My lips part around a surprised little hum. “Oh, wow! That’s really good!”
“Hella good, huh?” Colby chirps. “The strawberry ones are my favorite, though.”
She shoves another in my face, making me cackle.
“Colby Mildred Archer!” Bea hisses. “Watch your language!”
She ignores her mom and leans in closer to me as I suck on the second stick.
In a stage-whisper, she says, “Did you hear that? Not only did I get named after fruit, but I got the shitty middle name, too.”
My brows go high.
“It’s like she was trying to make sure I’d be a virgin forever.”
Before Bea can give her daughter what I’m sure is a well-versed lecture, someone calls out the girls' names from across the market. We all turn to find a robust woman with platinum-blonde hair waving wildly.
They groan.
“Ugh,” Colby mutters. “Mom, please tell me you didn’t sign us up for more face painting duty.”
“You said you wanted to make some money today,” Bea sing-songs, already nudging them off with a playful swat.
“Not with Lizzy Simmons!” Clementine throws her a look of pure betrayal. “You tricked us.”
“It’s called parenting,” Bea replies. “Now go make some little toddlers into tigers or butterflies or whatever their hearts are begging to be. Just don’t make them cry.”
The twins vanish in a flurry of eye-rolls and dramatic teen energy, leaving me alone with Bea Archer… who’s now giving me a look far too knowing for comfort.
My mind scrambles for an exit—some excuse to bolt before she can unravel me with one of those warm, well-meaning smiles that remind me all too much of what I desperately want.
But before I can say a word, she reaches up and gently twirls the end of one of my French braids.
“Your hair is stunning,” she says softly. “Especially in the sun. It's full of so many colors. And these curls?” She lets out a small, affectionate sigh. “I’m jealous. You don’t see hair like yours very often.”
Her fingers fall away, replaced by a motherly smile that curls like the honey she’s selling—warm and sweet in the sun.
“Is it a familial trait?”
The world around me disappears at her otherwise innocent question.
My heart skips a beat—then another. Bea’s voice fades, echoing through the hollow chamber of my chest.
Familial trait.
What if Bea knew my mom? What if she knows who my dad is? What if she knows why my mom was in West Virginia instead of here, with a family like hers?
I blink a few times, finding Bea giving me an almost knowing look that scares the hell out of me and makes me giddy all at once.
I’m still debating what to do when a new voice penetrates the long silence, distracting both of us.
“Hey, Mom. Ridge said one of the perimeter fences near the south pasture was down again this morning. Third time this month. He’s not sure if it's the weather, the cows, or something else, but he’s got a bad feeling and asked me to ride out with him.”
I glance up just as a woman about my age steps forward. She’s got the same dark Archer hair as the rest of them, a striped button-down tucked into worn jeans, boots that have clearly seen some shit, and a wide-brimmed hat that reminds me way too damn much of Kade’s.
The image of Kade Archer clutching his Stetson to his broad chest like a true Southern gentleman flickers through my mind—his deep voice all rumble and charm as he addressed the judge.
Of course, that charm never extends to me.
