Chapter 1

 

It had seemed like just another ordinary day at Carley’s Cut & Curl for salon owner Carley Chapman—until her stylist’s water broke in the middle of doing a highlight. And then a pissed-off customer barged in the front door as the salon’s receptionist was helping the pregnant hairdresser out the back, leaving Carley with a half-finished perm, an incomplete color, and a brawling catfight as one angry customer confronted another.

Carley forced her voice to remain calm as she slowly took a step away from the two women, their faces contorted in rage as one held her best pair of shears while the other brandished her flat iron like it was a sword. “Just put the scissors down, Amber,” she said to the one closest to her. “I’m sure we can work this out.”

Amber Wilcox and Brandi Simms were two of her best customers, so she didn’t want it to seem like she was taking sides. They each could be counted on for a regular cut and color appointment every other month, although Brandi was the bigger tipper. But she didn’t want to lose either one of them due to anger or a hair-care-tool–related injury caused by an argument over a man. Especially the man in question. Buster Jenkins was no prize, and certainly not worth losing a finger for.

It had happened so fast. Carley was still reeling over Erica, her stylist, going into labor—she wasn’t due for another week—when Amber had charged into the salon. The bell over the door was still jingling as Amber grabbed the shears off the tray, her eyes wild and flashing with anger. The pink ends of the cape flapped as Brandi shot out of the chair and grabbed the flat iron from the next station.

“There’s nothing to work out,” Amber said, waving the shears recklessly through the air. “Except the end of our so-called friendship. I heard about the way you were flirting with Buster down at the Creed last night,” she practically spat as she referred to the Creedence Tavern, one of the town’s most popular restaurant and pubs. “I ran into Monica Morris in the grocery just now, and she couldn’t wait to tell me how you belted back three raspberry margaritas and then tried to turn Taco Tuesday into Topless Tuesday by claiming the strap of your cheap-ass dress just happened to break.”

A gasp came from the direction of the hair dryers where two more of Carley’s regular customers sat. Lyda Hightower, who was married to the mayor of their small mountain town of Creedence, Colorado, loved to drop in for a blowout before her numerous charity events, and Evelyn Chapman, who was not just a customer but also Carley’s former grandmother-in-law.

The downtown building where her salon was housed and the adorable eighty-year-old woman were the only things of value Carley had gotten out of her failed three-year marriage to Paul Chapman, and Evelyn had a regular Wednesday afternoon appointment for a weekly wash-and-style and a quarterly perm.

Evelyn, the one getting the permanent that day, sat waiting in the chair next to Lyda, a magazine in her lap and her head covered in neat rows of purple rods. She reached over to turn off the other woman’s hair dryer, presumably to be able to hear better, just as Lyda was speaking, and her voice carried loudly through the salon. “I wouldn’t believe a thing that comes out of that woman’s mouth. Monica loves gossip more than sugar, and I’ve seen that woman positively inhale the better part of a chocolate cake.”

Brandi ignored the comment as she held her ground, the layers of foil covering her head flapping as she yelled back. “For your information, I only had one margarita, the strap of my dress really did break, and Buster was the one flirting with me.”

“How dare you,” Amber shrieked, flames practically shooting from her narrowed eyes. “My Buster would never flirt with the likes of you.”

“Her Buster would flirt with the likes of anything in a skirt,” Lyda whispered to Evelyn, although everyone in the shop heard.

Before Amber had stormed in, it had been a fairly normal Wednesday afternoon at the salon. A haircut, a blowout, and a perm or highlight and cut was an average day for Carley, who had been running the salon mostly on her own for the last several years. Erica, already a mother of two, took clients by appointment only and usually came in a few days a week. Their receptionist, Danielle, worked the desk a few afternoons after school and did an occasional shampoo, but that was more as a favor to Dani’s mom, who secretly paid the bulk of the girl’s salary. But otherwise, Carley ran the shop herself.

She swept the floors and put the stations back together each night, so everything was in place and ready when she opened the door the next morning. She loved walking into the shop and seeing the black-and-white-checked floors and bubble-gum pink walls with Paris-themed decorations, the air still carrying the scent of the lemongrass and eucalyptus candles she burned daily to mask the smell of some of the stronger hair-care products.

