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He led me straight to the boot section, and I remember feeling so small next to the towering shelves filled with rows of leather. The boots were massive on me back then, but the moment I slid my feet into the first pair, something clicked. They felt like they were made just for me. Dad’s eyes lit up, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’ll grow into them,” he’d said, his voice gruff but warm.

It wasn’t just about the boots. It was about him teaching me, passing down the weight of what it meant to be a Calloway. That day, the boots weren’t just a pair of shoes—they were a symbol of who I was becoming. A cowboy, just like my dad.

GIRL IN A COUNTRY SONG

I grabbed a few ill-fitting jeans and long-sleeve shirts from Brett’s store before we headed home. The complete opposite of the elegant gowns and designer heels I used to wear to galas with Thad. Now, standing in front of my bathroom mirror, I barely recognized myself. I looked like I’d walked straight out of a country song.

I sighed, taking in the full effect—an oversized flannel layered over a tank top, jeans that did absolutely nothing for my butt, thick socks, and clunky boots that pinched my toes. I even braided my hair. I groaned at my reflection. “What happened to you?”

Shaking my head, I made my way downstairs. Wells had mentioned he’d be outside, so I stepped onto the porch, immediately squinting against the sun. I’d left my sunglasses inside, a rookie mistake. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I scanned the property until I spotted him.

By the goats.

No way. Not now. This was too soon.

Wells straightened as I approached, giving a baby goat a final pat on the head before stepping out of the pen. His signature grin stretched wide. “Oh hey, Sunshine.” His gaze flicked down, taking in my new outfit. Amusement twinkled in his eyes. “Look at you—a proper coastal cowgirl.”

“Does that make you a coastal cowboy?” I shot back.

He smirked. “I prefer saltwater cowboy, actually.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course you do.”

Wells held out a bottle of milk. “Here. Go feed Bronco.”

I blinked at him. “And how am I supposed to know which one Bronco is?”

He nodded toward the corner of the pen, where a little goat was aggressively head-butting a fence post.

I raised a brow. “That one?”

“Yep.”

Cautiously, I stepped closer, hands outstretched as if that would stop him from ramming into me. “Hi, little guy…”

Bronco cocked his head at me, suspiciously.

“I’m Rose,” I tried, holding up the bottle. “I brought some breakfast for you.”

Squatting down, I glanced over at Wells. “Do I just… hold it out?”

“Yep.”

I extended the bottle, and Bronco latched on immediately. My eyes widened. “He’s drinking it!” I whisper-yelled.

“Don’t scare him, or he’ll head-butt you.”

I snapped my gaze up to Wells. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

He shook his head, lips twitching. “If you wanna find out…”

I shot him a glare.

I turned back to Bronco, who was guzzling down his breakfast like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. His little tail flicked happily, but I stayed on high alert, ready to dodge if he decided to take me out.

“He’s kind of cute,” I admitted.

Wells chuckled. “Don’t let that fool you. He’s a menace.”