Page 62 of My Cowboy Trouble
"Unless 'ranch work' is what they're calling it now."
More laughter. My face burns hot. I don't know whether to smack those bitches or cry.
"Three men. Can you imagine?"
"I am imagining. Vividly."
"Margaret! You're married!"
"To a man who thinks foreplay is taking his boots off first. Let me have my fantasies."
I'm tryingto figure out which mineral block is the right one—who knew there were seventeen varieties with names like "Super Mineral Plus" and "Ultra Mega Mineral Maximum," when I hear voices from the next aisle over. They're trying to whisper, but it's the kind of whisper that's actually louder than normal talking.
"She's pretty enough, I suppose. In that city way."
"All makeup and fancy clothes. Bet she doesn't look like that when she wakes up."
I’m not wearing any makeup. And I’m dressed like a slob.
"Pretty won't last once the novelty wears off."
"How long you think before she runs back to New York or wherever?"
"I give it another week. Two tops."
"Depends on how good the boys are at convincing her to stay."
"From what I heard, they're being very convincing. Very."
"Did you hear about the rodeo? Dancing with all three of them? My cousin was there. Said she was practically sitting on their laps."
"And leaving with all three."
"Shameless."
"I heard she's only here for the money. Soon as she can sell, she'll be gone."
"Typical gold digger."
"Though if I had three cowboys looking at me like that..."
"Martha!"
"What? I'm married, not dead. That Gavin could park his boots under my bed any day. I'd even make him breakfast."
"Just breakfast?"
"Well, he'd have to work up an appetite first."
Giggling. Actual giggling from women old enough to be my mother.
I'm frozen, clutching a mineral block like it's a lifeline. The weight of it is making my arms shake, or maybe that's just rage. Is that really what everyone thinks? That I'm some gold-digging city slut here to corrupt their cowboys and steal their land?
"You okay?"
I jump, nearly dropping the block on my foot. Billy's standing next to me, struggling with a bag of feed that's definitely too heavy for him. His face is red with exertion, and his skinny arms are shaking.
"Fine," I lie, setting the block in my cart with a thud that probably registered on the Richter scale. "Need help?"
