he would eat me up if he ever got me alone. Which I guess, we kind of are now.
I try to remind myself that I’m engaged. I’ll be married to another man soon and that means ignoring this pesky attraction. Even if I can’t help comparing Tristan’s beady gaze to the adoration in Striker’s. No, not adoration. Just lust. I need to remember that.
“What can I do for you?” My voice comes out in a breathy whisper.
He pulls off his Stetson but doesn’t say anything. I don’t think Striker has ever said a single word to me. Oh, I’ve heard of his reputation. They say he’s mean as a rattlesnake. Most of the townsfolk try to avoid him. Even Emma May doesn’t like to ring up his groceries at the store and she’s practically Mother Teresa around here.
It’s strange to me the way people treat him. I can’t explain why he hides behind the reputation but for some reason, he does. I know deep in my bones that he’s not like that. Underneath the grumpy cowboy exterior, there beats the heart of a good man.
I step behind him, suddenly aware of how small I am compared to him. His shoulders are huge, so wide and broad. I bet he’s the kind of man that could scoop up the triplets and carry them all at once.
With shaking fingers, I reach for the leather tie holding his hair back. Long, silky strands fall free, and I run my hands through the locks. It’s part of my job. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Striker groans like I’m doing something far more erotic than just touching his hair and the thought that I’m being inappropriate with a customer forces me to drop my hand. Calming myself, I slip back into business mode. “How about I even some of this up and maybe trim your beard?”
He nods, and I try to think if I’ve ever heard him say a word to anyone in town. I’m pretty sure he just grunts to communicate.
I lead him to the shampoo chairs, feeling his gaze on me the entire time. There’s an awareness in my body that wasn’t here before he arrived. My nipples are pebbled in my bra. My thighs are slick and I’m hot all over. For a moment, I wonder what it would be like to strip down and cool off. To let Striker’s hungry gaze consume my naked curves. Would he like them? Would he find the roundness of my breasts enticing? Would he slide his big, work-roughened hands around my hips and groan about how perfect they are?
He settles in the chair I indicate, and it groans under his weight. He’s so big, a hulking Goliath in a doll’s chair. The thought has me wanting to crawl into his lap and let him put his fingers up my too short skirt.
“Lean back,” I instruct as I wrap the cape around him to keep him from getting wet. I let my fingers linger against the warm skin of his neck a second longer than I normally would. Is this what it’s like to be attracted to someone?
I never dated in high school. Papa was determined that I would get out of this place, that I would leave Courage County in my rearview mirror. It would be the town I returned to only for the occasional family reunion.
At the time, I didn’t understand. But after he and mama passed, I found their marriage certificate. They were married and six months later, I was born. She had dreams, big dreams of leaving our town.
I guess he always felt like he held her back and he was determined that wouldn’t happen to me. If only he could see me now, about to marry a man I don’t love to save our family’s legacy.
I take my time washing Striker’s hair, making sure to lather up the shampoo. He practically purrs as I massage his scalp. But the sound doesn’t remind me of a tame, domesticated house cat. No, this is the purr of something wild and untamed, a savage lion with a hungry glint in his eye.
When I’ve finished rinsing the shampoo, I direct Striker to a new chair for his cut. “Just a trim?” I confirm.
He reaches for my wrist, wrapping his big fingers around mine. I’ve never thought of myself as a small girl, but his touch makes me feel delicate and little and protected. Warmth wraps around me. I haven’t felt protected since the day I got the news my parents passed away and that I’m alone in the world except for my little brothers.
When he speaks, his voice is deep and gravelly. As if he hasn’t spoken aloud to anyone in months. “Even. Make it perfectly even.”
I nod and he finally releases my wrist. I rub the spot where his fingers were, feeling branded there. I take extra care to make sure that his beard and hair are both cut evenly.
Soon as I’m done, he’s gathering it in another ponytail and putting on his Stetson. He pays for the cut and shampoo. He tips me too much, a hundred dollars over what he should.
I try to give it back to him, the familiar Whitlock pride bubbling up inside of me. “Whitlocks don’t take charity.”
He squints at me. At least, I think he does. It’s hard to see under the brim of his black Stetson. I miss seeing those sparkling dark eyes raking over me.
“Seems like an after-hours cut. Means a rush fee.” Striker ignores my protests and says, “Don’t marry Tristan. You’ll regret it.”
Then he’s gone, disappearing from the barbershop and leaving me to wonder about this grumpy cowboy who’s never spoken to me before tonight.