Page 11 of Knotting the Cowboys

"So here's the thing," Wendolyn says, still with her arm linked through mine like we're strolling through a park instead of standing next to my life's wreckage. "I've got this spare room above my shop. Nothing fancy—just a bed, dresser, little bathroom. But it's clean, it's safe, and it's currently storing nothing but books I keep meaning to donate and a truly embarrassing number of vintage hats."

I stop walking, forcing her to stop too.

"Wendolyn—"

"Now before you get all prideful on me," she continues, "let me tell you about the catch. The shop's right below, and we open at six-thirty sharp. Coffee grinder starts at six-fifteen, and let me tell you, that thing is louder than Harold's cologne is strong. Plus, we get the morning rush of every caffeine-addicted soul in Sweetwater Falls, all desperate for their fix."

"I can't just?—"

"And don't even get me started on pumpkin spice season." She rolls her eyes dramatically. "Which is right now, by the way. I swear I've made more pumpkin spice lattes in the past week than should be legally allowed. The smell gets into everything. Your clothes, your hair, your dreams. You'll be sneezing cinnamon and nutmeg."

"You don't even know me." The words come out smaller than intended, but they need to be said. "I could be anyone. I could be dangerous."

"Honey, the only danger you pose right now is to yourself." Her voice gentles, but she doesn't let go of my arm. "And maybe to my tissue supply, but I buy in bulk."

Man, she is hilarious.

"I can't pay much." The admission burns, but it's better than taking charity under false pretenses. "My car's dead, and I've got maybe a hundred dollars to my name."

"Did I mention rent? No, because I'm not charging any." She starts walking again, gently tugging me along. "Look, the room's just sitting there. Actually, it's doing less than sitting—it's actively collecting dust and making me feel guilty every time I walk past. You'd be doing me a favor."

"That's not how favors work."

"It is in my world." We round a corner, and she gestures ahead. "There she is. Wildflower & Wren, in all her quirky glory."

The bookstore-cafe is impossible to miss, even in the dying light.

Painted sage green with white trim, it has a wraparound porch with little tables and chairs, fairy lights strung along the railings. The sign hanging above the door features hand-painted wildflowers and a tiny wren perched on the ampersand. Window boxes overflow with actual wildflowers, defying the October chill with bursts of color.

"It's beautiful," I say, meaning it.

"She's my baby." Pride warms Wendolyn's voice. "Books on one side, coffee on the other, and a whole lot of organized chaos in between. We host book clubs, writers' groups, even a weekly knitting circle that's really just an excuse for the town gossips to gather intelligence."

"And you live above it?"

"Just me and Fitzgerald—that's my cat. Rescued him from behind the dumpster last winter, and now he thinks he owns the place." She squeezes my arm. "Fair warning, he's orange, he's massive, and he has opinions about everything."

I'm wavering. I can feel it in the way my resistance is crumbling, the way this sounds too good to refuse. But life has taught me that things that sound too good usually are.

"Why would you do this? Take in a stranger?"

"Because I've been that stranger." She stops in front of the shop, turning to face me fully. "Year ago, I rolled into town with a broken heart, a U-Haul full of vintage clothes, and this crazy idea that I could start over somewhere nobody knew my name." Her green eyes hold mine, understanding written in every freckle. "First night here, I slept in my car outside this very building because I was too proud to ask for help and too broke to afford the hotel—even if Harold would've let me stay."

"Someone helped you?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.

"Miss Rosie—from the diner? Caught me brushing my teeth in her bathroom at six in the morning. Instead of throwing me out, she made me breakfast and called the previous owner of this place. Told him he'd be a fool not to rent to someone who'd clearly fight tooth and nail to make it work." Wendolyn's smile goes soft at the memory. "She didn't know me from Adam, but she saw someone who needed a hand up, not a handout. That's the difference."

The distinction hits me in the chest, right where I've been holding all my fear and pride in a tight knot. A hand up, not a handout. But my mind races with all the ways this could go wrong.

What if she expects something in return?

What if there are strings attached I can't see yet?

What if I let my guard down and?—

"I can see those wheels turning," Wendolyn says gently. "And whatever worst-case scenario you're cooking up in there, I promise you, the reality is much more boring. I offer you a dusty room full of romance novels and cat hair. You accept because sleeping indoors beats the alternative. We become friends or we don't. Life goes on."

The bookstore's windows glow warmly against the deepening twilight, and I catch glimpses of the interior—shelves packed with books, mismatched chairs that somehow look perfect together, strings of lights creating pools of golden warmth.

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