Page 9 of 11 Cowboys

He shrugs, eyeing me like I’m an idiot for making such an insinuation. “No. Because you’re here. Sitting in this chaos. Don’t you have grunts for this?”

Corbin leans forward, elbows on the table. “Why’dyoutake this assignment? No offense, but this…” He waves idly at the chaos of his family. “Doesn’t exactly scream editor-in-chief material.”

“No offense taken,” I say, then pause. “My reporter got Mono. I got guilt tripped. And honestly? I thought it’d be fun.”

“You thought we were a joke?” Dylan’s tone is factual rather than accusing

“I thought it would be an interesting story,” I correct. “Eleven men. One wife. Come on. That’s clickbait gold. But now…” I glance around the table again at the noisy kids, the muscles and motion, and the fatigue behind every gesture. “Now it feels more complicated.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward but thoughtful.

Then Nash says softly, “Still seems strange to me that someone like you would come all this way forus.”

Someone like me.

I don’t know if he means city girl, woman, editor, or something else, but the sentiment lands with surprise rather than hostility and gratitude in a way that makes me squirm.

“I’ve seen a lot of people trying to navigate love andrelationships,” I admit. “High-powered couples. Socialites. Influencers who schedule arguments for better engagement.” I sip my tea. “You guys? You’re doing something wild, and I guess I wanted to see if it’s real.”

“We’re real,” Conway says. No hesitation.

McCartney smiles. “Sometimes a littletooreal.”

Levi nudges me with his elbow. “So you gonna live-tweet our love lives? Or write a sexy tell-all?”

“Neither,” I say, and it comes out sharper than I intended. “I’m here to understand it. From the inside.”

Inadvertently, the words hang in the air like a threat.

Conway nods like he expected that answer. “Then you’d better be willing to get your city pumps dirty.”

***

The wood creaks under me as I sit on the edge of the porch, picking at a splinter. The sun is bleeding into the hills, all burnt orange and gold, and even that makes me mad because it’s too pretty for a place I don’t want to be.

Behind me, someone’s laughing. One of the kids. I need to learn their names at some point. One of the men, too. They all blur together. All these boots, hats, strong forearms, and smiles that look too good for guys who don’t use conditioner or moisturizer.

My skirt is too short, my shoes are still dusty, and the porch swing tilts to the left and groans like an old man whenever I move.

I don’t belong here.

I light a cigarette that I’ll only take two drags from and stare at the horizon, wondering how the hell I’ll survive four more days. The sky doesn’t care. It keeps bleeding color, the sun taunting me with its ability to make an exit. The fence that encircles this property feels a little like a noose.

This is the light people fall in love under. The kind they write poems about. The kind that makes you forget all the reasons you keep offering out your body like a library book, but keep your heart wrapped in a velvet bag.

I’m not built for wide-open spaces or quiet that isn’tfilled with sirens, drunken yelling, or podcasts screaming productivity advice. This kind of silence is intimate. It makes you look inward, and inward isn't my favorite direction.

The screen door creaks open behind me.

Boots thump on the floorboards in a gait that’s slow, heavy, and confident. I don’t look up.

“Didn’t peg you for a smoker,” Cody says, voice low and easy like the breeze.

I take another drag and exhale into the wind. “I’m not. Just wanted the illusion of country cool.”

He chuckles, steps forward, and leans on the porch railing beside me, holding his hand out for the cigarette. I pass it to him, and he inhales the smoke deeply, holding it before he lets it curl into the night. He passes the cigarette back, and I take a drag, conscious that his lips pressed around the same place moments before. Now, the silence feels shared instead of lonely.

“The swing tilts,” he says after a moment. “Been meanin’ to fix it.”