“Is that a requirement?”

“Not officially. It’s kind of the same idea for Coke. Around here, it doesn’t matter what kind of pop you order, everyone calls it a Coke.”

“Seems restrictive. And what’s a ‘pop’?”

“Same as a soda, as in ‘soda pop.’ But that’s another story and we’re here to get you jeans.”

“Wranglers.”

I snorted. “Look at you, learning.”

He gave a half shrug, but I caught the hint of self-satisfaction.

The door to the store opened and an older man I didn’t recognize stepped out. Probably a tourist. He held the door for Arthur and me to enter, and smiled politely at both of us as we passed by. Only I smiled back. Arthur seemed puzzled.

“Do you know him?” Arthur asked, glancing back in the direction of the man who was already out of sight.

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Why?”

“He seemed . . . friendly.”

I laughed at his confusion. “That’s how people are in this part of the world,” I assured him. Part of the culture shock I went through when I arrived at Barrington was realizing that the aggressively friendly demeanor I took for granted growing up in Oklahoma did not translate well to an East Coast boarding school. I’d been called chipper more times than I could count and it was never a compliment.

Once inside, Arthur’s attention turned to the surroundings.

Despite the terrible store name, the space was remarkably well organized. It would never compete with Langston’s in Oklahoma City or any of the major brand stores, obviously. But it did all right. Red brick on one wall. Pine floors and shelving that held all manner of western wear and anything else that struck the owner’s fancy. Saddles, ropes, horseshoes, stirrups, etc., hung on the walls like art.

Men’s attire was in the back, which is where I tried to lead Arthur but he was suddenly hit by a case of tourist ADD. He touched every Christmas, OK-stamped souvenir and knickknack on the tables between the door and our destination. Cowboy hats, T-shirts, sweatshirts, trucker hats, shot glasses, cowboy boots galore, plaid shirts, turquoise belt buckles, and on and on.

I tried to be patient, reminding myself this was probably as foreign to him as Harrods would be for me if I ever made it to London. But when he picked up the Christmas bacon lip balm I had to intervene.

“Jeans are this way.” I pointed.

He ignored me and uncapped the tube of balm. Sniffed and winced.

“That’s not bacon.”

Dammit. Now I was curious.

I stepped closer. “What is it, then?”

He held it out for me to sniff. Which, despite knowing this wouldn’t end well, I did. And promptly tried not to gag. It was definitely not bacon.

“Right?” That was as close to gleeful as I’d seen him get. Figures.