Page 55 of Stockman's Sandstorm

‘Why?’

‘Because the inner bands shrink. It’s what they do.’ Bree grabbed the larger sized hat, flipped it over and slid some small sponge inside, to pad the inner lining. She then gently slid the hat back onto Harper’s head. ‘When breaking in a new hat, you pad up the inside. The more you wear it, the more you adjust the lining, until it eventually fits you like a glove. Then it will never come off when you’re galloping on a horse into the wind. And that’s what you want in a stockman’s hat.’

‘Where do I get a fancy hatband like Charlie’s crocodile band. Or a bohemian look like yours.’ She’d seen Bree’s hat collection that had contrasting strips of cloth, twine or leather, feathers, lace, even a playing card and some matches tucked into the hatbands. Each hat, and each band was different.

‘You can dress it up however you want later. A stockman’s hat is like getting a pair of new shoes, the more you wear it, the better they fit. But its primary job is to protect you and your brain from the sun.’ She turned Harper around and faced the mirror. ‘Look at that.’ Bree stood back from the mirror. ‘Perfect. You look like a stockwoman.’

‘Is that really me?’ Harper lifted her chin, trying to stare at herself sideways, twirling around as if wearing a ball gown, to glimpse the back. It was just jeans, boots, a long-sleeved shirt, but the hat said it all.

‘I like this hat.’ It wasn’t rubbing against her scar, but the brim was huge, curving down to cover the back of her neck, where Bree lifted her shirt’s collar high. But the shape, the colour of the hat also highlighted her eyes, while cleverly adding some shading to her cheekbones that softened her skin. How could a hat do all that?

She’d been to milliners with her mother to find hats for race-day outfits and suffered with fascinators for fancy garden weddings, but this was something entirely different.

‘Are you going to wear one of your new outfits home?’ Bree put a small hat on Mason’s head. ‘Just like our future rodeo champion, here.’

‘Can I?’

‘Sure. I’m not your mother. But I recommend that you wash your new clothes before the muster, and try to wear your boots around the house to wear them in.’

‘I will.’

Mason stood beside Harper at the mirror, wearing a big gummy smile, in little boots, jeans, and an enormous hat that looked so cute. He was the perfect model of cuteness for the clothing brand. If Mason was a politician’s son, she’d be taking photos to rack up social media points to boost their polls. But she took a photo with her phone, for her own keepsake. Maybe she’d share it with Ash?

‘Come here, little man,’ said Bree. ‘I want those tags on your jeans.’

‘No.’ The little boy giggled. His jeans swishing as he toddled away fast, with his laughter filling the area of the feed store that held saddles, bridles, horse wash, even dog leads, collars, and dog beds.

‘Mason, come back.’ Bree raced after the boy.

‘Gotcha.’ It was a deep voice, coming from a man who had just entered the store. ‘Are you running to or from trouble, young man?’

‘Put down the child, Leo.’ Bree’s voice was deadly serious.

It made Harper rush to find Bree and Mason.

The man holding Mason was wearing a suit. A properly tailored suit, with a red silk tie, and shiny black shoes. Oh, how she missed seeing men in suits.

‘Hello, Bree. Does this boy belong to you?’

‘Put down the child, walk away, and no one gets hurt.’

The man laughed, passing the child to Bree.

‘Here, Harper. Take him. Pack up, and let’s go.’ Bree passed Mason to Harper, wearing a serious expression that carried a sense of urgency.

‘What are you doing here, Leo? And wearing a suit—have you just finished your parole hearing? No, wait,’ Bree held up her hand and said, ‘did you and your little mobster mates crash some open-mic comedy club, to really slay the crowd over lunch.’

‘No. Although, I’d love to take you to lunch, Bree.’ The man laughed, highly amused. He had jet-black hair with fine flecks of grey, a three-day growth peppered across his strong jawline, but his eyes had a dark, sinful look focused entirely on Bree.

‘We just did lunch, thanks. Not hungry.’

‘How about dinner? The jet’s in town. I could take you shopping in Sydney. My treat.’

‘As I’ve told you before, Leo, no. Or has an alien hijacked your brain for you to dare ask me that again?’

‘I’m not giving up.’ He stepped in real close, towering over Bree. But she never flinched, holding her spot, glaring up at the guy.

‘What do you want?’

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