Liberty exhaled slowly. “After eight months of training, I’ve scored a long-term assignment where I’ll be traveling. At the meeting today, the client insisted that I”—it pained her to admit this to her beautiful, fashionable sister—“look less dowdy and more hip to fit in.”

“Your jerk of a client said that to you? Good Lord, Lib. How much is the guy limping? Or did you just shoot him?”

She loved how quickly Harper got indignant on her behalf. “Neither, because he’s right. I have no sense of style. I’ve always told you I don’t care, and that was true when I was on active duty, but now? Now I’m embarrassed to admit that I’m thirty-five years old and I’m so overwhelmed by all of it—girl hair, makeup, clothing—that I don’t even know where to start.”

“Well, sweetie, you came to the right place. Take a deep breath. We’ll get you through this.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, you’ll be cursing me when I tell you that I’ve been waiting for this day to come, and I’ve prepared for it accordingly.”

Liberty frowned. “How did you prepare for it?”

“Please. Did you forget I own a clothing store? I see thousands of pieces of merchandise every year. And ever since you got this job, when I saw something that would look great on you, I’ve set it aside.”

“Christ. Like some kind of Liberty-becomes-a-fashionista hope chest?”

Harper laughed. “Exactly. I know you like baggy, comfortable clothes and I kept that in mind when I picked pieces that are . . . absolutely nothing like that at all.”

Liberty groaned but admitted, “God, you annoy me, but I love you anyway.”

“I know. I’ve set aside two dozen pieces. Some will work well together, some need another piece to complete the outfit, but they’re all stylish and yet fit with your personality, job and lifestyle. When do you need them by?”

“We leave Denver on Monday.”

“Okay. Not a problem. I’ll overnight them to you today . . . under one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“That we finish every ensemble tomorrow afternoon—including shoes. Which means you will take me along as your personal shopper and we’ll be on FaceTime for as long as it takes.”

Don’t groan. “That sounds”—like torture—“good.”

“You’re such a liar. I’ll include ideas of what I think will finish off the outfits and where you can find individual pieces. We’ll start at department stores.” Harper paused.

“What?”

“Is money an issue?”

“Depends on if you’re sending me shopping at Saks or Kmart.”

“Places like Nordstrom, Dillard’s, Forever 21, Charlotte Russe and Anthropologie will work just fine.”

“Then I’m good.” Now that the hundred-thousand-dollar paycheck loomed, she could afford to spend a little of her nest egg.

“What about hair and makeup?”

“I was hoping you’d have all the answers for that too.”

“That’s something you need to handle on your own. But let me ask Bernice if she knows anyone in Denver who specializes in makeovers.”

Bernice. That crazy woman who told her she had the perfect face for a crew cut. Liberty had enough problems looking feminine without that. “I’m not sure—”

“Bernice won’t steer me wrong. I promise. As far as makeup, I’ll text you a list of basics you need in your toolbox. Then I want you to go on YouTube and watch ‘how to’ segments. I’d suggest a department store makeup counter, but I know you, sis; you’re hands-on. The best way to learn is to do it yourself. And this time you have to learn. Your job depends on it.”

Some of the tension melted out of her. “You don’t have any idea how much I appreciate this.”

“Yes, sweetie, I do. I’m really tickled you came to me first.”

“As the former Miss Sweetgrass, you’re the expert. I never even considered calling anyone else.”

“I wish we could do this in person.” She paused. “How long will you be on assignment?”

“Four months. But I get a ten-day break after three months so I promise I’ll drive up and hang out with you and your boys.”

“We’d like that. And maybe before you leave you could FaceTime with Tate and Jake? They love the stick horses you sent.”

She grinned. Spoiling her only nephews was her right. “Sounds good.”

“I’ll text you Bernice’s salon recommendation and I’ll talk with you tomorrow. Love you, Lib. Thanks for needing my help.”

“You might be sorry you said that,” she warned. “Love you too. Kiss the fam for me.”

Four hours later, Liberty was sitting in a beauty chair, facing a mirror. The stylist had spent fifteen minutes offering suggestions about color changes and style.

Now the decision rested solely in her hands. She looked at her baby-fine, reddish brown hair, which brushed the tops of her br**sts. Over the years she’d worn her hair either long or short, no in between. She’d never changed the color. She’d never really cared before now.

Be daring. And face it—even a shitty haircut eventually grows out.

“So? What’ll it be?”

Liberty smiled—although it looked more like a grimace. “Do it all. Cut it. Color it. I don’t want to recognize myself when you’re done.”