Page 8 of Wilder Heart

He shook himself. “So, what’s the verdict?”

“They’re good.”

“Great. Let’s find you some good work boots, too. Something with laces you can tie up, and heavy soles.”

They worked their way through the whole store. A pair of brown, waterproof work boots joined the roper boots’ empty box at the cash register. Some nice snap button shirts joined the T-shirts, along with three warm flannels and a Carhartt coat for when the weather dropped off cold. Two belts joined the pile, and finally, they went to the hat wall.

“You grew up around here, so I assume you had one of these at some point, right?” Cash asked, picking one up at random and checking the size.

“Yeah, I did,” he said softly. He plucked a pale cream, straw hat off the display, checked the size, and put it on, adjusting it slightly and checking the mirror with a sharp eye. “Little big,” he remarked.

“Hm.” Cash stepped closer, lifting the hat off Wilder’s head and checking the size. The one in his other hand might work, so he set it on Wilder’s head, realizing as their eyes met that he’d pressed his way right into Wilder’s space, their bodies inches apart. He swallowed hard, refusing to shy away now. “How’s that?”

Their hands brushed as Wilder reached up to adjust it. “Good, yeah. This fits better.”

“Good.” He smiled faintly. “You look like a real cowboy now.”

Wilder chuckled weakly. “Anything else?”

“You could probably use more socks and boxers, yes? There are packs of those over there. I trust you can pick them out on your own.” He smiled cheekily, and if he didn’t know better, he’d say Wilder blushed.

“I think I can handle it. Ankle socks?” he teased as he drifted away.

“Well hell, here I come after you, if that’s how you want to play it,” Cash said, trailing after him to make sure he didn’t try to wearankle sockswith boots.

Wilder barked out a raspy laugh. “Christ, I’m kidding. I’ve worn boots before.”

He grabbed a pack of boot socks and a pack of dark-colored boxer briefs, casting Cash a look as though to say ‘see?’ After a moment’s thought, Cash grabbed him a pack of wool socks for winter and a second pack of boxer briefs.

“Better to have too many,” he said, pressing both into Wilder’s arms.

“Hope y’all have a laundry facility in the bunkhouse,” Wilder commented as he carried it all to the cash register.

“We do. I’ll show you where it is when we get back. If you’re up for it, we’ll saddle a couple of the horses and I’ll take you for a tour of the whole property. It’s probably changed quite a bit since—” He stopped, uncertain how to finish.

“Since I did a no good, very bad thing?” Wilder said, low and conspiratorial, and when his deep blue eyes cut toward Cash, they were swimming with dark mirth.

A shocked snort escaped Cash. It had seemed like such a big deal when Lain told him. How did Wilder manage to make it sound so inconsequential? It should be horrifying, but he supposed Wilder had to make light of it. There was no changing what he’d done, after all, and burying himself in guilt didn’t seem to be his style.

When he paid, he insisted that McKenzie not tell them the total, because he didn’t want Wilder worrying about it. She accepted the ranch’s card and charged it, then handed him the receipt folded so Wilder couldn’t get a glimpse of it.

“I’m paying it back, though,” Wilder said as they carried the bags out to the truck. “Shouldn’t I know how much it is?”

“Nope. Lain said it’ll come out in increments, so don’t worry about it.”

“How many increments?” Wilder asked as they tucked the bags in the backseat. “Over how many paychecks?”

Cash leveled a warning look at him from across the truck, leaning into the backseat to make sure the bags were secure. “Would you stop?”

“No,” Wilder replied matter-of-factly.

Cash shook his head, closing the door and climbing into the front. As he stuck the key in the ignition and Wilder climbed into the passenger seat, it occurred to him that Wilder probably hadn’t driven a car in a very long time, either.

“Do you have a valid driver’s license?” he asked.

Wilder blinked in surprise, then shook his head. “I got one when I was sixteen, but it expired years ago. They gave it back to me when I got out, but it’s out of date.”

“Hm. I’ll add that to the docket, then. Never know when you might need to drive a work truck around. I assume you’ll have to go to meetings with your parole officer, too, right?”

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