Page 81 of 11 Cowboys

I arrived thinking I knew love. It’s the hearts and flowers fairytale creation that hits like a thunderbolt and endures even the darkest of times.

I was wrong.

Love doesn’t have to come in the shapes I thought it did. It doesn’t have to be perfect, or clean, or understandable to anyone else. It just hasto be real. Shared, chosen, messy, honest, and big enough to let you grow inside it.

It can be flawed and real at the same time.

I don’t know what happens next for them—or for me.

But I know this: I want a love that doesn’t ask me to shrink. That doesn’t need me to pretend. The kind that wraps around me like this land, wild and wide and unapologetically alive.

Maybe I’m not just reporting the story anymore.

Maybe I’m living it.

I came here to write a catchy headline and story about eleven cowboys and their crazy quest. I’m leaving wondering if I’m brave enough to write a new story for myself.

“This is beautiful,” I say, breaking the quiet. My voice is as gruff as Brody’s, choked up with emotion at the pictures she’s painted of our home and family, but also our potential. But it’s more than that. Hearing her self-reflection and how her hopes and dreams have been shaped by her time with us just reaffirms how much Grace needs to stay.

But there’s a knot in my chest, too, because her final thought is about leaving and writing a new story for herself.

Her breath catches. “You really think so?”

“I do.”

There’s a photo section linked below, which I click open to find the images she’s paired with the piece. There’s Corbin brushing Eli’s hair, Lennon teaching one of the twins to climb a fence, Nash asleep with a baby goat in his lap. There’s even one of me fixing the gutter, a streak of mud on my cheek, my hand bracing the roof. I didn’t know she took that one. Image after image that showcases our family in all its imperfect glory.

“I know so.” I glance at her, eyes still on the screen. “It’s honest. It’s tender. It’s clear as hell that you love this place… and us.”

I decide to add the second part to watch her expression. It softens before she looks away.

“There are a few places you could tighten,” I offer gently. “But nothing major. Conway would sign this off in aheartbeat. He’d be damn proud.”

Her shoulders drop like I’ve lifted a hundred-pound sack off them. Her hands relax in her lap.

“I’ve never written anything like this before,” she says quietly. “Not about a subject that I care so much about.”

“It comes through,” I say.

She smiles at me, and it’s small and shaky, but it glows. “I was so scared it wouldn’t land. That it was too personal. Too soft.”

“What you’ve written here? It’s amazing that you’ve captured so much of who we are in such a short time.”

She laughs, and the sound wraps around us like the evening air. I reach for her laptop and close the lid with care, handing it back to her.

“You wrote yourself into our story,” I say. “And we’re all better for it.”

She doesn’t reply at first, just grips the laptop and purses her lips for a long moment, like she’s collecting the courage to admit a truth, but instead, she remains silent.

“We want you to stay, Gracie. You know that. Those questions… you don’t need to ask them. To be honest, this article doesn’t even need to be published anymore, but I know you have to put something out to fill a space.”

Our eyes meet, and the uncertainty I’m greeted with makes me reach out for her hand.

“Thanks for reading it,” she says.

When she stands to go, her step is slower and heavier, like our encounter hasn’t had the expected effect of lifting uncertainty but has increased the weight of doubt hanging over her.

I watch her go, hoping that she’ll change the article to put herself at the center of our story.