Page 5 of Owned By The Cowboy

I know exactly who that someone is, and it makes my stomach do weird things every time I think about it.

“Mama, the WiFi password isn’t working,” Nia announces from her bedroom doorway, holding her phone like it’s personally offended her.

“What password did you try?”

“The one you gave me.”

“Which was?”

“I don’t remember.”

I close my eyes and count to five. “Try ‘Mason2025’ with a capital M.”

“I did.”

“Try it again.”

“I did try it again.”

“Try it one more time.”

She rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out of her head, then disappears back into her room. Thirty seconds later, I hear the familiar ping of notifications flooding in.

“It worked!” she calls out.

Of course it did.

I’m unpacking kitchen boxes when I realize we don’t have any food in the house that doesn’t need to be cooked. Mama said she stocked the fridge, but when I open it, there’s milk, bread, fruits, vegetables, and a variety of raw meats, that’s it. Definitely not gonna work with three growing kids who are already starting to get that hangry look.

“Okay, troops,” I call out. “We need to make a grocery run.”

“Do we have to?” Jaylen groans from the couch.

“Unless you want to cook tonight, yes.”

“I could do it,” Annalise pipes in, appearing in the kitchen doorway with chocolate smeared on her face.

“Where did you get chocolate?”

“I found it in my suitcase.”

“You packed chocolate in your suitcase?”

“Emergency chocolate,” she explains, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world.

I can’t argue with that logic.

Twenty minutes later, we’re walking into Henderson’s Market, the same grocery store where we shopped at when I was growing up in town. It looks exactly the same. Narrow aisles, creaky floors, and Mrs. Henderson behind the register looking like she hasn’t aged a day since 1995.

“Well, if it isn’t little Reggie Mason,” she says when she spots me. “Though I guess you’re not so little anymore.”

I laugh. “Hi, Mrs. Henderson. It’s good to see you.”

She smiles brightly. “These your babies?”

“Yes, ma’am. This is Jaylen, Nia, and Annalise.” I turn, pointing at my kids one at a time, and they each respond with a wave of varying degrees of enthusiasm.

Mrs. Henderson waves back. “beautiful children. They look just like you.” She leans over the counter conspiratorially. “I heard you moved back home.”