I open Garth Voss’s profile. His handwriting is neat, which is rare for men his age. “Sheep rancher. Sheriff. Volunteers with Willa’s animal rescue. That’s definitely a plus.” Rhett’s tip about him seemed important, and I already see three strong leads, including one local. The numbers look promising. I don’t smile, but I feel a sense of potential.
Cody is the outlier. He didn’t give an address or a confirmed cell number, but the intake report says he checks his mailbox every Thursday. For “Describe your ideal partner,” he wrote: “Don’t need one.” I run my thumb along the corner of his sheet, thinking it over. Even the toughest cases want something. I’m pretty sure he only participated as a favor to Rhett.
I stack the folders, label the top one “Project: Sagebrush,” and set it on the coffee table. I put everything else back in my bag, except Rhett Calder’s form, which I keep out a moment longer. I read his answers again, line by line, looking for hidden meaning. There isn’t much. He’s honest in a way I’m not used to.
He’s easy to like. That’s not the issue.
I can tell he’s used to being liked. Even the way he points out his own flaws, half-joking and self-aware, is meant to make people accept him. But I know when someone is all surface, and when that surface is a shield. Rhett’s shields are strong and automatic, but not impossible to get through. That makes him interesting, even if he’s hiding something behind the “aw shucks” attitude.
For a moment, I wonder what I would have said if the questions were for me. If someone asked about my own dealbreakers andwhat I really want. I know my answers by heart. But I also know that sometimes we don’t know what we want until we find it.
My job is not to get involved with my clients. That’s in the contract and a rule I set for myself. When his arm brushed mine as he opened the coffee shop door, I noticed it, then pushed it aside. I’m here to build something, not to get distracted by the idea of a slow-burn romance, no matter how tempting.
My tablet dings with an automated follow-up from my Denver office, but I ignore it. I open the Sagebrush map on my phone and choose three addresses for tomorrow morning. My finger pauses over “Mercer Ranch,” but I pick Garth’s place out east first, then Cotton, and save Rhett for last.
I send them all the same text: interview confirmation, my availability, and the business name Willa and Sela convinced me to use. Cowboy Cupid. I still can’t decide if it’s embarrassing or just right.
Within ten minutes, I get two replies: “Sure” and “Anytime.” The third is a GIF of a screaming goat. I take that as a good sign.
Outside, the sun is already low in the sky, painting the grass in long bands of light. I have three days left on my rental, but I’m already thinking about staying longer.
This could work. Not just the job, but the place itself. I can picture myself here, if the situation is right.
I stack my files, finish my checklist, and head out to walk the length of Main Street before sunset. As I leave, I catch my reflection in the glass. For a moment, I almost look confident.
If I stay in Sagebrush County, it won’t be because of a man. I’m here to build something for myself. That’s the only match that matters to me.
FIVE
RHETT
It’s been three weeks since the wedding, and I’m kicking myself daily for just not approaching this matter the good old-fashioned way. I didn’t expect little Miss Cowgirl Cupid, LLC to actually send me dates. I signed up because I got a kick out of the city girl with the color-coded folders, her big blue eyes, and the way her hips swayed when she walked in those ridiculously high heels. I never figured she’d actually fix me up with other women. I suppose I overestimated my charisma and thought she’d see through the facade once we were alone, drinking coffee and telling tales. Three horrible fix-ups later, and here I am, meeting her at the Sagebrush Coffeehouse at 10:33 a.m. on a Tuesday, waiting for me with a latte already going cold.
She sees me come in, makes a micro-gesture with her chin, and taps the other side of her table. She looks different when she’s in a soft gray cardigan, hair twisted up with a pencil, her eyes on the glassy screen of her phone. I don’t bother to dust off my jeans, hoping she doesn’t mind things a little messy.
“Rhett Calder,” she says, like it’s a test name and not an old friend.
“It’s Tuesday. I don’t usually get called to the principal’s office until after lunch.”
She slides a folder toward me. It’s got my name, underlined twice. “We’re already on the fourth candidate.”
“I’m making you look bad, huh?”
“No,” she says, but the ‘o’ is skeptical. “I’m wondering what it is you actually want. You filled out your intake. You show up. You’re polite. “You’re also about as easy to read as a fencepost.”
I grin. “So I’m not one of your success stories yet.”
“Not even close. You bored Colleen to tears with your fertilizer anecdotes, you told Shana you were ‘emotionally allergic to meal prep,’ and you never simply bought Amelia a to-go order and told her you were coming down with a cold.”
Her stare is accusing, but I see the shadow of a smile. She’s onto me, or at least she thinks she is.
“We both know Amelia was a nonstarter,” I say. “She wore a sunhat the size of a pizza and kept asking if I’d ever been to Burning Man. I had to look it up after I got back to the ranch.”
“She was lovely,” Hannah says, and there’s an edge in it.
“Sure,” I say. “Nothing wrong with her. Just, I dunno.”
“So what is it? Are you gun-shy, or just trying to game the system to prove I’m terrible at my job?”
