Rope the Moon (Runaway Ranch, #2)(44)

“It’s the off-season.”

I give her a look. “More than that.”

Fallon smashes a pack of cigarettes onto the shelf behind the register. “We’re a mom-and-pop place at the end of the damn block, Dakota. No one cares about us. Locals go to Billings to stock up at Costco. And now there’s the Little Prairie Market just off of Main.”

I perk up. “What’s that?”

“Some fancy indie grocery store from Colorado. Opened in January.” Her nose wrinkles in disgust. “They have a little bit of everything. Clothes. Natural foods. You’d think the World’s Fair came to town.”

I laugh.

A hitch of her slender shoulder. “We’re small potatoes. We have all-day pastrami—Dad’s recipe. And breakfast. That’s probably all that’ll save us.”

Then why. Why are we still here? I want to ask. But I know the answer. It’s all over my sister’s face. Guilt.

Fallon’s a good girl, a good daughter. She won’t leave like our mother did.

I turn to her. “Do you ever think about talking to Dad about closing it?”

The look she gives me could burn fire. “Closing it would end our father.”

“I know,” I say, feeling chided.

Thoughts spin through my head. I hate the unknown. The ingrained need to game-plan and fix has always been a constant cycle inside of me.

The soft jingle of the door chimes has both of us looking up.

A man about the same age as my father enters the store. He booms a hello.

“You wanted a customer,” Fallon says wryly. “You got him.”

I smile at the familiar voice. Waylon Wiggins, the local American Legion president and owner of the world-record-setting buck displayed at the Cabela’s in Billings, waddles down the aisle to the register. Tall and heavyset, he sports a salt-and-pepper beard and a laugh as big as his belly.

“Wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it with my own two eyes. Little Koty McGraw, come home to roost.”

“Everyone’s coming to see the runaway girl,” Fallon mutters under her breath.

“Here I am,” I say, ignoring the sting of my sister’s words. “In the flesh.”

“You finally come home to help your daddy?” Waylon booms as he bellies up to the register.

I fight a groan. Even the compliments are backhanded insults.

“Something like that.” I move behind the counter to avoid his weighted stare.

“You miss Resurrection?” he asks, scanning the shelf to his left.

“Oh, yeah,” I shoot back. “Go Bobcats.”

Waylon adjusts his suspenders, sucks at the chew tucked in his corner cheek. Then he swivels a fat finger between me and Fallon. “Now, isn’t that a sight to see? McGraw sisters back together. Pretty peas in a pod.”

Fallon rolls her eyes and disappears into the kitchen.

“How about that bakery of yours? Daddy’s pretty proud of you.”

Everything inside of me wilts. The last thing I want to talk about is my bakery.

Still, I give the man what he wants. A cheerful smile, a voice that reflects excitement. Grown up, successful Dakota McGraw. A woman who’s come home to help her father. Not a woman on the run from an abusive asshole who knocked her up and broke her arm. A woman with passion, a woman who got out and is still going places.

“He’s told me. Thanks, Waylon.”

“He said you make huckleberry pies that make the world stand still.” Waylon lurches his large frame to peer behind me. “Ain’t got any ‘round here, have you?”

I chuckle. “Nope. No pies.” Time for a subject change that doesn’t involve me. “What can I get you?”

“Pack of Copenhagen.” He grins down at me. “And toss in a lotto ticket for good luck. And these.”

I flinch when he throws a bag of old-fashioned cinnamon barrels on the counter.

Aiden’s favorite. Especially when he was angry. He’d put one in his mouth and suck on it, considering all the ways he could hurt me. Like some sick, fucking waterboarding torment. I hated the sound. I kept hoping he’d choke to death, but no such luck.

“You got it,” I say, turning away to the back shelves. Quickly, I make sure my CULINARY INSTITUTE OF AMERICA hoodie is loose around my belly. No one in Resurrection knows my business, and I want to keep it that way. Until…

Until what?

Until I make a clean getaway?

Until I figure out what I want to do with my mess of a life?

My back to Waylon, I pinch my eyes shut and try to breathe like a woman who isn’t having a mid-life crisis in her early thirties. The urge to give in and palm my stomach, to keep it protected, is a hollow ache in my chest. And yet, I don’t touch it.

I don’t deserve this little baby and it sure as hell deserves better than me.

“Koty?”

I jump at the boom of Waylon’s voice and spin around. “Sorry. One pack or two?”

“Two. But don’t tell my wife.”

Waylon and I both look over when the door chimes.

Waylon’s jowls quiver as his smirk widens. “Well, if it isn’t the Wild Witch of West Street.”

Amusement and dread grips my chest. Clea Lou Bauer, and her bouffant red hair, hustles through the aisles. She’s a local busybody who hosts Monday night book clubs at the library as a secret front for a neighborhood watch program.