Page 33

HARRISON

I have a half-sanded bridle in my lap and a mug of coffee cooling at my feet. The kids are still out by the creek with Brody and Levi, and most of the men have disappeared into whatever corners of the ranch called them when evening settled in and the work was finally done.

Grace steps out from the house, her boots soft against the planks, the laptop tucked under one arm like it weighs more than it should. Her eyes drift to what I’m doing, then meet mine and hold, cautious and steady.

“Got a minute?”

I nod and straighten, wiping dust from my hands onto my jeans. “Always,” I said. “You all right?”

She approaches and settles beside me on the bench, so her body is angled slightly toward the yard, as if she might change her mind and bolt for the trees.

Her fingers tighten around the edge of the laptop, the tension working its way up her arms and into her shoulders.

She has guarded posture that comes from waiting too long to share something difficult .

“I’ve been working on the article,” she said finally, her voice low. “This isn’t the way I usually work, but I think… I think I want your opinion.”

I tilted my head toward her, curious. “Mine specifically?”

A small laugh slips out—dry and nervous. “You’ll be honest.”

“That sounds about right.”

She opens the laptop slowly and then turns it toward me. The screen glows in the fading light, and a Word document blinks to life with Cowboy Marriage Assignment in bold at the top.

“I haven’t shown it to anyone else.”

I shift and adjust the screen in my lap, warmed by her trust. “All right, then,” I said. “Let’s see what you’ve created here.”

She folds her hands in her lap, and I begin to read.

Eleven cowboys looking for a lady.

When I first read the ad, I laughed. Out loud. At my desk. My assistant thought I was choking.

A week later, I was on my way to a ranch in the middle of nowhere with strict instructions to get to the bottom of the story that everyone was talking about.

Eleven men seeking one wife? It sounded like either the best reality show ever pitched, or a cult waiting for an FBI raid.

I laugh at her humor, and her posture softens.

What I discovered was something very different.

The Cooper Hill Ranch sits in a patchwork of wide skies and pastures, grazing cattle, and silence that feels heavier than sound. I expected hay bales, gruff greetings, and outdated ideas about gender roles.

What I found was eleven men who quietly, and sometimes reluctantly, rewrote everything I thought I knew about love, commitment, and family.

They were running a ranch, raising six kids between them, and keeping each other afloat in the aftermath of loss and life’s unpredictable sharp turns.

So, who are the Cowboys advertising for a happily ever after ?

A Herd of Individuals

There are eleven men, and not a single damn one of them fits into a box.

They’re brothers, cousins, father figures, workhorses, dreamers, protectors, and sometimes overgrown children.

They function like a mismatched, bickering wolf pack that still somehow moves as one.

You never know which one you’ll get first in the morning—leader, comedian, stoic, flirt, or philosopher—but you can bet they’ll all show up eventually to eat like horses, then ride off into the blazing midday sun.

Conway is the anchor. Quiet and immovable with deep-set eyes that assess before he speaks, he carries the weight of everyone without complaint, like the ranch itself is strapped across his broad shoulders.

“You make Conway sound like Atlas,” I say.

“I’m not wrong, am I?”

I shake my head and continue to read.

Cody is the sunshine after the storm. Crafted from easy smiles and a laugh that makes you forget how hard life can get out here, he flirts effortlessly, but somehow, it’s never superficial, just about casting his light over the world.

Levi is the rogue. All pretty-boy mischief and charm, with a frustrating habit of dancing just out of reach, he smiles like nothing touches him, but you can feel his sadness hanging at the edges, and hope crouched just behind it.

I swallow thickly, her observations of my family so perfectly observed and beautifully written that emotion swells in my chest.

Jaxon is a living warning sign: Do Not Approach.

Brooding, silent, impossible to read, and yet he pulls you in like the dark side of the moon.

Mysterious and magnetic, he initially comes across as trouble in the most tempting package, until you break through his outer shell to find a man just looking for connection.

Corbin is the one who holds his family up. The man has “gentle giant” practically tattooed on his soul. He wears fatherhood and grief like two sides of the same coin, and still, he shows up, day after day, with kindness and hearty meals to spare.

Dylan is the fortress. Towering and solid, not so much quiet as economical with words. The man could stare down a tornado. Life has let him down, but he’s holding strong for his kids and putting himself second.

McCartney is the dreamer. He sketches, carves, paints, and builds, seeing the angles the rest of us miss. He moves like he’s got music in his soul that no one else can hear, and somehow, you want to find a way to hear it, too.

Lennon is the details cowboy. Hyper-organized and practical, he’s the structure amidst the chaos. Without him, the ranch wouldn’t function effectively, and he talks the worry out of the operation for everyone.

