Page 139 of 11 Cowboys

Lennon climbs in next to me, and the first thing he does is offer me a sour worm. “You sure?” I ask. “They’re your favorites.”

“You’re my favorite,” he grins, feeding me the worm and then kissing me so deeply, he steals it from my mouth. He grins with it gripped between his teeth, then laughs as I try to wrestle him for the package.

Nash slams the tailgate shut and hops in the front seat beside Levi, who’s already starting the engine.

“Y’all flirting back there like we didn’t just survive a social crucifixion,” Nash mutters, half-amused, half-incredulous.

“She held her head high,” Levi says, glancing at me in the rearview. “That’s all that matters.”

“Thank you for fighting in my corner,” I say, tugging the sour candy away from Lennon with a triumphant grin.

“I think Mrs. Langford had the hardest punch today,” Lennon says, sliding his fingers between mine. “But I need you to know, we’ll always have your back, Grace. You don’t need to worry about anything. You have eleven feral cowboys on your side.”

The words settle in me like heat and absolute bone-deep relief.

We drive through town with the windows down, the music loud, and the dust kicking up behind us. A few folks glance our way, some still unsure, others nodding. When the truck finally turns off the main road toward the ranch, I lean my head on Lennon’s shoulder.

Nash stretches his arm out across the back of the bench seat. “I can’t wait to get home,” he says.

I nod, eyes half-closed, heart full. “Me, too.”

There’s more to face. More conversations. More healing.But as we make our way back to the ranch that used to feel like the end of the world and has now become my final destination, I know this much for sure: I’m never walking life’s road alone. I’ll always have my cowboys by my side.

52

NASH

“She’s gonna love it,” Levi says from the porch, arms crossed, one boot propped on the rail.

Lennon is perched on the steps behind him, chewing on a toothpick. “She better. My knees are still sore from sanding that damn floor by hand.”

We’ve been working on this surprise for weeks now, putting in hours quietly, after chores, late into the night under string lights and bug zappers, arguing about paint colors and wood finishes and which chair would “look most like her,” whatever the hell that means. But now it’s done, mostly, and I’m pacing the gravel like an idiot because I’m nervous.

I snort. “Your knees are sore from trying to impress her on the den rug.”

He grins. “Same difference.”

But me? I’m too restless to joke for long. I’ve seen Grace read poetry at dawn with a blanket over her shoulders and steam rising from her coffee. I’ve seen her scribble in that battered leather notebook of hers in the barn, in the truck,even while waiting for water to boil. I’ve seen her eyes light up when she talks about language, and the way her whole body softens when someone listens.

And we’ve been listening.

She just hasn’t realized how much.

When she finally walks out of the house, flushed and beautiful, her hair still damp from a shower and her mouth curved in a question, we all straighten up. Levi nudges me with his elbow. “Go on. You’re up.”

I meet her halfway and take her hand.

“Come with me.”

She raises a brow. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Levi and Lennon trail a few steps behind as I lead her around the side of the barn, where the old tool shed used to be. It’s now transformed with wood reclaimed from the old fence, a tin roof that still rattles in the wind, and windows we framed out ourselves. There’s a little porch that’s big enough for a chair and a potted plant, and the inside glows golden through the glass. It’s nothing fancy, but in a ranch filled with men and kids, this place will be for Grace only. Her sanctuary. A little piece of home out here in the country.

Grace stops walking. Her hand tightens around mine.

“What is this?” she asks, voice already shaking.