“Sounds like a gruesome death.”
“It is. Sorry, I watch a lot of Discovery channel,” Grace said with a laugh.
“Nothing wrong with knowing interesting facts. Did you know honey never goes bad?”
Her plump lips curved into a grin. I could have kissed them right then and there, but I broke eye contact, looking at my feet instead. Grace made me nervous, real nervous. I think she probably had that effect on a lot of people. I had forgotten what nerves felt like—them little tingles on the skin and that whoosh of butterflies in my belly. I couldn’t remember the last time I had that feeling. Well, actually, I could and it didn’t end well.
Grace walked in step beside me. “I think I read that somewhere. But my brussels sprouts recipe calls for honey, so I can use up a little bit of your collection.”
“Kismet.”
“Indeed,” she said with a nod.
I pointed up ahead at Wind River. “I get some good fishing out of there and some good swimming too.”
We stood at the edge of the water. It babbled in some parts where it brushed over large rocks. In other parts it sounded like a whoosh, like water coming too quick out of a faucet. Beyond it was the woods—thick, twisting, and dark. My father always used to say: Anything goes in the woods. It’s like Vegas for wildlife. Has its own boundaries, its own cover, and the plants and animals do whatever it takes to survive in there.
Past that were the mountains. They served as a reminder of how small and insignificant we all were. I liked looking at them when I felt frustrated with my own life. The tops were white from snow that wouldn’t touch the ground we stood on for another few months.
“What do you catch?” Grace looked at me and then back at the water.
I slid my hands into my pockets. “Most everything. Walleye, perch, largemouth bass, but my favorite is golden trout.”
We stood in silence for a few moments, taking it all in.
“I’m going to assume you ain’t ever fished.” I glanced over at her.
She cocked her head. “You know what they say about assuming.”
“So, you have?”
“No, I haven’t.” Grace laughed.
“Now you’re just yanking my chain, Grace Evans, aren’t you?” I smirked, tipping my head toward her.
She playfully bumped her shoulder into me. “I could have fished. I just don’t know how to.”
The sun reflected off of her eyes. I could get real used to looking at them blue, blue eyes.
“I can teach ya if ya want.” I smiled.
She nodded. “I’d love that, Calvin Wells.”
There she went again, using my full name, making my stomach get all turned upside down. I missed that feeling, but I wasn’t ready for a girl like her. She was going to make resisting her the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But deep down, I already knew I’d fail at that.
7.
Grace
I put the car in park right in front of Betty’s Boutique, a local clothing shop that offered western-style women’s clothing. From what I had seen, downtown Dubois was the whole town, one street full of local businesses and angled parking on both sides. It felt like I had walked into the 1950s. There wasn’t a chain store or restaurant in sight, and everyone seemed to know one another—well, except me. I got out of the car and flung my purse over my shoulder. This is where Calvin had said I could get myself some proper “Wyoming wear,” as he put it. He had more work to tend to on the ranch, so I figured if I was going to fish and ride horses, I may as well look the part. A woman walked by, delivering a friendly smile and a hello. I nodded back. She gave me an odd look, and I couldn’t tell if it was from my curt acknowledgment or because I was a stranger, both oddities around here.
I went inside the store and before I even got the chance to look around, I was greeted by a plump woman with short graying hair, a round face, and rosy cheeks. She walked right up to me from behind the counter, wearing a floral dress that had no shape to it.
“Welcome to Betty’s Boutique,” she said. “What brings you in today?” I could have fit a pencil sideways in her mouth, that’s how wide her smile was.
The shop was a hodgepodge of used and new clothing. Everything was either jean or leather or covered in prints like floral, plaid, and flannel. It was very, very country, like nothing I had ever seen before. I only started doing the throw-a-dart-at-a-map vacation six years ago. It had led me to Florida, California, Maine, Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, and California again, but thank God it was on the opposite end of the state the second time around. So, this style of the country was very foreign to me. Personally, my wardrobe stuck to neutral colors, mostly black. If I wanted to bring attention to myself, I’d dress otherwise.
“I’m just looking for some proper Wyoming wear.” There was apprehension in my voice as I picked up the sleeve of a brown leather jacket complete with tassels.
“You’ve come to the right place. My name’s Betty. You’re not familiar to me. You new here?” She looked me up and down—not in a judgmental way, more like I was brought in on consignment, and she was determining my worth.
“Yes . . . no. I’m just vacationing here through next week.” I gave her a tight smile, hoping I could get on with it. I wasn’t one for small talk, and I’d much rather shop in silence.
She raised an eyebrow. “You here with your husband?”
It was a 1950s question, like women couldn’t travel alone.
“No.” I eyed up a mannequin dressed in a floral print summer dress. It had way more shape than the one Betty was wearing.
“That’s very Eat, Pray, Love of you,” she said with a smile.
“Yeah, something like that.” I shrugged.
Pushing some clothing around on a nearly stuffed rack, I pulled out a pair of Daisy Dukes and a black tank. Also not my style, but sometimes you have to look the part.
“You’re sure to get the boys’ attention ’round here with an outfit like that.” She raised both her brows this time. I couldn’t tell if she was judging me or making conversation.
“I’m just looking for something I can get dirty.”
“That’ll work. Perhaps a pair of cowboy boots right over there too.” Betty pointed to a neat row of boots.
I nodded and moseyed around the store, picking up another pair of jean shorts and a white tank. Betty watched me carefully. Her mouth kept opening and closing as if she was torn between chatting with me or making a sale. She seemed like one of those people who knew everything about everyone. Like the neighbor who watches out their window, two fingers separating a set of blinds to peek at the outside world. If there was a neighborhood watch around here, she was surely the president of it.
“Where ya staying?” she finally settled on, just as I was slipping on a pair of cowboy boots. I walked back and forth in front of the mirror with them on. They were comfortable, but I wasn’t used to them.
“On a ranch about twenty minutes down the road. Airbnb . . .” I said as I wiggled my toes in the boots and rocked back on my heels. I sat down, slid them off, and put my tennis shoes back on.
“Oh, you must be staying with Calvin Wells. He’s the only one who does that rental property stuff around here. Aside from the local motel, we don’t get too many visitors.” Her brows slightly drew together.