“Bye.” She stayed in place, clutching the broom handle in one hand, the flyer in the other, until Sage headed out of the salon and down the cold, snowy sidewalk of quaint Main Street. Once the other woman disappeared, Becca returned to calmly sweeping . . .

For all of a minute. Her hands were shaking and she gave up, setting the broom down and then walking to her small office at the back of the salon, where she kept her bookkeeping items and the tiny refrigerator with her lunch. She shut the door behind her, thumped down on a stool, and took a long, steeling breath.

She would not cry.

She would not cry.

Greg didn’t deserve her tears. He’d had ten years of her life, keeping her on hold and promising her that they’d get married soon, soon, soon, and then soon finally had a date . . . a date he’d never gone along with. She’d given him enough of her time and energy. She wanted to move on.

Why wouldn’t anyone let her freaking move on?

She swiped at the corners of her eyes carefully, proud that there were only a few stray tears instead of the normal deluge. Good. That meant she wouldn’t have to go to extremes to fix her makeup, just a little touch-up here and there. She could end the day on a high note, in case she had any walk-ins. Of course, if she did have one, they’d probably just ask her about Greg again . . .

Her lip wobbled. Damn it.

As Becca sniffed and dabbed her face dry, the door opened in the main area of the salon, the bell chiming. Crap. Sage had probably come back to apologize again, and that would make Becca cry even harder and ruin her evening. She’d just have to somehow tell the well-meaning pregnant woman that really, truly, she was fine and really, honestly, she did not want to talk about it. Gritting her teeth, she forced a bright smile to her face, pinched her cheeks so the rosiness there would hopefully distract from her red eyes, and opened the door to face Sage.

Except . . . it wasn’t Sage.

The hulking man that stood in the doorway wasn’t anything like the mayor. In fact, Becca had never seen this man in her life. That was something interesting in itself, considering that Painted Barrel was a small town nestled in the less populated north of Wyoming, and most of the people that lived here tended to be lifers. Becca had grown up here, and she knew everyone in the small town. It was both comfort and annoyance—and lately it had been far more of the latter.