Before Tuf could sort through this new information, Ace drove up to his clinic area and Colt pulled in behind him. They waved and went inside. They were giving him his space, and he should be happy about that, but in truth, he didn’t understand it. If one of them or Beau or Duke had disappeared for two years without a word, he’d be mad as hell. But he was the one who’d left Thunder Ranch and his family. They had gotten used to life without him. Deep in his heart, though, he knew this standoff wasn’t going to last. Soon someone would pop the cork of their bottled-up emotions and Tuf would be held accountable for his decisions.
* * *
ON HIS WAY INTO TOWN, he passed the Wright property. All was quiet, not a soul in sight. It was nice to know the Harts and Wrights were getting along so well. Very nice. He wondered if Cheyenne’s husband was with her. Or if she had a husband. From the look in her eyes, he knew something bad had happened in her life. What?
He was thinking too much about her and turned his attention to the view. It hadn’t snowed in days, but it still lingered across the landscape and nestled in the ponderosa pines. The chilly blue sky went on forever, and he was sure it reached into eternity with its wondrous breadth and depth. There weren’t skies like that in Afghanistan.
As he turned onto Main Street, he looked for a parking spot near Austin’s store. He swerved into a space and removed his keys. He’d purchased the silver Ford Lariat pickup in Maryland because he needed a way to get around. First new truck he’d ever owned, but he figured he’d earned it, since his pay had been piling up in his checking account. But he should have thought that over a little more. His mom said things were tight and the ranch could have used the money. Readjusting to the real world was a hell of a blow.
Getting out, he locked the doors, pocketed the keys and walked into Wright’s Western Wear and Tack. A bell jangled over the door and the scent of leather reached him. He came to a complete stop.
Cheyenne was behind a counter, arranging colorful jewelry in a glass case. She looked up, her green eyes startled. Her red hair was clipped behind her head and strands dangled around her pretty face. A flashback hit him that had nothing to do with Afghanistan. He was seventeen years old and sitting in the school auditorium right behind Cheyenne Wright, staring at the back of her hair pinned up much like it was today. Several loose strands curled against the curve of her neck, and he’d wondered if he reached out with one finger and gently tugged her hair toward his lips if it would taste like cinnamon. Which was odd, because Cheyenne never gave him any indication she wanted him to taste any part of her.
Strange how that memory lingered in his mind.
“Can I help you?” she asked in the coolest voice he’d ever heard.
Chapter Three
Cheyenne’s heart pounded in her chest at an alarming rate—too alarming to suit her. What was Tuf doing here? And why was he still standing at the door?
Closing the glass case with a snap, she asked again, “Can I help you with something?”
He removed his hat like a true gentleman and stepped closer to her. Well over six feet with wide shoulders, he was a little intimidating, which she was made very aware of by the flutter in her stomach. His dark brown hair was cut short and neat, and the lines of his face were all sharp bones and angles. A tiny scar over his left cheek added to his manly image.
The scar wasn’t something new. He’d had it in school. Rumor was he’d fallen off a horse when he was about three and hit a water trough.
“Is Austin here?”
She cleared her throat. “No…no, he’s over at the diner having coffee with Dinah. He should be back shortly.”
“Oh.” He looked around. “I need some clothes. Do you mind if I look around?”
“Um…no.” Was she supposed to help him? Why couldn’t he wait until Austin returned?
He settled his hat onto his head and glanced at the items on racks and shelves. Without taking time to look at anything, he grabbed T-shirts, socks, long johns and Jockey shorts.
He wears briefs.
Cheyenne took a deep breath. She really didn’t need to know that.
After laying his load on the counter, he walked to a round rack of Western shirts. He found his size and reached for a handful. Good heavens, he didn’t even look at the style or the color. Unable to stand it, she made her way to his side and tried not to frown.
“Don’t you want to look at the shirts?”
“No. Why?”
She suppressed a groan. “They’re different. Some are solids, prints, plaids and checks.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s a shirt.”
She gritted her teeth. “Some have snaps. Some have buttons.”
“Doesn’t matter. I can handle both.”
“This is ridiculous. No one buys clothes without looking at them.”
He shrugged. “I’ve been buying my clothes since I was about sixteen and that’s my method.”
That would account for that god-awful shirt he wore in school.
He pointed to her face. “You’re frowning. What’s wrong with the way I buy clothes?”
Now she’d stepped in it. Why was she even talking to him? She should have stayed at the counter. She bit her lip and stepped in a little deeper. “I was remembering that bright pumpkin-orange shirt with purple piping you wore in school. Evidently you had on sunglasses when you bought it.”
He gave a cocky grin. “Ah, the orange shirt. My friends and I were in Billings getting rodeo supplies and they had that shirt in the window. I said someone would have to pay me to wear something so gaudy. Well, that’s what my friends did. They bought it and paid me twenty bucks to wear it to school. It got a lot of attention and laughs. I’m sure I still have it. My mom never throws anything away. It’s too small for me now, but you can have it if you like.” He lifted a daring eyebrow.
“No, thanks.” She took the shirts out of his hands and held one up. “This is a solid baby-blue Western with pearl snaps. It comes in white, yellow and pink. You might prefer the yellow.”
His grin widened and she felt a kick to her lower abdomen. “No. I prefer the blue.”
“See. That’s shopping. Making a decision.” She held up another. “This is a light blue check. We have it in dark blue, too.”
“I’ll take the dark blue.”
“And this—” she pulled a shirt off the rack “—is red, white and blue. It was made popular by Garth Brooks. Since you’re a former marine, you might like it.”
“I do.” He glanced at the shirt and then at her. “But don’t you think it’s a little loud?”
It was, but she wasn’t going to admit that after the orange-shirt comment. “It’s fine.”
“Good. I’ll take three.”
She had a feeling he didn’t really care. To him it was just a shirt, like he’d said. She found that so strange. Her husband, Ryan, had been a picky dresser. Sometimes she took shirts back three or four times before she could find one he liked. And they had to be starched and ironed before he’d wear them. If they weren’t… Her hand instinctively went to her cheek.
“Do you have any chambray shirts and jeans?” He glanced at the shirts hung against a wall.
“Yes.” She waved her hand. “And Austin has a lot more on this round rack. What color?”
“Light blue.”
“Not