She took another step back and saw a big body move away from her window, a brown Stetson perched on the man’s head.

That was one of Hank’s younger brothers. He’d been checking in on her—like they had for the last while, ever since she and Hank had been over—and he’d seen everything. He’d seen Greg grabbing her like a schoolboy.

It probably looked terrible.

She should have run after him and tried to explain herself . . . but why? Hank didn’t love her. He hadn’t even tried to keep her. She was surrounded by men who were just using her, it seemed. Becca laughed, the sound brittle and pained even to her own ears, and scooped her puppy up again, burying her face against her soft fur. At least this would keep Greg off her.

“I think someone saw us,” Greg said, curious. “Pretty sure I just saw Hannah across the street. Should I go and try to explain? You know how she loves to gossip.”

She shook her head. “Why bother? Let them think what they want.” She didn’t care anymore.

*   *   *

Hank stabbed his pitchfork into the square hay bale in front of him as if it had personally offended him. Sometimes it felt good to stab at things like that. After all, he couldn’t shout at the world about how angry he was. He couldn’t stomp around all day, because his daughter would get upset and the others would nag him. So he stabbed hay with pitchforks and tried not to think about Becca. Becca, who’d told him she loved him with shining eyes. Becca, who gutted him in the next moment by declaring she would never move to Alaska.

He stabbed at the hay again, spearing a clump and tossing it into the wheelbarrow. It had been over a week since he’d last seen her and it still felt as if someone had shotgunned him in the gut. Actually, that might have hurt less. The pain would have certainly been over a lot quicker. Dating Adria—ha, if he could even think of it as that—had never been this tough. He’d never been caught up in emotions. When he’d found out the truth about her and she’d admitted it, he’d just felt . . . stupid. Like he should have known better. But with Becca?

The pain kept going. On and on, like it was going to destroy him from the inside out.

She loved him.

She wouldn’t live with him, though. Wouldn’t leave to go to Alaska with him, because apparently cutting people’s hair was more important than being with him. And wasn’t that just the kicker? He wasn’t as important as her business was. He wasn’t as important as making money. Him and Libby both.