Page 23 of Broken Roads
"Marcus." Tessa calls out, waving to a tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard, arranging gloves on a display. "Got a ranch girl in desperate need of proper footwear."
The man, Marcus, I presume, looks up and chuckles. "Another city slicker trying to go country?"
"Be nice," Tessa scolds. "Hailey's working at Walker Ranch. She needs something that can handle mud, manure, and Bradley Walker's attitude."
I feel my cheeks flush at the mention of Bradley, but Marcus just laughs. "Tough order. Boot wall's all yours, ladies. Holler if you need sizes."
Tessa grabs my hand and pulls me toward the impressive display of boots. "Ignore him. He acts gruff, but he once drove two hours to deliver a special order when my car broke down." She scans the wall with the focus of a general planning battle strategy. "Now, what are we thinking? Classic, practical, or do you want something with a little flair?"
"Practical," I say immediately. "I need something that won't make me look more out of place than I already do."
"Smart girl." She pulls several boxes from the shelves, seemingly at random. "Dylan went through a phase last year where he refused to wear anything but moccasins. Moccasins. In Montana winter. I had to bribe him with video game time just to get him into snow boots."
The mental image makes me smile as I sit on a nearby bench. Tessa kneels in front of me, opening the first box with a flourish.
She hands me a pair of dark brown boots with simple stitching. It's stiffer than I'm used to, the leather unyielding against my ankle. "These feel a bit tight."
"They're supposed to at first. Leather needs to break in, to mold to your foot." She taps the toe. "Walk around a bit. Make sure your toes aren't squished."
I stand and take a few experimental steps, feeling the weight of the boots, the way they support my ankle. "Not bad."
"Try these too," she says, opening another box.
I try on three more pairs while Tessa continues sharing snippets of her life—Dylan's recent science project disaster involving baking soda and food coloring that left stains on her kitchen ceiling, her struggles finding time to date in a town where everyone knows your business, her dreams of expanding the bakery someday.
Her openness is refreshing after the guarded interactions at Walker Ranch. There, every conversation feels like navigating a minefield, especially with Bradley. With Tessa, there are no hidden agendas, no careful measuring of words. She simply is.
"These," I say decisively, standing in a pair of medium-brown leather boots with short heels and subtle stitching. "They're comfortable, and they don't look too... cowboy."
Tessa circles me, inspecting the boots with exaggerated seriousness. "Hmm. Sturdy. Practical. But still cute enough that your legs look good in jeans." She nods approvingly. "Perfect. Cute enough for a girl but tough enough for Walker Ranch."
The boots aren't cheap, but they're an investment in my new life here. As Marcus rings up my purchase, Tessa leans against the counter, telling him about Dylan's latest baseball game where he hit his first home run. She mimes swinging a bat, nearly knocking over a display of work gloves. "Sorry, sorry," she adds, catching them before they fall.
Marcus shakes his head, fondness clear in his expression. "That boy's going to be something special."
"He already is," Tessa says, with such fierce maternal pride that I feel a sudden, unexpected ache in my chest. My own mother had looked at me that way too up until the day I lost her, lost them.
I push the thought away as I hand over my credit card. No dwelling on the past today. Today is about new boots, new friends, and new beginnings.
Outside, the afternoon sun has warmed the sidewalk. I carry my old boots in a paper bag, already breaking in the new ones as we walk back toward the bakery. My feet protest slightly at the stiff leather, but Tessa assures me they'll feel like a second skin within a week.
As we round the corner to the bakery, I spot a familiar figure leaning against the counter inside. Beckett's profile is visible through the large front window, his head bent slightly as he talks to the young woman who was arranging pastries earlier.
We push through the door, the bell announcing our entrance. Beckett turns, and I watch his reaction carefully, remembering his strange response when I'd mentioned Tessa earlier.
Something flits across his face when he sees her. It's subtle but unmistakable, the kind of involuntary response you can't fake or hide.
"Ladies," he says, his voice carefully casual. "Successful shopping trip?"
I lift one foot, showing off my new boots. "Ranch-approved footwear, apparently."
"Good choice," he nods, but his eyes drift back to Tessa, who's moved behind the counter and is adjusting her apron with more attention than the task requires.
"The usual?" she asks without looking up, her fingers working the apron ties with practiced efficiency.
"Please." Beckett shifts his weight, reaching into his pocket. "Oh, and I found something for Dylan."
He pulls out a small package wrapped in tissue paper and places it on the counter. "That baseball card he's been looking for. Guy at the feed store was willing to part with it."
