To Kiss A Cowgirl. Jeannie Watt

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      The old man looked up at him with an appreciative smile. “We all need a change sometimes,” he said.

      “Can I help you with something?” Dylan asked before Morley launched into personal questions he’d have to deflect.

      Morley pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it, squinting through his fogged glasses as he read, “Hen scratch. Rolled oats—two bags. Salt block—”

      “Do you want minerals in that?” Jolie asked as she came to stand next to the old man, cocking her head to see his list. He beamed and handed it to her. She took it gently and squinted a little herself at the light-penciled script on the sheet of pale blue paper. “Lillian wrote this, didn’t she?”

      “Woman can’t put pressure on a pencil,” Morley muttered. “Arthritis.”

      “I have something for her,” Jolie said. “A special cream that just came in. I’ll see if I can find a sample while Dylan loads your truck.” She handed Dylan the paper.

      Way to give orders, Jolie.

      Dylan frowned as he took the list, suddenly understanding why they were both squinting. It was as if Morley’s wife had written in faint code. “Do you need this to write the ticket?” he asked Jolie, hoping she would decode it for him.

      “Nope. I got it. Hen scratch, twenty-five pounds. Two fifty-pound bags of rolled oats. One salt block—”

      “No minerals,” Morley added.

      “No minerals,” she repeated with a smile. “Three ivermectin, bag balm and a fly spray.” Jolie reached out to gently take Morley’s hand in hers, examining it. “Are you using bag balm for your hands?”

      “Yeah.” Chapped and cracked hands were a mainstay of ranching life, particularly in winter. The ointment used to heal milk cows’ chapped utters was the go-to remedy.

      “It works,” Jolie said. “But I have something else you could try...if you wanted.”

      “Will it make me smell like a whorehouse?”

      “Unscented,” Jolie said. “And it doesn’t stay greasy like bag balm, so the hay and dirt won’t stick to your hands.”

      “Throw it in. Maybe Lillian will like it.”

      Dylan loaded the truck and then came back inside the store as Morley drove away. “Are you in some kind of hand cream business?”

      “What if I am?”

      “I guess my question is more along the lines of should you be hawking your wares in my store?”

      “I’m not selling the stuff,” Jolie said. “I gave him samples.”

      “Am I selling the stuff?”

      “You could be.”

      “I don’t think so.”

      Jolie gave him a long look and he had the impression that he’d reacted exactly as she’d expected him to.

      “If you diversify a little, or try some new sales gimmicks, you might bring in more customers.”

      “Our customers come here to buy feed, and I’m not into gimmicks.” Thinking that he needed to get out of there, Dylan grabbed his lunch pail and headed for his cousin’s—now his—private office. His father, uncle and grandfather had always subscribed to the theory that you stocked what the majority of your customers needed. Money spent on inventory that took forever to sell was money that could be in the bank, drawing interest. He may not have anticipated a future in business, but he did recall that particular facet of the sales game being discussed often and at length as the brothers debated what merchandise to carry beyond feed and seed.

      Mike had even repeated his business theory a few times that morning before Dylan left for work, as if Dylan were going to start ordering useless items as soon as he got close to a computer.

      He closed the door and stood for a moment, shoving thoughts of Jolie aside as he took in the familiar cluttered space that was now his center of operations. The desk was clean and the computer was almost new, but the counter and the top of the file cabinet were stacked high with old catalogs and an assortment of junk, as they had always been.

      Piles had also accumulated along the wall under the old calendar, which featured a woman in Daisy Duke shorts kneeling on a tractor seat while holding a big wrench and wearing a come-hither smile. It’d been there for as long as Dylan could remember. As a boy, he’d been perplexed by the idea of a scantily clad woman kneeling on the tractor. Every woman he’d ever seen on a tractor had worn jeans and a T-shirt and sat in the seat so that she could drive the thing. And what was with the wrench?

      He smiled a little as he put the lunch pail down next to the desk, remembering when he’d come to appreciate those Daisy Dukes and realized that the woman had no interest in plowing fields. He’d barely booted up the computer when the old-fashioned intercom buzzed and Jolie said, “Could you load up this customer?”

      He went out into the rain to squeeze three bags of grain into the rear of a Subaru Forester, then decided to shift a pallet of grain for easier access. A few minutes later he came back into the store, shaking water off his hair, his leg giving a little as he turned to close the door.

      “Who usually loads?” he asked Jolie, who glanced up from her computer screen.

      “Finn.”

      “Who loaded customers during the past week?” The transition time between his arrival and Finn’s departure. He knew it wasn’t his grandfather, who’d had a hip replacement a month ago.

      “I did.”

      “Was the forklift having problems?”

      “The engine has been missing, and I had a hard time starting it.” She tilted her head. “Why?”

      “It won’t start at all now.”

      “I had a feeling this day was coming.” She reached for the phone. “Do you want me to call Bobeck’s? See if they can send someone over to take a look?”

      “I’ll do it.” It’d been a while since he’d ripped into an engine, but it’d be cheaper than paying Bobeck’s mechanics rate. He took a few steps toward the counter and Jolie frowned.

      “Did you hurt yourself?”

      He’d figured the question would come up since his limp was still noticeable when his leg got tired and he’d made the mistake of overdoing his physical therapy that morning. “Banged up my leg in an accident.”

      Go ahead, Jolie. Ask what kind of accident. She’d always been brimming with questions about his personal life and comments about his lack of social life. But this time she said only, “Nothing permanent, I hope.”

      “No. It’s almost healed.” In a few weeks’ time he’d head back to his doctor in Lanesburg, Washington, to get the release he needed to go back to work once Finn returned home, which was why he’d overdone his PT. He had to get that release to continue СКАЧАТЬ