Page 36 of 11 Cowboys

But I don’t say any of that.

Cody studies me for a long moment, then gives a quiet nod. “Okay.”

We move around each other easily, rinsing plates, wiping counters, and falling into a rhythm that’s familiar even though we barely know each other. It’s strange how quickly this house drags you into its orbit and makes you a cog in the machine.

I set a bowl on the counter and glance at him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“This arrangement you’re hoping for… the one you advertised for. What doyouwant out of it? What are you hoping it’ll feel like?”

Cody sets down the dish towel and leans against the sink, arms crossed loosely.

“I want peace,” he says without thinking. “Not quiet necessarily. We’ve got kids, so that’s never happening. But something steady. Someone who isn’t afraid of the mess, who walks into a room like this,” he gestures around the chaotic kitchen, “and sees home, love, and family, not chores, grind, and work.”

He pauses, voice softening. “I want warmth and a partner. Not just in raising the existing kids… and more if we’re blessed… or running the ranch, but in the late-night stuff. The hard talks. The long days. The sweet nights. The special moments in between.”

Wow. The romance in that statement takes me by surprise. I nod, the answer sitting heavier than I expected. Cody’s answer is deep. He’s obviously thought long and hard about this, which is necessary but surprising. I made assumptions about these men. I thought they’d be lookingfor the obvious qualities a woman could bring to the table. A ranch wife who was content in the kitchen and happier on her back than most. I thought they’d list out practical traits, but he’s looking for a full-life partner. An equal. What would a woman like that be like? Would I like her? What qualities would she have that I don’t?

Cody nudges my elbow with his. “And hey, someone who can cook like you wouldn’t hurt, either.”

I laugh, easing into the moment. “Noted.”

At least I’m not a total failure at life. Decent in the kitchen and even better on my knees and back. It’s the rest I can’t figure out.

I don’t know how to be a person who stays. I didn’t witness that kind of relationship growing up. My dad wasn’t built for permanence, and I guess somewhere along the way, I learned not to expect it from myself, from him, or from anyone.

So, how do I become something I’ve never seen? How do I survive the hard talks, the long days, the raw, quiet work of loving someone and being loved back? Even the thought of it knots into something sharp in my chest.

Because here’s the truth: the worst part of wanting something you don’t think you deserve isn’t the emptiness. It’s thehope. The aching kind that flickers every time someone’s kind to you and then fades because, deep down, you’re still bracing for it to disappear.

We finish the cleanup with easy banter, moving around each other like teacups on a fairground ride, until everything is packed away and wiped down. When we’re done, Cody glances at the clock, then at me.

“You ever need to talk,” he says, “about Levi, or anything else, I’m around.”

Then he tips his head and slips out through the mudroom door.

I’m left standing in a spotless kitchen, surrounded by the smell of apple muffins, bacon, and the very real weight of not being enough.

13

HARRISON

The house is bustling when I slip into the den with my mug of black coffee and a full belly. The clock says seven-fifty-six, meaning I’m four minutes ahead of schedule. Good. The big rectangular table is already set with reading primers on one side, math worksheets on the other, and pencils lined up like soldiers.

Routine is the only thing that keeps this place from descending into absolute madness.

The others run on instinct, but me? I run on structure, order, and measurable outcomes.

The den was a sitting room before I converted it. It still smells faintly of old books and leather polish, a compromise between what it was and what I need it to be. A space to teach. A space to keep order.

I sip the coffee slowly, scanning my notebook: agriculture rotations, profit margins on hay this quarter, the breeding schedule for the cattle. This is what I went to college for. It isn’t glamorous, but essential. I’m the only one of us who bothered to stay in school because someone hadto.

Homeschooling the kids? That was never in my plan. But after we lost our parents, and then Nana and Pop, too, and the kids all ended up motherless, somebody had to step up.

The clock ticks over to eight, and, like clockwork, little footsteps start pattering down the stairs. First to arrive is Junie, who’s dressed but still dragging a blanket. Then Matty pokes his head around the door in a Spider-Man shirt. Eli appears, scowling as usual. Rory arrives with Corbin, half-asleep, with wild curls, and his favorite plushy gripped tight in his pudgy hand. Corbin passes him to me and then leaves without a backward glance. He loves these kids, but he needs some time to himself and appreciates the routine. The twins thunder in last, arguing loudly about who gets to sit by the window.

The chaos bleeds into this room for a minute, and I suppress a sigh, clapping my hands once. “Seats. Now.”