Page 7 of The Spice Is Nice

The room had that particular silence of men deciding something, weighing the risks and change against comfort. I stood very still and let them think. Sometimes the most powerful thing a woman could do in a room full of men was to stop talking and let the quiet do the work.

Mom used to say that when she’d come home from these meetings and tell us all about it over supper.

“Let’s put it to a vote. All in favor of approving the Cowboy Nights initiative as presented?” Gary asked.

John’s hand went up first. Then Pastor Wells, hesitantly. Harper, of course, was all for it. Then the other members raised theirs, too. Gary, at last, reluctantly added his hand and counted it all up. “Motion carries,” he said, and reached for another donut.

I gathered my papers, thanked the room, and walked out of the feed store into the bright morning with my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my fingertips. I wanted to scream and do a victory lap down Main Street. To every person who’d ever looked at me sideways in this town, I wished to saySee? I belong here. I have ideas, and I fight forthem. And I just convinced those old men to let me throw some parties that might actually save this place.

Instead, I pressed my folder against my chest, inhaled, and held my head high as I walked down the block to my store.

When I got there, Daisy was leaning against the bed of her truck, arms crossed, ball cap low over her auburn hair, a smear of something dark on her forearm that was either grease or hoof compound. Knowing my sister, it was both. She’d probably been out at ranches since dawn, trimming shoes and doing hoof care, more physical labor by nine in the morning than most people managed all week.

“Well?” she said.

“Unanimous.” The grin would be permanently etched on my face all day. “Even Gary voted yes, at the end. I think the donut bribery finally paid off.”

Daisy’s mouth curved into something that was almost a smile. From her, that was a lot. “Good. You worked hard on that pitch. When’s the first one?”

“This Friday.” I unlocked the shop door, and she followed me inside, the bell chiming overhead as we stepped into the cool quiet of Wylde West Outfitters. The morning light was just coming through the front windows, falling across the boot displays and the turquoise jewelry, and the hand-painted sign we’d created together for Mom when we were younger that readWylde West Outfitters: Where the West Gets Dressed.“I’ve got the DJ booked, the Sapphire’s ready, and I’m running the social media push starting today. If I can get even a few women through the door, it’ll be enough to prove the concept.”

“Women walking into a bar full of lonely cowboys?”Daisy settled herself against the counter and raised an eyebrow. “What could possibly go wrong?”

“We’ve done that plenty of times,” I reminded her, and flipped on the lights and started up the register, already mentally cycling through the day’s task list. Inventory check, new boot display, social media graphics, call the DJ to confirm the set list, touch base with the Sapphire about the bar setup. And most importantly, get my flyers put up all over the college campuses from Billings to Bozeman, and Great Falls, too.

“We’ve never fallen for cowboys, though.”

“Yet.” My brain never really stopped making lists. It was the only way I knew how to keep everything from sliding sideways. “You should come Friday, you know. Bring the ranch crew.”

“I’ll come to support you, you know that. But I’m not bringing anyone.”

“Not even Knox?” I kept my voice perfectly innocent, a skill I’d spent years perfecting and which Daisy could see through like glass. “I’m sure he’d love a night out with you. A little music, a little dancing. The man cleans up nicely when he’s not drowning in aftershave.”

The look Daisy gave me could have stripped paint. “So? All the guys at the ranch do.”

“Colt told me Knox actually ironed his shirt before church Sunday night.”

The faintest pink crept up the side of her neck, just above the collar of her work shirt, and I was enjoying myself immensely and making no effort to hide it. “You’re one to talk. Half the town thinks you andColt Calhoun are a thing. He kissed you earlier this summer; he carried you out of a mud puddle on Sunday.”

“I kissed him. And my boots cost two hundred dollars. He was protecting the merchandise.”

“He carried you bridal-style. And you let him.” Daisy’s voice had shifted from teasing to something more observational, like the way she assessed a horse’s gait before deciding whether the problem was in the hoof or the leg.

I didn’t have a good answer for that, so I redirected. “There is no me and Colt. We’re just friends.”

“Good, then I won’t bring it up again if you’ll stop mentioning me and Knox. Deal?”

We shook hands on it.

Daisy was quiet for a moment, watching me fuss with bracelets on a new stand I had just gotten in. When she spoke again, the teasing was gone.

“Ivy, I want you to know that I admire what you’ve done with Mom’s shop, and with the Chamber. I see you put real work into things, and it shows. And now you have these Cowboy Night events…” She paused and chewed her cheek. The air shifted the way you feel weather turning, that drop in pressure that tells you something’s coming. “But I don’t want you so overworked that you?—”

She stopped mid-sentence, mouth closed, like she’d caught the words before they could escape. I knew my sister well enough to know she hadn’t run out of things to say, but out of courage to say them.

“That I what?” Something cold flickered through my chest. “Just say it, Daisy.”

“That everything would become too much and you’d run off again.”