The day Ruby had stood in front of her mother and announced that she would never again set foot on a pageant stage had been the best—and worst—of her life. It had been like stepping out of prison after a decade behind bars, crawling out from a hole in the ground and feeling the sunlight on her skin for the first time. She’d been free—to make her own choices, to carve her own path, to go through life without a panel of judges commenting on everything she ate and wore and said.

She’d also quickly realized that without the pressure of competition to sustain her—without the drive to win, to succeed—she was about as useful a creature as Wheezy. It had been almost a decade since she hung up her tiara, and what had she done with her life since then?

The answer was easy: nothing.

But that didn’t mean she was completely useless. Especially when it came to pageantry. If this Spencer Wilson thought a condescending glare was all it took to stop her, he was about to learn the lesson of a lifetime.

Mrs. Orson must have picked up on some of Ruby’s thoughts because she let out a laugh. “I knew I chose the right woman for the job.” She turned her attention back to her book. “Now get to work before Harry comes back to look for you. I’ve had just about enough of his face for one day.”

So had Ruby, but there were eight more hours of it to get through. And then eight hours after that. And eight hours after that…

She suppressed a sigh and leaned down to drop a kiss on Mrs. Orson’s papery cheek. If nothing else, at least this dog show would give her something—and someone—else to focus her energies on. She might not be able to beat Harry Gunderson at his own game, but she could give Spencer a run for his money. Of that she was sure.

“I’ll do this for you, Mrs. Orson, but I should warn you ahead of time that pageantry isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It can be awfully cruel sometimes.”

“So can life, dear.” Mrs. Orson didn’t bother looking up from her book. “Yet here we both are, living it anyway.”

Chapter 3

Spencer pulled his truck around the back of his house, the vehicle jostling up and down over a path that was growing increasingly rutted as time went by. There was a perfectly good driveway a few feet away, leading up to a perfectly good garage, but Spencer hadn’t touched either of them in months.