His Little Cowgirl

He waved as she got into the truck, and he tried to tell himself this would be easy. Staying would be easy. Helping would be easy. Rolling through his mind with the thoughts of staying were the other things he didn’t want to think about, such as his place at the top of the bull-riding standings, his obligation to his sponsors and the herd of cattle he was building in Oklahoma.

Bailey parked behind the Hash-It-Out Diner, the only diner, cafе or restaurant in Gibson, Missouri. No one seemed to mind that the tiny town nestled in the Ozarks had a shortage of businesses. They had a grocery store and a restaurant; of course they had a feed store.

And they had churches. In a town with fewer than three hundred people, they had four churches—and every one of them was full on Sunday. So the town obviously had an abundance of faith.

If the people in Gibson needed more than their small town had to offer, they drove to Springfield. Simple as that. And on the upside, since Gibson didn’t have a lot to offer, it didn’t draw a lot of newcomers.

What Bailey loved was the sense of community and the love the people had for one another. Gossip might come easily to a small town, where people didn’t have a lot to do, but so did generous hearts.

Not only that, how many people could say that on their way to work they passed by a grocery store with two horses hitched to the post out front? Bailey had waved at the two men out for a morning ride. She wished she could have gone along. She hadn’t ridden for pleasure in more than a year. These days riding was training, and training helped pay a few bills.

As Bailey got out of the truck, she didn’t lock the doors or even take the keys out. She did grab her purse. From across the street a friend she had gone to school with waved and called out her name, asking how Bailey’s dad was doing.

Bailey smiled and nodded. She didn’t have an answer about her dad, not today. She hurried down the sidewalk to the front door of the diner, opening it and shuddering at the clanging cowbell that had been hung to alert the waitresses to the arrival of new customers.

“We’re expecting the ladies’ group from the Community Church.” Lacey tossed a work shirt in Bailey’s direction as soon as she walked into the waitress station.

“Wonderful, quarter tips and plenty of refills on coffee.”

Bailey loved the darlings of the Community Church, but she would have liked a few tables that left real tips, especially today. Real tips would have helped her to forget the call from the mortgage company, letting her know that she was behind—again.