Page 8 of Sweet Deal
Standing under the store sign, Jim shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Think of it as reconnecting with your roots.” Rachel pushed open the door, setting off the small bell above it. “Besides, you might actually enjoy being comfortable again.”
“I’m perfectly comfortable.”
“You won’t be the first day your dad pulls you out of bed to help muck the stalls or fix a fence post.”
“There is that.” He grabbed the door, ushering her inside first.
The familiar scent of leather and denim welcomed her as they stepped into the clothing side of the general store. Amy Miller, whose family had founded the place about the same time as Honeysuckle came to be, looked up from the counter and patting the gray-haired chignon behind her head, broke into a wide smile.
“Rachel Sweet. Just the person I wanted to see. That dress you—” Amy’s words died on her lips as she caught sight of Jim. “Well, I’ll be. Jimmy Henderson, is that you hiding under all that city polish?”
Jim’s expression shifted from resigned to genuinely pleased. “Amy. It’s been a while.”
“Ten years at least.” Amy came around the counter, giving him a quick once-over. “And from the looks of things, you need my help desperately.”
Rachel laughed at the alarm that flashed across Jim’s face. “That’s exactly what I told him.”
Amy’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Let me guess. Rachel’s refusing to be seen with you until we fix…” she gestured at his entire outfit, “all of this.”
“Something like that,” Jim admitted.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place.” Amy clapped her hands together. “I’m thinking boot-cut jeans, a couple of good work shirts, and definitely proper boots.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Outnumbered, Jim seemed to steel himself for the inevitable.
There was something oddly satisfying about seeing Mr. California Finance surrendering to the return to his Texas roots.
His glance landed on a particularly ornate belt buckle display and for just a minute she thought he might turn tail and run.
“Shall we take the first step in your re-introduction to living in West Texas?”
A sly grin teasing one side of his mouth and he nodded. “Be gentle with me.”
She almost swallowed her tongue. Did he have any idea how that sounded? Had they teased like that when they were younger, and she just hadn’t noticed? Or is this what playful banter became when you were all grown up? Or maybe, just maybe, she needed that husband more than she realized. Her eyes almost rolled back into her head at her own thoughts. This was not the time to think about the fate of the ranch and her duty to save it. This was just old friends hanging out. And if anyone believed that baloney, for five dollars she had some beachfront property in Kansas to sell dirt-cheap.
The general store smelled exactly the same as it had when Jim was a kid—leather, cotton, and that peculiar mix of metal and wood that reminded him of his father’s workshop. Jim ran his hand over a shelf of folded jeans, the familiar stiff denim had nothing in common with the tailored slacks hanging in his California closet.
“These,” Rachel declared, pulling a pair of dark blue Wranglers from the stack. She handed him a couple of shirts to take into the dressing room with the pants.
Jim stood in front of the three-way mirror, turning slightly. The jeans fit perfectly—comfortable, sturdy. The simple clothing shouldn’t have felt like a revelation, but somehow, they did. In California, his clothes had been armor—designed to impress, to fit in, to project an image of success and sophistication. Here, that armor felt unnecessary. Cumbersome, even.
“You decent in there?” Rachel called.
“Define ‘decent,’” he shot back, pulling aside the curtain with a flourish.
Leaning against a display rack, arms crossed, a small, genuine smile played on Rachel’s lips. Not teasing, not laughing, just… watching him. Her gaze held an intensity that had nothing to do with critiquing his new wardrobe. It was the same look he’d caught a few times at the park, a look that made him feel seen in a way he hadn’t felt in years, maybe ever. It sent an unexpected warmth spreading through his veins. “You clean up nice.”
“It feels right.” He turned to the mirror again, surprised by how true his words were.
“Okay.” Amy hurried over with a pair of dark brown, basic, intended for work not show, cowboy boots. “These should do the trick. Oiled leather, good solid heel. Won’t fall apart the first time you step in…” she paused, glancing at Rachel with a conspiratorial wink, “…mud.”
He sat on the small bench to try them on, pulling off the ridiculous loafers and feeling like he was shedding another layer of pretense along with them. The boots felt solid, grounding. He stood up, testing his weight. No surprise, they felt right. Like coming home, they’d need a little breaking in, but before he knew it, everything would fit perfectly.
“Well?” Rachel pushed away from the rack, walking towards him. Her earlier amusement was gone, replaced by that same thoughtful scrutiny. “What’s the verdict?”
He met her gaze, holding it. So many thoughts ran through his mind. “You done good. Thanks for the, uh, intervention.”