I pause for a moment, reflecting on the article so far. She’s giving each of us a time to shine, almost like she’s created mini-dating profiles for the women of America to consider. My name’s next, and I’m intrigued to see what she has picked up about me.

Harrison is the observer and the teacher. With dry wit and a sharp tongue, his eyes seem to dissect everything and file it away for later. He teaches with gentle firmness that the children respect, taking a role in the family he didn’t plan for but shoulders with grace.

When I glance up from the screen, touched to my core, Grace is nibbling her thumbnail, staring out over the land like the answers to all life’s questions are on the horizon.

Nash is the quiet whisper. Animals gravitate to him like he’s their confidant. He speaks less with people, but when he does, it feels like a rare gift you want to unwrap slowly, and his smiles have an innocence that can’t be real.

Brody is the ghost. Always busy, always gruff, rarely talks, never lingers. He’s watched me from afar like I’m dangerous, and it’s his job to warn his family of the pitfalls. I’m determined to find out what’s behind that wall, but I know I’ll have to wait until he lets me.

They’re impossible, flawed, and fascinating, and overflowing with love for each other and the children they’re raising.

The Kids at the Heart of the Ranch

I came here expecting to write about the men, but it’s the kids who have stolen my heart.

There are six of them, all chaos and sweetness wrapped up in sun-bleached hair and mismatched clothes. They don’t care about the ad. They don’t know what polyamory means. They only know they have a whole team of men who would lasso the moon if it kept them safe.

Junie is three-going-on-thirty. She follows me everywhere with sticky fingers and endless questions. I adore her. I fear her. That girl could run a Fortune 500 company if she stopped napping.

Matty is five, pure mischief and cheeky grins. I’ve never seen someone weaponize dimples so effectively.

Eli is the quiet one. Fierce, withdrawn, and cautious, there’s a steel core under the soft dark hair and wide brown eyes. I’m working on earning her trust, and it feels like passing an elite military course!

The twins, Caleb and Hannah, are four and proof that God has a sense of humor and no mercy. If one says, “Let’s do it,” the other’s already halfway up the barn roof.

Rory, the baby, isn’t quite walking yet but already rules the house. The men worship him. The kids protect him. Beau, the dog, barely leaves his side. I get it. Rory’s the living, breathing proof that love shows up in unexpected places.

The kids are the real motivation for this arrangement. There isn’t a rugged cowboy in this house who’d want to leave them behind to start his own family, and watching eleven rough, sun-scorched men kneel to tie a shoe, wipe a nose, or fix a broken toy with infinite patience?

Let me tell you, it rewires something in your soul.

They aren’t looking for a fling. They aren’t playing games. They’re living a life and want to build a future. They’re crazy enough, or just brave enough to open their doors to let a stranger walk straight into the center of it.

Can they make it work?

They’ve tried before, and it failed. Women came and left because it was too hard, too isolated, too unconventional. They thought it would be romantic, then found out it was mostly dirty boots, long hours, and a crying baby at 3 a.m.

I asked every single man what they want. None of them said “someone hot” or “someone to help with chores.”

They said: Someone who stays.

Someone who chooses them, all of them, every day.

Someone to belong with, not belong to. Someone to share a life with.

I didn’t expect to care. I definitely didn’t expect to believe in their quest, but somewhere between the shared dinners, the sunrises over the pasture, and the unexpected tenderness of a man fixing a little girl’s braids, I stopped reporting and started rooting for them.

And the most dangerous part?

A tiny voice inside me whispered: Could I be the woman they’re looking for?

Grace is watching me now, her eyes tracking my expression as it shifts between touched and amused, but what does she see now I’ve read that statement? She has to know we think she’s exactly the woman we want. But her questions sound like something she’s asking herself, and that doubt worries me.

I wish I had a neat ending for you. A perfect bow to tie this story up with a satisfying happily ever after.

I don’t.

The ranchers of Cooper Hill aren’t na?ve. They know what they’re asking is complicated. Legal marriage? Impossible. Emotional commitment? Non-negotiable.

They’ve built something rare, a foundation without ownership, without jealousy, without traditional roles. It’s a family they choose, every single day.

The practical questions remain. Will they find someone willing to love them all? Will the kids adapt? Will the outside world ever understand?

I don’t know. They don’t know. But I’ve come to admire the way they face uncertainty with stubborn hope and open hearts.

I arrived thinking I was a detached and professional observer. I’m leaving knowing that stories like this don’t let you stay neutral. They pull you in. They make you question. They change you.

They changed me.

Lessons in love.

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 has to 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 a heartbeat. 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 .