It was her happy place—where she created beauty and made others feel good about themselves. Not just through her skills as a stylist, but also the way she listened and tried to offer helpful advice when customers shared their problems with her. She loved that her shop was a haven for sharing and friendship. It meant everything to her—which is why she’d literally sold her soul to keep it.

She had seen a lot of things in her days as a hairstylist, weeping hysterics over a color job gone wrong, more Bridezillas than she could shake a piece of wedding cake at, and had even had a request to do a cut and curl on a beloved Afghan hound, but this was the first time she’d seen two women screaming and threatening each other with her hair tools.

She shifted from one foot to the other, weighing what to do. She could maybe toss a spare cape over Amber’s head and try to wrestle the scissors from her. Or an easier, and less dangerous, option might be to offer them each a free blowout.

Before she had time to decide, the bell of the shop door jangled, and Deputy Knox Garrison eased in, the worn soles of his cowboy boots silently sliding across the polished tile floor.

Conversation stopped as every woman turned her attention to the handsome lawman. Well over six feet tall, he wore jeans and a neatly pressed light-gray uniform shirt with a shiny gold star pinned above his chest pocket, his muscled biceps stretching the fabric of the sleeves. His chiseled jaw was clean-shaven, and his thick, dark hair curled a little at the nape of his neck, just visible below the rim of his gray felt Stetson.

Knox tipped his hat, his shoulders loose as he drawled out an easy greeting. “Afternoon, ladies.” His gaze was sharp as he took in the scene, but he stayed calm and relaxed as he eased closer to the women. “I hear there’s a bit of a dustup going on in here.”

Carley swallowed at the dustup happening inside her—as if three dozen monarch butterflies had just taken off and were flying around her stomach like they were trying to get out.

She’d met the tall deputy last month at the Heaven Can Wait Horse Rescue Ranch where her sister, Jillian, and her ten-year-old nephew, Milo, volunteered. Then she’d seen him again a few weeks ago, also at the horse rescue ranch, when her sister married the newly appointed Sheriff Ethan Rayburn, who she guessed was now Knox’s boss. Or he would be, after the happy couple returned from their honeymoon.

No time to think about the dance they’d shared at the wedding or the harmless flirting or the deep brown color of his eyes that made a girl want to melt into them. Nope, no time for that. Not when she had a beauty shop brawl she was trying to contain.

Amber snorted. “There’s no dustup. Nothing for you to worry about anyway. This is between me and the floozy who’s been hitting on my man.”

Brandi waved the flat iron like she was conducting an orchestra. “I was not hitting on anyone. I’d ordered the Nacho Average Nachos platter—you know the one where they pile the chips and cheese as tall as your head—and I was reaching across the bar in front of Buster to grab the hot sauce when my strap broke.”

Knox nodded. “Those nachos are amazing. And in no way average. Now, I can see how a situation like this could be misunderstood and certainly upsetting, but I’m still gonna need you each to set down your weapons and take a step back.”

“And be careful with those scissors, Amber,” Carley said. “Those are my best shears, and I just got them sharpened last week.”

“They are good shears,” Lyda agreed, nodding toward Evelyn. “She gave me the wispiest bangs with them last week.”

Carley glanced at Knox. “I’m serious—those things are razor sharp. They could probably be classified as a deadly weapon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said to Carley before addressing the women again, this time in a slightly more authoritative voice. “Did you hear that, ladies? You are wielding deadly weapons. Nobody really wants to kill anyone here, do they?”

Amber’s face paled as she looked down at the scissors. “No, of course not.”

Whispers of foil sounded as Brandi shook her head. She gingerly set the flat iron back down on the tray. “I never wanted to hurt anyone.”

“Me neither.” Amber shoved the scissors onto the stylist station next to her. They hit a wooden box of hair clips and sent it flying off the station.

Carley reached for it—the box had been a gift from her grandmother—but she was too late. She winced as it crashed to the floor and the hair clips scattered across the linoleum.

