Page 3 of Falling Stars (Wild at Heart #2)

BAYLEE

ALMOST SIX YEARS LATER

JUNE

They say bad things happen in threes. I’ve never believed that until today.

As I scan the letter from the salon’s landlord, my eyes widen at the rent hike.

With a pit in my stomach, I throw my car in gear and race to work. I have a million things to do before I leave for Dallas this afternoon, so I don’t have time to deal with this.

Freaking out will have to wait.

But seriously, I run a salon, not a bank. There’s no way I can swing that rent unless I increase the prices on everything, and I’m not sure our customers can afford to pay more.

I park my car and jog around the corner to the salon.

“Son of a—” I skid to a stop next to Miss Rosie, my elderly client, who’s getting a cut and color this morning.

“Oh, dear.” She covers her mouth with a weathered hand. “Didn’t you just get that artwork done?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Last week, I hired a local artist to paint bumblebees and flowers on our salon window. I wanted to spruce up the place a little. That window now has a massive hole. Glass lies shattered on the ground, and jagged shards encircle the opening.

I can’t shake the feeling this is somehow my fault. Because nothing like this ever happened when my mom ran Bumblebee.

“The kids in this town are out of control,” Miss Rosie says. “Just the other day, Otis Schumacher went joyriding in his father’s tractor and took down five mailboxes over on Maple Street. I also heard he jacked off the postman.”

I choke on a laugh, surprised I can smile right now. “He jacked off Louis Bickman?” Because I can’t imagine even his wife gives that man hand jobs. He has the face of a schnauzer and the personality to match.

“Yes. Like this,” she says, waving her middle finger.

Folding my lips, I try not to chuckle. “You mean he flipped off the postman?”

“Yes, dear. That’s what I said.”

Mentally, I scrub my brain of Louis Bickman getting a handy from anyone and grab my phone to take a few photos from the sidewalk so I can report this to the police.

“Miss Rosie, give me a few minutes to call Sheriff Reynolds and sweep up the glass. I don’t want you to get cut.

” Even though I probably can’t afford this, I pull out a ten-dollar bill and place it in her hand.

“Why don’t you grab coffee and a pastry next door—my treat—and I’ll come get you when I’m ready.

” She’s one of our oldest residents and probably shouldn’t be standing for too long.

“I can’t accept this and the free haircut.”

“Miss Rosie, it’s my pleasure.” Since I took over Bumblebee for my mom, I’ve been volunteering my services to women at the Maplewood Manor Nursing Home.

They’re on a fixed income and can’t afford to get their hair done.

The staff drop them off at my salon and pick them up afterwards, or sometimes I go to the nursing home.

Her eyes twinkle in delight. “Only if you’re sure, dear.”

I pat her hand and smile. “I’m positive. Please go enjoy a snack.”

She turns but wobbles, and I jut out my hand to steady her. “You know what? I need a coffee too. Let’s head over there together.”

Hopefully, we can avoid Lorraine Ashbury, who owns a boutique on the corner.

That family owns several businesses, but I’m most annoyed by Lorraine’s shop because all that woman wants to do is tell me how awesome her daughter Nicole is.

Did you know that Nicole is teaching French at the high school?

Did you know Nicole takes students abroad to France every summer?

Did you know that Nicole used to date Maverick when they were younger?

Nicole can suck a bag of dicks.

Arm in arm, Miss Rosie and I stroll to the Blackbird Brew Coffee House and blessedly avoid Lorraine. Our pace is glacial, and my blood pressure spikes with each small step we take, but it’s not Miss Rosie’s fault some asshole decided to throw a rock through my window.

Today of all days. First the rent hike and now this.

Are these bad omens? I wish I knew, but I only get feelings about other people. Unfortunately, I can’t figure out jack shit about my own life.

When we get to the cafe, I get Miss Rosie seated, bring her the food, and then race back with my sad little decaf coffee to the salon where Rory is already sweeping up the mess.

“Bless you.” I make a mental note to pay her more when I can swing it.

She pushes up her glasses. “No problem,” she whispers. Rory is quieter than a church mouse. She recently moved to Wild Heart and does all the odd jobs I did in high school while she studies to be a librarian. “What… what happened?”

“I have no idea.” I take in the broken glass and wonder if this is some screwed-up metaphor for my life.

In the back of my mind, I hear my mom’s voice. Don’t be pessimistic, Baylee. This is just a hiccup. You’ll see Sean tonight, and everything will be okay.

I’m dying to call her, but if I do, I’ll melt down, and I don’t have time for that.

When Sheriff Reynolds arrives, he gives me a sympathetic smile. He’s sporting a shaggy gray mustache I’d love to trim, his brown uniform, and a cowboy hat. “Damn shame ’bout your pretty window.”

“Thanks for coming so quickly.” I’m bone-weary, and the day has just begun. I thought being an adult and having the freedom to do what I wanted would make my life easier. No one ever explains that the pressure of responsibilities will suck the fun right out of you. “I took some photos for you.”

He tips his hat. “Mighty smart. Can you email them to me?”

“Sure thing.”

“How’s baby Ella?” he asks as he looks around.

I smile because that sweet pea is the light of my life. “Perfect.” My best friend Paige had a baby last month, and Ella’s an absolute doll.

