Wildflower by Lynda Bailey Page A

due out at our herd…”
    Mrs. Upton swung the door closed then looped her arm through Matt’s. “We got the newest story by Mark Twain on the stage yesterday. It’s called the Prince and the Pauper .” She tugged Matt to the back of the store, weaving through stacked tables of merchandise. “We also got latest edition of Harper’s Bazaar as well as this new magazine called...” She lifted a small sack of salt off a thin stack of magazines. “ Woman’s Home Journal . I think you’ll like it.”
    “Thank you, Mrs. Upton.” Matt took the offered magazine, grateful the other customers had lost interest in her. “It’s nice of you to think about me.”
    She’d just flipped to the first article as the door bell chimed again and in walked the Uptons’ daughter, Daisy, along with two of her friends. The conversation at the stove again halted. But this time, every man straightened his posture and tipped his hat to the prattling threesome.
    The ladies made their way to the colorful bolts of cloth in the center of the store. Their giggling increased in volume with every tipped hat. A most annoying and silly sound men probably thought resembled music. For Matt, a bullet ricocheting off a rock had to sound better.
    Though she continued to turn the pages of the magazine, her gaze remained fixed on the three young women. When she had entered the store, not one hat had been tipped in her direction. In fact, she’d been ignored until Mrs. Upton brought her to everyone’s attention, and not in a good way. Never before had she given the lack of any courtesy towards herself a second thought. So why did it prick her ire now?
    Daisy unrolled a bolt of bright green fabric, her blonde curls bouncing around her face. The material shimmered in the sunlight that poured through the large store window. She held it up in front of her with a toothy grin and twirled around in front the captivated male audience. Even the older men at the stove were watching. The other girls twittered more while nodding and pointing.
    Matt’s fingers itched to touch the fabric. She wanted to hold it up and sashay around while others admired her. An empty ache spread through her chest.
    She wanted to be pretty too. Pretty and feminine. Wanted to wear dresses and have men to tip their hats to her like she was a lady. The ache swelled and she spun away.
    Who was she kidding? Wear dresses and be treated like a lady? Not likely. At least not here. Here she was considered strange. Nothing but an oddity. A girl raised as a boy.
    The dull pain in her chest shifted. Changed. Turned ugly and resentful. It wasn’t her fault her father hadn’t raised her proper.
    She slapped the magazine down and stalked to the door amid more grating, girlish laughs. She paid the sound no heed. The door opened just as she reached for it and barely jumped out of the way before getting smacked. She shot daggers at the person on the other side.
    Logan. He flinched at seeing her, but a grin quickly replacing his shock. Almost like he was glad to see her.
    Not likely.
    She moved past him, but he blocked her path. “Where you going in such an all-fired hurry?”
    “I’m going to the herd,” she huffed, muscling out the door. She marched across the street and snatched her horse’s reins from the post. Logan’s hand on her arm kept her from swinging into the saddle.
    “What’s wrong?”
    She yanked from his grasp. “Nothing’s wrong. The men at the herd need to be relieved, remember? Can’t be wasting the day in town.”
    The ruts between his eyes deepened as he tucked his hands into the rear pockets of his Levi’s. “All right.” The words came out slow and measured. “Wait while I’ll see if Gus is done with my horse then we can ride out together.”
    “ You wait. I’m not frittering away any more time. Not when there’s work to be done.” She stuffed a foot into the stirrup and hoisted herself onto Turk’s back. The gelding sensed her anger and fought the bit. Logan