Page 11 of Sweet Courage

Dressed in his regular khakis and most comfortable shoes, he found himself in the front seat of Jess’s car, keys in fist, staring at the dashboard. He could do this. There would be no confusing first and reverse or brake and clutch. Finding his way into town had been easy, as had coming back to the ranch. It was the stick shift that rattled his already Swiss cheese brain. Closing his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath, mentally repeating he could do this. Eyes open, he turned the key in the ignition and waited as the engine roared to life. Leaning back, what nervousness he’d felt earlier seemed to ebb. He could do this.

An hour later, Hanson stood in the center aisle of Honeysuckle’s only dedicated clothing store. The sheer volume of choices for western wear was staggering. He stared at a wall of leather that stretched twenty feet in either direction, trying to make sense of the options. Square toe. Round toe. Ropers. His gaze drifted around to where the blue jeans were displayed. Not the dark blue denim with sharply pressed seams he wore for an outing, but real jeans. Work jeans. That would be his next stop.

Considering his boot choices once again, he reached out and pulled a sturdy-looking, dark brown boot from the middle shelf. It felt heavy enough, and the leather was thick.

“Those are going to ruin your feet by Tuesday.”

Hanson turned at the voice.

Arms crossed, Kat Sutton leaned against a display, a small paper bag tucked under one arm. Her blonde hair pulled back in a messy clip, she looked entirely too good for afternoon errands.

“Miss Sutton.” He lowered the boot slightly.

“Mr. Taylor.” She closed the distance between them, her gaze flicking from the boot in his hand to the wall of options. “Those are steel-toed loggers. Unless you’re planning on dropping anvils on your feet, they’re going to feel like you strapped concrete blocks to your ankles. You’ll be begging for your loafers.”

Glancing down at the boot, then back to her, he’d never felt so far out of his league. In more ways than one. “Where should I look?”

Kat reached past him, her fingers skimming over a row of lighter, scuffed-looking boots before she pulled one down. “Here. Standard roper. Rubber sole, not leather. The rubber gives you grip when the barn floor gets wet.” She handed the boot toward him.

He took it. The footwear was significantly lighter than his choice, with a wider, flatter heel.

“Try them on.”

He followed Kat from the end of the aisle to a short bench in front of a mirror. Taking a seat, he removed his shoes, tugged at his socks and slid his foot into the first boot. He’d barely gotten his toes into the bend when her hand grabbed his arm.

“No. I can tell already that’s going to be too snug a fit for a work boot. You don’t want to be floating in the boots, but you don’t want to wrestle them either.”

Another few minutes and she returned with a similar pair a half-size larger.

Of course, she was right. While sliding into the boots was still a bit stiff, it wasn’t the tug of war the previous pair had been. Pushing to his feet, he took a few steps one way then turned the other. “Not bad.”

“You’ll have to break them in. At first they’ll be a bit uncomfortable, but after you’re used to them, you won’t want to wear anything else.”

That thought made him chuckle. He could just imagine his buddies back in California’s reactions if he stepped off the plane in cowboy boots and work jeans. All he’d need was a Bonanza hat and he’d be laughed out of the state.

“Good?”

“Good.” He nodded.

“Okay then. Now jeans.” Kat pointed toward the back wall. “Real cowboys wear Wranglers. If you’re going to be a ranch hand, even temporarily, you need standard boot cut.”

His correct size in hand, Kat led the way to the dressing rooms.

“Try them on. See how they feel.”

To his surprise. The jeans and the boots fit to perfection. Though he supposed the denim would feel more like a second skin after a couple of washings, for now he felt like he belonged. Sort of.

As he approached Kat from the dressing room, a glint of something he couldn’t quite place flashed in her eyes before she nodded and gave him a thumbs up. Before he could respond, he felt a tug at his pant leg.

“Mama says you look like sin on a stick.”

Hanson blinked. He’d been told an array of euphemisms for being handsome, but never by a little girl who didn’t look to be more than three feet tall.

“Janine?” a voice hollered from across the store. “It’s time to go.” The woman began walking in her daughter’s direction, her pace quickening when she spotted her daughter with a stranger.

“I told the man what you said. I was going to tell him he might want to come to church with us on Sunday.”

The lady’s brows dipped in confusion before her eyes grew surprisingly wide. “Janine, it’s not nice to bother people when they’re shopping.” The woman took hold of the little girl’s hand and turning them away, looked at Hanson over her shoulder. “Sorry if she bothered you.”