I tried to avoid leaving the ranch, but it becomes inevitable when I run out of what Emma Jean calls ‘feminine items’. When I tell Ms. Moore, she asks me to go get my hair done at the local hairdresser as that is what Tamara would do. To my surprise, she takes the time to book an appointment for me and calls me back to confirm it.

The town is about half an hour’s drive away. It is supposed to be tiny, with a population of about three thousand, but I cringe at the thought that someone might recognize Tamara and I’ll have to put on another show. It takes me almost an hour to put on my make-up, do my hair, and get into a sundress.

Chance, one of the ranchers, has been designated as my driver, and he is sitting on the hood of a rusty red truck, idly chewing a stalk of grass while gazing out at the horizon. When I come out of the house, he whips his head around as fast as a snake and lets his eyes run down my body like water. As I come down the stairs, he whistles low and long.

“I could squat with my spurs on for a sweetheart like you,” he says with a grin that is big enough to split his face.

I just laugh. Chance is harmless, and I like him a lot, even though I can just about make out half of what he says. Born and bred in Montana, he uses a lot of slang. Someone from Washington is an apple picker. A four-wheel drive is a 4-dig, a horse is a hay burner, sheep are prairie maggots, children are curtain crawlers, a woman’s breasts are northern curves, and goodbye is nice speakin’ atcha.

He rushes to open the passenger door, and I climb into it as gracefully as I can, considering the truck sits on huge tires and is at least three feet from the ground. As Chance drives me down the road, he tells me about the ranch, the countryside, and the Montana way of life.

I keep interrupting him for translations into English, but overall, he is a mine of information and I absorb it all eagerly. As we come into a town, I start looking around me with wonder. It’s like a beautifully preserved time capsule of a forgotten way of life. The main street is a road that runs through two rows of red brick buildings facing each other. There are Mom and Pop stores, a chain dollar store, a gas station that doubles as a restaurant, and a drinking saloon.

“Talk about small,” I murmur.

“Heck, this town is so small I went out on a blind date once and found a long-lost cousin,” he says, scratching the back of his head.

Chance parks the car in front of a store that says Shoes and More and jerks his chin toward a shop a few doors down the street. “Your hair salon is over there and the grocery store is across the street. I’ll be in Steadman’s.” He points to a hardware store. “Come over when you’re done.”

I check my pocket to be sure I have my phone.

“You won’t need that. No cellphone signal, anywhere, anytime, ever.”

“Seriously?”

He nods solemnly.

There are people passing the truck and they look in curiously. Dear God, this is what hell must be like. Maybe if I keep my face covered and head down, I might be able to avoid detection. I turn back to Chance. “Mind if I borrow your hat? I don’t want to get caught in a stampede of fans.”

Chance laughs and nods. “You know, you’re really not as bad as folks described ya.”

“Remember what Emma Jean says. Never miss a chance to shut up,” I say, plucking his hat from his head and jamming it on my head before jumping to the ground.

“Doggone it, I’ve been digging for water under an outhouse, haven’t I?” he says with a good-natured laugh.

I grin back. “Stop when you smell the shit.”

He laughs as I close the door. I adjust my purse on my shoulder and walk confidently to the hair salon. Teri Ann’s is done up in shades of pink inside and completely deserted. A woman with permed auburn hair sashays over to me. She has big, inquisitive eyes, but she quickly gives up trying to engage me in conversation when I pick up a magazine and pretend to be completely engrossed in it. When she switches off the hairdryer, I look up at the mirror. She has done a good job and my hair looks surprisingly glamorous. When I go to the little counter to pay her, she tells me the appointment has been prepaid for. I walk out without paying a dime. Having money appear out of thin air is wonderful. If only I could do that in Chicago.

I walk across the street and pull a shopping cart from the pile by the entrance. Ms. Moore told me Tamara will be paying for everything and I intend to take full advantage. She deserves it for insisting on waking me up at two or three in the morning and giving me grief every single time she calls.

It takes only a while for me to fill the entire cart. I buy stuff for Emma Jean, Butch, Chance, and a few of the other guys, and a whole bunch of junk food for me. Once my cart is full, I go through the checkout. One by one, the cashier, a very pretty but unfriendly creature, bags all the junk food and hygiene items before hitting a few buttons and looking up at me with a bored expression. “That’ll be three hundred and seven dollars and thirty-nine cents.”

I reach for my bag and feel the sides before looking over the brim of my hat at the cashier. Oh, shit! My cheeks feel like they are on fire. I didn’t put the credit card Ms. Moore gave me into my purse. It is still in the pocket of my suitcase. How the hell did I do that? I look up and the woman is looking at me with a disgusted expression. As if I’m deliberately trying to cheat her or something.

“I—uh.” I try to think of anything to say to make this less awkward, but I draw a blank. “Look, I’m with Chance. He’s in Steadman’s. If you just put my stuff to one side and wait a few minutes, I’ll go get him.”

She glares at me. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

The way she is looking at me is as if I’ve been featured on America’s Most Wanted. I shake my head. “Just forget it. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

“Yeah, and who’s going to put all the stuff back on the shelves?” She looks mad at the thought that she’ll have to do it.

I guess I can’t blame her, but if she had only let me go get Chance she would have sold three hundred bucks worth of groceries and I wouldn’t feel like a piece of excrement. “Don’t worry. I’ll put the groceries back myself,” I offer.

She puts her hands on her hips. “So you can steal some items while you’re at it?”

I stare at her in shock. Did she just accuse me of being a thief?

“Go on, git,” she orders rudely.

My face burns with embarrassment.

“Vicky,” I hear a deep voice say from a few feet behind me. I recognize the voice almost immediately and realize that the situation really can’t get much worse. I am so mortified I can’t even bring myself to turn around and see his gloating expression.

“Oh, Lars,” the cashier simpers, her demeanor changing so fast it’s enough to give you whiplash. “What can I do for you?” She shakes her hair even more dramatically than Tamara Honeywell could. Twirling a lock around her finger, she gazes up at Lars with wide, doe eyes. I can’t decide if I want to puke or go across the counter and show her why it’s important to be kind to everyone, not just drop dead gorgeous people of the opposite sex.

“What was the total again?” he asks tightly as he slides a card across the counter.

Her eyes widen with shock then fill with jealousy. “What? You…you want to pay for her?” she stutters, throwing me such a venomous look I nearly laugh at her bewildered expression. I wonder if she and Lars have history. Sure feels like it. The thought makes my insides twist suddenly. My hands clench so hard my nails bite into my flesh. I can’t believe it. I’m jealous!

“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” he says coolly.

“You know her?” she asks as if she can’t believe.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes,” Lars replies.

Vicky glares at him in a way that would send chills down a lesser man’s spine. “You’re right. It’s not important to me,” she snarls, as she swipes his card.

I know that I’m missing something between them, so I take a step back as Lars signs his slip. Silently, he helps me fill the shopping cart with my bags.

“Say hello to your mother,” he says as he pushes the cart out of the store. I follow closely behind.

“Well, that was awkward,” I say as soon as we are on the sidewalk

He spares me an impatient glance.

“Where is Chance?” I ask, looking around and not seeing his pickup.

“I sent him back,” he replies shortly.

“Oh. Why?”

“Get in,” he orders as we approach his flat-bed truck. “We need to talk.”

“Do we?” I ask doubtfully.