“Oh, no,” Amber said, drawing her hands to her mouth. “Sorry about that.”

Not as sorry as I am. Carley swallowed as she peered down at the box. The top had broken off in the fall, and several small pieces of wood had fallen out of the inlaid design on the lid and had slid across the floor. She pressed her hands to her legs to keep from dropping onto the floor and collecting the precious pieces. “I’m just glad no one got hurt,” she forced herself to say. Although she was glad neither of the women had resorted to using their weapons of choice.

“Are you going to let this go?” Knox asked Amber. “Or do we need to go down to the station to discuss this some more?”

“The station?” the two women asked in unison.

He dipped his chin, his expression stern. “This is a pretty serious situation. It sounds like threats were made and accusations were thrown.” He tilted his head toward Brandi. “Are you thinking about pressing charges?”

Brandi shook her head so hard one of the foils almost broke free. “Heck no.”

“No? You sure? Even though she came at you with a deadly weapon?”

“’Course I’m sure. Amber’s my cousin. Our moms would be so mad if one of us got the other thrown in jail.”

Amber nodded vigorously. “Yeah, they would.”

“Listen, Amber, I’m sorry about all this. That was a cheap-ass dress. I bought it at the church garage sale for two dollars, and I swear the strap just broke last night. Thanks to my cravings for those stupid nachos, the dress was too dang tight, so it’s not like it fell off or anything—it didn’t even move. And there was no way in heck I was coming on to Buster. Besides him being your guy, you know I’ve been in love with Jimmy for just about as long as I can breathe. There will never be any other guy for me.”

Amber’s shoulders slumped, and she let out a heavy sigh. “Yeah, all right. Sorry about that. See you at Aunt Suzy’s on Sunday?”

“You know it. Kickoff starts at two, and we haven’t missed a Broncos game in years. Even though we all know they haven’t been the same since we lost Peyton Manning.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the salon.

Amber acted as if she wasn’t sure what to do with her hands, then finally settled on crossing them over her chest. “You bringin’ your spinach dip?”

“Always do.”

“Okay, see you there.” She turned to leave then gazed back at Knox. “Okay if I just slink out of here with my tail between my legs?”

Knox nodded. “Stay out of trouble, though.” He raised his hand for a fist bump. “Go Broncos.” Amber offered him a sheepish grin as she bumped his fist, then slipped out. He ran his glance over the rest of the salon as if assessing the situation. “Everybody else, okay? Anybody get hurt?”

“Only my heart,” Carley muttered as she glanced forlornly at the shattered box.

“Don’t worry,” Knox said, bending down to scoop up the pieces. “I can fix that.” He gingerly placed the broken pieces of wood inside the box and carefully set the lid on top.

“No, you don’t have to.”

“It’s no problem. I’ve got woodworking tools in my shop, and I like to fix stuff.”

“He does,” Lyda Hightower said. “He fixed my back gate just last week. That last windstorm nearly tore it off its hinges. Which reminds me, I’ve got a box of Twinkies sitting in the front seat of my car just in case I ran into you.”

Carley raised an eyebrow in his direction. “Twinkies?”

Knox shrugged and offered her a sheepish grin. “I noticed her gate was broken on one of my patrols and told her I’d fix it for a box of Twinkies. I don’t know what it is about the silly things, but I can’t help it, I love them.”

“My car is unlocked,” Lyda told him. “Just grab them on your way by.”

“Will do.” He took another step closer and lowered his voice as he reached into his chest pocket, pulled out a business card, and passed it to Carley. “My personal cell is written on the back. Call me if you need anything. Or just text me if you want to talk. Or whatever.” A slow grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “Although I have to say this is a pretty elaborate way to get my number.”

He was close enough now that she could smell the woodsy scent of his aftershave mixed with the starch of his immaculately pressed uniform shirt, and the combination was causing a stir in places that hadn’t been stirred in a very long time. “Who says I was trying to get your number?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I was just hoping you did. I’ve been out to the horse rescue ranch several times the last few weeks and kept hoping I’d run into you so I could ask for yours.”

