The rhinestones were the worst part.

Beau stared at himself in the station's small bathroom mirror, turning side to side, watching the artificial lights catch on every single stitched-in crystal running down the legs of his jeans.

The shirt was worse. Purple. Not a subtle western purple, not a dignified plum, but purple purple, with white piping along the yoke and pearl snaps that caught the fluorescent light like tiny moons. A bolo tie hung around his neck, the turquoise stone the size of a half-dollar.

The hat — Lord, the hat — sat on the counter, black felt, brim curling up at the sides, with a silver concho band that had probably been expensive in 1987.

He picked up the hat. Turned it over. Put it on.

The man in the mirror looked like he should be judging a livestock competition in Fort Worth. Or performing at a theme park. Or both.

"Hoyt," Beau said to the empty bathroom, quoting his deputy from an hour ago, "I want the record to show that this was not my idea."

The record would show nothing of the sort, because the record would also show that Sheriff Beau Arlen had volunteered for this particular undercover operation. The Buckaroo Rodeo — a traveling show that had set up just outside Helena — was a front, according to state investigators. Something about a money laundering operation tied to the concession stands.

Blend in. That was the phrase Captain Marsh had used. "You're from Houston, Beau. You can do cowboy."

Beau had done cowboy. Cowboy was, in fact, in his blood. But this — he plucked at the bolo tie — this wasn't cowboy. He adjusted the hat. Squared his shoulders. Practiced a slow nod in the mirror.

Yeah. He could make it work.

The bathroom door swung open and Jenny Hoyt leaned against the frame, arms crossed, one eyebrow climbing toward her hairline. She looked him up and down. Took her time about it. Her mouth twitched.

"Don't," Beau said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You're thinking it."

Jenny snorted. She settled against the wall opposite him, watching him adjust the bolo tie for the third time. There was something in her expression — not mockery, exactly. Closer to satisfaction. The particular satisfaction of someone who knew something he didn't.

He looked at himself one more time. The badge, safely tucked in his desk drawer for the evening, was the only piece of his actual self he was leaving behind. That and his dignity.

Beau opened the door and stepped into the bullpen. The reaction was immediate. Tubb's coffee cup froze halfway to his mouth. Someone in the back — he couldn't see who — made a sound like a steam kettle letting off pressure.

"Evening, folks," Beau said, easy as Sunday. "Nothing to see here. Just your friendly neighborhood sheriff, answerin' the call of duty."

"The call of duty requires rhinestones?" Tubb asked.

"The call of duty requires commitment."

Jenny followed him, settling into the chair across from his desk with the loose-limbed ease of someone who had nowhere to be and every intention of enjoying the show. She propped her feet up on the corner of his desk. He pushed them off. She put them back.

"So," she said. "Two dates."

Beau's eyes stayed on the file. "What about 'em?"

"I'm asking about them."

"Askin' about what, specifically?"

"Her." Jenny leaned forward, chin in hand. "You've been on two dates with her and you haven't said a damn thing. And you're a chatter, Beau. I know 'cause it annoyed the hell out of me when we met."

There was a particular tone Jenny used when she'd decided something was going to happen. Resistance was, generally, futile. Beau set the file down, leaned back in his chair, and considered his options. All of them led to Jenny getting what she wanted.

"She's good," he said. Carefully.

"Good how?"

"Good… generally. Good to talk to. Good cook —" He stopped. Recalibrated. That wasn't what he meant to say. Or it was exactly what he meant to say and he didn't want Jenny to latch onto it.

Jenny latched onto it. "Good cook? You've been on two dates and she's already cooking for you?"

"First date, she made — look, that's not the point. The point is, she's… Easy to be around. Doesn't make me feel like I'm performing. I can just..." He gestured, searching. "... be. She lets me be."

Something shifted in Jenny's face. The teasing edge softened. She nodded slowly. "That's rare," she said.

"Yeah." Beau turned his hat over in his hands, a nervous habit he'd never broken. "Yeah, it is." He wanted to say something deflecting then, something about how the operation would be over by the third date and this would be a distant memory —

And then the station's front door opened.

The takeout bag hit him first: the smell, rich and warm and unmistakably homemade, wafting across the bullpen like a personal attack on his resolve. Then the sound of familiar footsteps, unhurried, easy. Then...

Her.

She was standing in the doorway of the station, a reusable grocery bag in one hand and what looked like a covered dish in the other, the evening light from outside framing her silhouette. She was smiling — that that made his chest do something inconvenient — and she was scanning the room, looking for him, and he watched in slow motion as her eyes found the desk, found the badge-less chest, found the purple shirt, and her smile froze.

The room went very quiet.

Tubb's coffee cup went back up to hide his face. Jenny, still halfway to the door, stopped walking, stopped breathing, and became very interested in a bulletin board on the wall.

Beau sat very still.

{{User}} was looking at him. Taking it in. The hat. The bolo. The rhinestones catching the overhead light. The full, unedited, irrefutable visual of Clark County Sheriff Beau Arlen dressed like a roadie for a country music tribute band.