I was less than two weeks into being sixteen and didn’t have my driver’s license yet. Sure, most kids rush out to get their permit the first moment they can, but the truth was, driving always made me nervous. Especially after my mother’s lone, white-knuckled attempt to teach me last spring that left us both perfectly fine with never trying that again.

“You can walk,” Grandma Jo assured. “There are shops two blocks up the street. Getting outside will do you good.”

Damn. Thwarted. Dad might be the chess player in the family, but Grandma Jo was the one always three moves ahead.

I was about to raise the possibility/likelihood that Arthur didn’t want to go with me when Grandma Jo glanced over my shoulder and smiled brightly.

“Hello, Arthur.”

I turned to see the subject of our debate appear from around the corner, already dressed to head outside. He smiled at my grandmother in return and even gave the slightest bow. Guess he did have manners after all. Just not for me.

“Ms. Brown, hello.”

“So Finley here will go with you on your shopping trip.”

Arthur blinked. Twice. “Oh?”

He was obviously caught off guard by the idea and I saw my opening. “Unless you want to go by yourself,” I said quickly.

“Finley knows exactly where to go,” Grandma Jo said before he could respond, her hand on my elbow. “She’ll make sure you get what you’re looking for. And it’ll make your aunt feel so much better knowing you have company.”

His dark eyes finally met mine.

I tried to telegraph, Not my idea!

This earned a straightening of shoulders and a forced smile. But, like me, he was no match for my grandmother, so he wisely said, “Wonderful . . .”

And five minutes later, I was bundled against the cold in my coat, scarf, and knit hat and walking beside Arthur up the residential block where the inn was located. Our destination was Boots Boulevard, a commercial street with a string of ’80s strip malls that contained about a third of the active stores from its heyday. The rest were left with FOR LEASE signs in the windows.

Neither of us said a word.

To my surprise, he let me lead. My goal was to get this over with as fast as humanly possible. I marched us past the empty shops and Deck the Bagel until we were standing in front of the town’s western wear clothing store: Wrapped Yule Up.

Arthur stared at the sign. “I can’t tell if that pun is terrible or impressive.”

I squinted up at it, too. “I’ve always thought it was impressively terrible.”

His lips quirked, bemused. “Which is terribly impressive.”

“Either way, they have Wranglers.”

He frowned. “Aren’t we on a quest for jeans?”

“In Oklahoma, they’re the same thing.”

“It’s a slang term?”

“No, it’s a brand. But it’s the brand everybody wears.”