He’d been purposely trying to run into her?That thought both terrified and excited her. Her ex had done such a number on her, she’d spent the last several years just trying to reclaim the self-worth he’d stolen from her and focus on building the business she loved. She’d worked so hard to gain back her confidence and self-assurance through creating a place where women felt valued and beautiful, both inside and out. Dating hadn’t been much of a consideration, and she wasn’t planning to pursue an actual relationship with another man for a very long time, if ever.

But that didn’t stop her heart from doing a few extra beats at this very hot cowboy’s interest.

“That seems like a lot of trouble to go through…” Carley pointed a finger to the front of the shop, surprised at the coy tone of her voice…but still using it. “When my number is written on the outside of that glass in eight-inch-high hot-pink numbers. You probably drive by it ten times a day. You could’ve called me anytime.”

“Or scheduled a haircut,” Lyda threw in helpfully, then returned her gaze to the magazine she was pretending to read.

“Yeah, but that would’ve been too easy. I was hoping you’d want to give it to me.” The playful grin that crossed Knox’s face caused more stirring, and Carley had to force herself to breathe, and not to think about the double entendre of that sentence.

“You won’t have any trouble finding her at the horse rescue after this weekend,” Evelyn offered, not even trying to act like she was still interested in her magazine. “She’s moving out there this Saturday.”

Carley shot her a look, but Evelyn ignored it.

“Oh, yeah?” Knox asked. “You need any help? I’ve got Saturday off, and I’ve got a truck.”

“Everyone around here has a truck.”

“Yeah, but not everyone offers to use them to help people move.” He flashed her another grin, and the butterflies took off on another kamikaze flight through her belly. “Don’t you know, you never turn down an offer to help haul your stuff somewhere new?”

“I appreciate that. I really do.” And she would definitely appreciate the gun-show his muscles would perform as he moved her things. “But my sister and her husband get back from their honeymoon on Friday, and they’re going to help me.”

His shoulders fell just the slightest. “You’ve got my number now, in case you change your mind. Or just want an extra hand. And that’s my personal cell on the back.”

“Yes. You mentioned that already.”

“Did I? Well, feel free to call. Or text me. Anytime.”

She looked up at him, not sure what to say next or how to end the conversation. Should she shake his hand or just go with an awkward wave?

Before she had time to do either, the timer on her counter went off, sending a shrill ring through the salon and making her jump. She snatched up the timer and silenced the ring. “You’re ready for the sink, Evelyn,” she told the older woman.

“What about me?” Brandi said, pointing to her foils. “These things have been on for like twenty minutes now.”

Carley’s eyes widened as she looked from one woman to the other. “Oh, shoot. I wasn’t thinking you’d both be done at the same time. I’ve got to get your permanent solution rinsed out…” she said, taking a step toward Evelyn, then turning back to Brandi. “But if we don’t get that color solution washed out of your hair soon, you’ll turn into a bleached blond.”

“That wouldn’t be so terribly bad,” Brandi said, pushing out of the chair. “I have heard that blonds have more fun. Although that Gina over at the bowling alley is as blond as they come, and she’s always in a bad mood.”

“I’d wager that has more to do with having to work in the bowling alley or being married to that weasel Darryl than the color of her hair,” Evelyn murmured to Lyda.

Carley hurried to one of the sinks and turned on the tap. “I’ll just have to try to wash you both at the same time.”

“I can help,” Knox said, setting the wooden box on the counter and unbuttoning his cuffs.

“You?” Carley asked. “I don’t think shampoo and rinse are listed in your deputy duties.”

“Maybe not, but emergencies certainly are. This one might not fall in the realm of cataclysmic, but it’s at least pushing an urgent predicament,” he said, grinning as he rolled up his sleeves.

“Oh, he can do me,” Evelyn said, shooting up out of her chair. Realizing what she’d said, she tucked her chin demurely toward her chest. “I mean mine. I mean he can rinse my hair.”

“See?” he said, flashing her a grin as he motioned Evelyn toward the sink. “And I do have a sister, so I’m not totally without knowledge of hair and styling skills.”

“I don’t want you to get permanent solution on your shirt though,” Evelyn told him. “Just to be safe, you should probably take it off.”