Page 45 of 11 Cowboys

Grace looks at the place, then back at me. “I like it here, you know.”

I grip the wheel tighter, slow the truck, and ease to a stop. “It grows on you.”

“Yeah. And so do the people in it.”

As she opens the door and steps down, Beau immediately scrambles after her, nearly knocking her sideways in his enthusiasm. She laughs and steadies herself with one hand against the truck, placing the hat onto her head to shield her face from the sun.

I watch her walk up the porch with the dog glued to her side.

The list sits forgotten on the dashboard, along with my resistance to the woman who’s sweeping away all our defenses with way too much ease.

I stare at her a second longer before shaking my head and climbing out.

Another deviation.

Today was a mess I let happen.

And God help me, I already know I’ll let it happen again.

15

GRACE

I stand by the kitchen window, a cup of lukewarm coffee cupped in both hands, spying like a creep through the cracked curtain as figures move in the afternoon light.

They don’t know I’m watching.

Conway is straight-backed as he rides high on a powerful chestnut-colored horse. Dylan is towering and solid, carrying something that looks too heavy to manage without help. Corbin has his shirt slung over his shoulder, hay in his gloved hands. Levi’s laugh floats faintly on the breeze and makes my stomach clench for reasons I don’t want to unpack. His hair ruffles in the breeze, and his smile is so natural, so unbidden, and so different from the one he flashed me after we had sex that I have to look away.

And then there’s Jaxon.

He stands apart from the rest, always a little to the side like he’s not fully part of the scene even when he’s right in the middle of it. His arms are crossed, shoulders stiff, posture brooding like it’s second nature, or maybe a shield.

He’s leaner than the others but not lacking an ounce ofstrength. His frame is all coiled muscle and intensity, like he’s been holding something in for years and doesn’t plan on letting it go anytime soon. Black curls fall messily over his forehead like they’ve never once behaved. His jaw is perpetually stubbled, angular, and sharp, and his eyes—God,his eyes—are bottomless. Deep, inky black, and unreadable, like staring into pitch darkness and convincing yourself you see stars.

He doesn’t talk much and doesn’t smile unless it’s sharp, but when he looks at you, it feels like being read instead of seen.

I haven’t figured him out yet.

And that bothers me more than I want to admit.

I sip my bitter coffee and soak them up in their worn jeans and beat-up boots, with sunburnt necks and filthy hands. They’re big shapes cut out against all that soft blue sky and green field. They look carved from the land itself.

My forehead hits the cool glass with a soft thud. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I came to write a story. Observe. Record. Maybe flirt a little and get out with a good feature. Not this.

Notfeeling.Notyearning.Notcraving.

Beau bumps his nose against my knee as if he can sense my spiral. I scratch behind his ears and sigh. “Yeah, I know, buddy. Me, too.”

The screen door creaks, and Lennon steps in, dusty from head to toe, clipboard under one arm like a sword he’s ready to wield against inefficiency.

“What are you in for?” I ask.

“Kitchen duty.” He drops the clipboard on the table, takes off his overshirt, washes his hands, and pulls open the fridge, staring inside for so long I doubt he has a plan. “Conway rotated chores, and somehow, I drew the short straw.”

He says it as though the idea of disrupting already established roles is unconscionable.

“You say it like you aren’t responsible for labelingeverything in the pantry.” I pull my hair into a loose knot.