Page 2 of Cowboy and the Convict

Could he really be that dense? "Everything you do pisses me off, Peters."

“I’m just trying to help.” He dug back into the same excuse he used every time. Hiding his love of humiliating her behind the guise of assistance.

It was a tactic she was way too familiar with. One that had been used against her since she was born, and one she decided long ago never to tolerate again. “I don’t need your fucking help.”

His jaw clenched, rocking side to side as he stared her down. She lifted her chin, glaring right back as the seconds ticked past. Eventually, he stepped out of her path, holding one arm out to indicate she could go on her way.

And that was exactly what she did. Without hesitation and without looking back, Janie went right back to her speeding steps, unable to fully breathe until she rounded the front corner of The Baking Rack, putting her out of Peters’ sight.

And him out of hers.

After taking a few steadying breaths, she started walking again, stewing more with each step.

How could a man be so completely clueless about how aggravating he was? It simply wasn't possible, which meant Peters knew exactly how annoying his actions were. Knew how much his constant picking chapped her ass. He just didn’t care.

Or maybe—like some other people she knew—he thrived on breaking her down. Got his kicks out of feeling superior. The possibility was a solid reason she did her best to get away from him as fast as she could whenever their paths crossed. Because at some point, she was going to snap. And snapping on him would cause a whole host of new problems in her life.

Like needing to call her bail money bitch and attending court dates.

The thought had her moving a little faster to put as much distance between them as possible. Just in case. She’d made a slew of bad decisions in her life and didn’t need the temptation of adding that one to her list.

Luckily, downtown Moss Creek was quiet as she booked it down the sidewalk, aiming for the most likely place to stock a solution to her problem.

One of her problems.

Hopefully, the convenience-type store a few doors down from the bakery carried the button-style battery her fob required. She could run in, grab what she needed, and be on her merry fucking way.

And Officer Peters could kiss her ass.

She was moving so fast—intent on staying the hell away from Peters— that when her palms hit the bar on the mini mart’s door, she continued her forward momentum.

Even though the damn thing was locked.

Like a freaking idiot, she face-planted right into the glass, leaving a smudge of what was probably frosting where her forehead made aggressive contact. Stumbling back, she lifted one hand to her temple, the dull thud of the collision still ringing through her head.

Or maybe that was a concussion talking.

“Fucking ow.” She gingerly felt across her skin and hairline. After pulling her palm away and not finding blood, she took a tentative step toward the glass, peering into the darkened shop. “They can’t be serious.” She checked her watch. Tried to check her watch. The face was black because she’d forgotten to set it on the charger before bed. Again.

It was yet another failure Peters would love to add to his little list. At this point that notebook he carried in his pocket was probably filled from front to back with them. It was probably what he read at night, sitting in his perfect little house, with his perfect little children, smirking smugly at his superior adulting skills.

"Motherfucker." She leaned forward, this time purposefully letting her forehead hit the glass as she closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. She could figure this out. No way was she going to let Peters catch her failing again.

Once the initial surge of frustration had dissipated slightly, she turned to look up and down the street, gauging who in town was most likely to have the battery she needed. And who was least likely to judge her for letting it run out in the first place.

Amelie's art studio was her top choice. While Amelie was now happily married with the cutest little baby, she had initially come to Moss Creek for a fresh start after making a few bad decisions of her own. Janie made a beeline for the storefront, hoping against hope the young mother would be there. The odds were against her, but it was worth a shot.

As she expected, the inside of the studio was dark, forcing her to take another calming breath as she regrouped. "Strike one."

Turning back to face the street, Janie went directly for option two—The Watering Hole. Paige, the owner and full-time bartender, would definitely be there. Whether she’d have a battery or not was anyone's guess.

Striding into the bar, Janie blinked a few times as her eyes acclimated to the dim lighting. Once she had a clear view, it was easy enough to sidle up to the bar and wait for Paige to notice her. It didn't take long. Paige shot her a grin, abandoning the old cowboy who’d likely been monopolizing her time to head Janie's way. "Hey, lady. What are you doing here?"

She and Paige were friendly. It was one of the things that made Moss Creek so different from other places she'd lived before. Somehow, the small Montana town seemed to miraculously escape the cattiness that plagued every other part of the universe. The women around town—including the ones over eighty—were essentially one big group of friends. A girl gang of sorts.

But while they all appeared friendly and supportive and accepting on the surface, she wasn’t stupid enough to believe that's how it genuinely was. Even if they didn't say it or show it, these women had to be judging each other.

Had to be judging her. And honestly, she couldn't blame them. She judged herself.

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