Page 48 of Cowboy

“That will be ten thirty-two,” Zara interjects, attempting to move these ladies along as there is a line.

“He had such a rough go of it. No lady luck,” the second woman tsks while the first nods to agree.

“But that wasn’t nice of you to report on him when he was stuck in the mud,” the first adds. For a moment, I wonder if Rita and I will be like this one day, admonishing salesclerks and berating baristas like two grouchy old women. I nod to agree with their assessment—it wasn’t nice of me—hoping it will appease them and force them to move on.

“Bovine Bridegroom? Who came up with such a name?” the second asks. I did. A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow back the distasteful memory.

“Rude,” lady one states.

“Rude,” lady two adds, nodding at me with a scowl on her face. At any second, she’s going to tell me I should be ashamed of myself, and I’ll continue to agree with her. I’m deeply ashamed. Thankfully, they turn away with coffees in hand but continue grumbling as they take a table together.

“Need a break?” Zara mutters beside me, but I shake my head. I need to face what comes my way because I did this to myself, and I did this to Bull.

My breaking point comes when Louisa enters. She’s on another coffee date, and her head pops up in recognition when she sees me behind the counter.

“You,” she mutters, slipping her arm into the elbow of the man standing next to her. She smiles falsely at me, her grin too large.

“Louisa,” I state, recalling her name.

“Poor Bull,” she whispers through a false smile. Her date ignores her, placing their orders, which thankfully Zara pours. I ring them up, addressing him with the total. After he pays, he picks up both mugs and turns away from the counter. Louisa’s hand slips from his arm, and she leans forward over the countertop.

“He would have been better off with me,” she whispers. “No one wants to be second best.” Her eyes roam my body. “Or even fourth in line.”

I grit my teeth as she walks away and then I turn for the coffee machine, grabbing a towel to clean off the nozzles Zara just used. Funny how Louisa would have been in that exact position had she dated Bull.

“Break. Now.” Zara gently pushes me aside and points at the kitchen where I enter to assist Roderick in his baking. I don’t need a break. I need to keep working. What is that old saying about idle hands? Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. We need that on our chalkboard beams.

Silently, I walk up next to Roderick. It’s summertime, and a favorite of mine is a good old-fashioned blueberry muffin, but our resident baker can never do simple. Instead, he’s making berry burst muffins, which is a delicious blend of berries in the batter, making the classic muffin explode like a firework in your mouth. The seasonal pastry is appropriately named.

“I heard about the report,” Roderick says, stating the obvious without naming the program. He’s working beside me as I scoop the muffin batter into the cups for baking. “I typically avoid that kind of sensational stuff because of Brian. I didn’t know you were famous.”

“I’m not,” I snap, too sharply. I might have won some awards, but in hindsight, they feel superficial. What have I done with my life? Reported on rumors about other people, while the good people around me worked hard, producing things like the treats in this café or, in the case of Bull and his family, milk, an American staple with a multitude of health benefits.

Roderick nods once. “Want to talk about it?”

Despite shaking my head, I answer. “He hates me,” I whisper, feeling fresh tears blur my vision once again. How can I keep crying? I thought this emotional stuff disappeared at the end of the first trimester.

“Hate is a strong word, honey, and I doubt that’s how he feels. Maybe sad. Maybe hurt. Rejection is a hard pill to swallow.” Roderick knows all about rejection from the ignorance of his parents and the bullshit of a former lover. He’s referring to the original topic of Bull as the Bovine Bridegroom. His initial rejection was our folly. We chased his story because of the twist in the circumstances with no thought to the heart of a man left behind. What was wrong with us? Where was our compassion for his heartbreak?

“I’ve hurt him,” I admit. “And I’m so embarrassed.”

“Then you say you’re sorry.”

“It’s never that simple,” I state, and Roderick nods.

“Sometimes, a simple apology really is enough.”

If only.

“Hey,” Audrey calls out as she enters the kitchen and her cheerful tone addresses me. “What are you doing back here?”

“Zara sent me in here.” Audrey’s brows pinch in question, so I explain. “People were talking about me.”

Her brows lift. Perhaps she’s the only person who doesn’t know what’s happened. I give her the shortened version, and Audrey takes in my story.

“This community can really stick together. When I started working the area, trying to collect produce and products for the restaurant company I worked for in Boston, Griff told every farmer within a fifty-mile radius not to sell to me.”

Is she kidding me? “Why would he do that?”