Page 13 of 11 Cowboys

But maybe it’s the kind I need.

5

CONWAY

I wait until the sun’s high in the sky, everyone’s back for lunch, and the house is loud. That’s how it works around here. You want a quiet conversation, you don’t schedule it. You wait for the chaos to surge and then step sideways into a weaker current.

Grace is out back, talking to Corbin and the twins about something involving chickens and glitter glue. Her laugh cuts through the noise, dry and sharp-edged, and I feel it in the center of my chest like someone flicking a light switch I forgot was wired up. The radiance hurts my tired eyes.

She shouldn’t be here.

I clear my throat. “Grace.”

She turns, nose high, eyes narrow, chin up, ready for a fight. “Yeah?”

I nod toward the front of the house. “You got a minute? We should talk.”

She follows without question, brushing dirt off her jeans like she’s surprised to find it there. That won’t last long. Soon, it’ll become an expectation. Her steps are light butsure. As I lead the way, I feel her behind me like the air itself is drawn to her. I have to shake my head to dislodge my foolishness. I’m too old for romantic ideas.

In the office that used to be my grandfather’s, we sit opposite each other, a wide oak desk between us. It still smells like tobacco and lemon polish, even though no one’s smoked in here in years. I glance at the empty cigar box on the bookshelf beside an old photo of my grandparents on their wedding day. The edges are curled, and the glass is cracked, but their relationship was the strongest marriage I ever saw and the reason we’re all still together in this house. They taught us that family is the heart of everything in life and that love can weather even the most ferocious storms. I wonder what they’d think of our plan. They’d question it—they were traditional, after all—but maybe, once they understood what we want, they’d support us. They always did, no matter how hard or what it cost them.

Grace perches on the edge of the chair, legs crossed, arms folded like she’s protecting her ribs from a low blow. Her eyes flick to the desk where a worn letter opener rests on a stack of invoices. Beside it is a kid’s crayon drawing of a horse with six legs. She smiles faintly, then looks back at me.

Looking at her is harder than it should be for a thirty-eight-year-old man. The weight I carry on my shoulders is heavy enough to break any man’s spine, and I’m no stranger to women. I’ve found release between more women’s thighs than I’d ever want to admit, and yet still, I have to force myself to meet her gaze.

“I figure we should lay down some ground rules… some expectations… so we understand each other.”

She arches an eyebrow. “So this is the ‘don’t make us look like idiots’ conversation?”

“Something like that.”

I don’t smile. I don’t need to. She already knows.

I lean back, fingers laced across my worn plaid shirt, socked feet crossed, trying to project an illusion ofrelaxation when I’m anything but. “We’ve tried. Three times. Nice women with good intentions. They all said they wanted to make a life here. They lasted a week, maybe two. Said it was too hard. Too many people. Too loud. Too isolated.”

“Too many men?” she adds.

I press my lips together, considering how to articulate this. “It’s not about the—” I pause at the word sex. It’s not something I feel comfortable saying in mixed company. “—physical relationships,” I say. “Not at first. It’s about the work. The kids. The kitchen. The relentlessness of life. The chores. The expectations. That’s where it breaks.”

She doesn’t write anything down. She watches me like I’m the story now, taking mental notes in that pretty little head of hers. I hate how exposed that makes me feel.

I shift in my chair. “We’re not looking for a maid, Grace. Or a mother. As you can see, we handle the chores fine. The kids are happy… they’re learning and growing well. We... we want someone who wants this. Who wants the stability and security we can provide and, in turn, is willing to be a soft landing for us at the end of the day. Someone who can find a space within the hard work and want all of it.”

“All of it?” she asks.

“Even the parts that don’t look good in pictures.”

She tilts her head. “And you think putting out a national ad was the way to find her?”

“Look around, Grace. We’re thirty minutes from the nearest town. We know every woman in a thirty-mile radius. Most are married, widowed, or too young. It was the ad or an introduction agency, and to be honest, once we had admitted we needed help and were ready, the idea of publicity getting eyes on our issue didn’t seem like the worst thing. But now this coverage… what you’re here for… it’s starting to feel like it has the potential to be too much.”

“People will be interested in your story. Eleven men and a lady—” She shakes her head and narrows her eyes. “That’s good. I should write that down.”

I snort. A real one. It surprises both of us. Her smile lingers a little longer this time.

“I don’t care much about people outside the fences around this ranch. I want to deal with the issues inside these walls, and those men out there… they need more than cow herding, chores, and childcare to keep them sane.”

“And you think I can, what? Vet the process? Give you PR coverage?”