“And your mama? Is Sylvia still taking care of your grandpa up in Amarillo?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alzheimer’s a damn tough thing to deal with.”

It’s the reason my mom’s afraid to move Abuelo here. Changes in his surroundings upset him, which is why I’ve taken over the salon.

Leaning over, Sheriff Reynolds crouches into the back corner of the salon and holds up a softball-sized rock. “I think this was the culprit.”

It’s white and has the word ‘WHORE’ written on it with red paint.

My eye twitches, and I press my palm into my socket. “Sheriff, I don’t really date much, but I would totally own up to it if I was banging all the bros in town.”

“You’ve always had a way with words, Baylee.” With a quirk of his mustache, he pats my shoulder. “Have you had any other trouble?”

Aside from getting my tires slashed this spring? I blow out a breath. “Someone kicked over my trash cans last week, but that could’ve been a raccoon.”

Rubbing his scruffy chin, he sighs. “What about the ladies at Darling Divas? Have y’all had any more words?”

That’s our rival hair salon. At the thought of those bitches, I growl. “Estelle Dutton called my mom an old hag and said she was glad she finally retired.”

He shakes his head. “That woman has no class.”

“Agreed, but as much as I dislike her, I can’t imagine she’d resort to throwing rocks in my window.”

“Unless this is all tied to the Walker and McAllister beef.”

I hear what he’s saying. Even though I rarely speak to Maverick anymore, everyone assumes we’re still best friends.

Plus, Paige married his older brother Rhett last summer, and I’m her ride-or-die.

And people in this town know which establishments are loyal to the Walkers and which are loyal to the McAllisters. I’m squarely in the Walker camp.

I wince. “I did start cutting Honey McAllister’s hair.”

“You done stole a customer, you little thief,” he teases before his tone grows serious again. “I was hoping that whole thing would die out. ”

I lift a disbelieving brow. “Do any beefs in this town ever die out?”

“Sadly, no.”

“Maverick’s family has been at odds with the McAllisters for, what, over a century?

It’s going to take more than a few quiet years where they don’t try to drive each other off the road to bury the hatchet.

” Those two families have hated each other since the town was founded.

Our town is split in the middle, and many a bar brawl has its origins in that feud.

“And as much as I’m sure Estelle has a bee in her britches because of Honey, I don’t think she’d resort to vandalism.

Nasty gossip, sure. Pettiness? Absolutely.

But this?” I look at my shattered window. “This feels more personal.”

“You may be right.”

Vera stops in the doorway. “What the hell? Are you serious?”

I wave her in. “I think Rory got all the glass on the floor, but I should probably mop.”

Sheriff Reynolds tips his hat at me again. “I’ll be in touch if I have any news.”

I nod, but I’m not holding my breath. I love the man like a grandfather, but his “law enforcement” seems to consist of warming the seat at our local coffee shops.

Vera rushes to my side. “Shouldn’t you be halfway done with Miss Rosie’s hair by now? What time do you and Rory need to leave for Dallas?”

My stomach pitches at the thought of what I have to do this afternoon. Don’t hurl, Baylee. You don’t have time. I’m styling a bridal party this weekend, but I’m also hoping to stop by and surprise my boyfriend.

Sean and I have a lot to talk about.

“Could you do me a favor and wipe down the counters and chairs? I’d hate for someone to get glass in their ass.”

“I’m on it. ”

Fortunately, a neighboring shop is doing some construction, and they let me buy a large piece of plywood.

I drag it down the alley, take it through the store, and lean it against the front of my salon.

Then I lug a chair to the sidewalk. With a roll of duct tape on my arm, I clamber on top of the chair.

It wobbles, and I gasp, grabbing hold of the brick wall and barely avoiding the jagged edge of the window.

“The hell are you doing up there?” a male voice growls. Most people would cringe, but I’m immune to Rhett Walker’s gruff disposition. He’s like a big brother I never asked for but sometimes appreciate.

When I turn around, he’s glaring at the broken glass. He offers me his hand. “Let me take care of this for you.”

“I can do it.” I hate relying on people for help.

“Baylee Reyes, my wife will tan my hide if you hurt yourself.”

I chuckle and reluctantly take his hand and hop down.

A second later, another Walker brother joins us. Beau’s frown is just as fierce when he sees my window. He’s sporting his Wild Heart Fire Department uniform, and his disheveled hair tells me he probably just got off work.

This is where I’d usually look around to see if Maverick was here, but I can happily say I’m finally over the compulsion. He left for New York, and a part of me is relieved I won’t have to answer any more questions from locals who still sometimes ask if we’re an item.

I don’t tell the Walkers about the message some asshole scrawled on the offending rock or I’ll be here all day trying to talk them off the ledge. They’ll assume it was the McAllisters, and I’ll have to reschedule Miss Rosie’s appointment so I can keep them from committing a homicide.

As they work on my window, every single woman walking by this morning checks them out. All the Walker men are ridiculously good-looking, but Rhett and Beau have never caught my eye.

And I’d rather forget the one brother who did.

Now is not the time to think about Maverick, Baylee. You have bigger fish to fry.

Hopefully, that third bad thing won’t happen.

Because now I have to figure out how to tell Sean I’m pregnant.