Days passed, and her heart continued to ache like an open wound. She’d occasionally see a big, tall man around town with a dark beard and her heart would skip a beat . . . only to realize it was one of his brothers. They never failed to pass by her salon and peer into the windows, as if checking up on her. So she made sure to laugh a little harder than she felt, tried to seem a bit more joyous than she really was, and basically acted like she was having the best time in her life when she was secretly dying inside.

Becca missed him, though. She missed Hank’s big presence, his steadfast protectiveness, and his quiet calm. She missed his capable hands and his scratchy beard and everything about him. She missed Libby, too. She missed the little girl’s sweet laughter and her constant questions, and the array of drawings pinned on one wall of the salon reminded her of just how much she’d miss the little one when they were truly gone to Alaska.

She knew they hadn’t gone yet. The rumor mill chugged constantly in Painted Barrel, and word was that Doc up at the Swinging C was looking for more experienced ranch hands but hadn’t found any yet. She supposed she should have been glad about that, but it just made her pain linger, like slowly peeling off a Band-Aid. She wanted to rip it free, to get the pain over with in one quick, searing bolt, and then move on with her life.

Of course, life didn’t work out that way. It never did. After all, Greg had never left Painted Barrel, and so she’d had to deal with his presence constantly in her face after the Wedding That Wasn’t. And she’d gotten through that.

She’d get through this, too.

It was as if thinking about Greg brought him out of the woodwork. The next day, he walked into her salon with a bouquet of daisies and a smile on her face, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. She kinda felt like doing both.

“Becca! How’s my favorite girl?” He threw his arms wide, indicating he wanted a hug, as he strolled into her salon.

Ugh. How was his favorite girl? Sick of your shit, she wanted to say, and a laugh bubbled up in her throat. She was so tired of pretending to be just fine, just fine. With Greg here in her face—with flowers, no less—she couldn’t decide if this was some sick brand of karma playing out or if she was just going to be tortured to death by the universe.