Bellarose had a way of taking charge that didn’t much care for permission, and tonight was no different. She’d declared flat-out that Isobel’s wardrobe “wouldn’t pass muster at a county fair, much less a rodeo dance,” and the next thing Isobel knew, she was being towed through Rose’s front door like a calf on the end of a lasso.

Rose’s room hit her like a highball of perfume and dust—walls plastered with rodeo queens and glossy fashion ads, closet doors hanging open like ...