Page 59 of Wild Love, Cowboy (The Portree Cowboys #1)

Grant

I'm halfway through trying to scratch beneath my cast with a ruler when Mama slaps my hand away like I'm five, not twenty-eight.

“Grant Taylor, touch that cast one more time and I'll duct tape oven mitts to your hands,” she threatens, replacing the ruler with a plate of brisket I don't have the stomach for.

“I wasn't even...” The lie dies on my lips when she raises an eyebrow. One does not bullshit Celia Taylor. “Fine. But it itches like fire ants are having an orgy under there.”

“Charming imagery.” She pushes the plate closer. “Eat. Doctor says you need protein to heal.”

Our house is crawling with Taylors and Taylor-adjacent well-wishers, all ostensibly here to “welcome me home” from my two-week stay in hospital. In reality, it's my family's thinly veiled excuse to make sure I haven't completely lost my shit after nearly getting trampled to death saving Jacob.

I didn't need the fuss. Told them so. Multiple times. But arguing with Taylors about throwing a party is like telling a bull not to charge the red cape—pointless and potentially dangerous.

“There he is! The human shield himself!” Dad's voice booms as he enters the kitchen, drink sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his glass. “How's my hero son feeling?”

“Like I was body-slammed by two thousand pounds of pissed-off beef,” I deadpan. “So, pretty much on brand for a Tuesday.”

He laughs too loudly, which means he's on his third whiskey and entering the “emotional truth-telling” phase of Eric Taylor inebriation. God help us all.

“You look like warmed-over horseshit,” he announces, confirming my suspicion.

“Thanks, Dad. Really lifts the spirits.”

“Hard to tell if it's the broken arm or the broken heart doing more damage.” He jabs a finger toward my chest, narrowly missing my fractured ribs. “That London gal of yours call yet?”

The question lands like a hoof to the sternum. “No, she hasn't. And she's not mine.”

“Coulda fooled me.” He takes another swig. “Never seen you mope like this over a woman. Even Jessica Wagner didn't turn you into such a—”

“Eric,” Mama interrupts, “why don't you check if Ryan needs help with the grill?”

Dad's face softens, the filter he never had momentarily replaced with something like empathy. “She'll call, son. Mark my words.”

After he lumbers out, Mama squeezes my good shoulder. “He means well.”

“I know.” I push the food around my plate. “I just wish everyone would stop reminding me. Mia's gone. My fault. End of story.”

“Is it, though?” Mama sits beside me, her voice dropping. “The end?”

I'm saved from answering by Lily's dramatic entrance, arms laden with what appears to be every get-well balloon in Wellington County.

“The patient lives!” she declares, releasing the balloon bouquet to float toward the ceiling. “And he's actually vertical. Miracles do happen.”

“Don't get used to it. I'm only upright because Dad hid all the good painkillers.”

“For good reason,” Christian chimes in, appearing with a beer he definitely doesn't offer me. “Last time you took the strong stuff, you called Connor at 3 AM to pitch a rodeo-themed water park. Complete with bull-shaped water slides.”

“That's still a solid business concept,” I mutter.

The party continues around me while I sit in the eye of the hurricane, nodding and smiling on autopilot. I keep finding myself scanning the room, looking for a face I know isn't there. A sharp laugh I won't hear.

It's pathetic, this hope that keeps flaring despite my best efforts to drown it.

Mason arrives late, slipping in with minimal fuss, the way he does everything. His eyes find mine across the crowded living room, and something in his expression makes me straighten up.

“Need some air?” he asks, materializing beside my chair while I'm mid-conversation with an elderly neighbor.

“God, yes,” I breathe, using my good arm to lever myself up.

We escape to the back porch, the evening air heavy with approaching rain. Mason leans against the railing, watching me with that unnervingly patient gaze of his.

“What?” I finally ask when the silence stretches too long.

“She called me,” he says simply.

My heart stutters painfully. “Who?”

He gives me a look that says he's not playing this game. “Mia. She saw the accident online.”

The world tilts sideways. “When?”

“The day of the accident.” He studies me carefully. “She was pretty torn up about it.”

My fingers tighten around the porch railing. “What did she say?”

“Asked if you were okay. About Jakob, too.” He pauses. “She cares, Grant. Still.”

Hope—that stubborn, stupid emotion I've been trying to smother—flares hot and bright in my chest. “Did she say anything else? About coming back or—”

“No.” Mason cuts me off gently. “But she wouldn't have called if she didn't give a damn.”

I absorb this, watching lightning flicker on the horizon. “It doesn't change anything. She's still in London, training for the Olympics. I'm still here, broken in more ways than one.”

“So that's it? The great Grant Taylor, who jumped in front of a charging bull, is just going to roll over on this?”

I turn to him, irritation flaring. “What do you expect me to do? Fly to London with my arm in a cast and beg her to give me another chance?”

Mason's expression doesn't change. “Why not?”

The question hangs between us, so simple it's ridiculous.

“Because...” I fumble for reasons that suddenly feel paper-thin. “Because she chose to leave. Because I screwed up once, and she might not forgive a second time. Because I've never left this place except for rodeo.”

“All I'm hearing are excuses.” Mason's voice hardens. “The Grant Taylor I pulled out of that bar fight in Wellington seven years ago wouldn't have quit this easily.”

The memory surfaces unbidden—me, nineteen years old, armed with a fake id and stupid with liquid courage, mouthing off to three roughnecks twice my size, Mason stepping in when they cornered me outside.

The two of us, bloodied but standing, back-to-back against opponents who should have flattened us.

“That was different,” I argue. “We were drunk and outnumbered.”

“And now you're sober and defeating yourself before you even try.” He shakes his head. “The odds were worse back then, but at least you were swinging.”

Before I can respond, the porch door slides open, Lily and Christian stepping out.

Lily’s eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“What's happening out here? Secret meeting of the Broken Hearts Club?”

“Just getting some air,” I mutter.

“Bullshit. You've got that constipated look you get when you're having feelings.” She crosses her arms. “Spill it, cowboy.”

Mason smirks. “I was just suggesting your brother might want to take a trip.”

“A trip?” Lily's eyes widen. “Like, to London? To get our girl back?”

“She's not our—” I start, then stop. Because in some weird way, Mia had become part of this family, however briefly. “It's not that simple.”

“Actually, it is.” Christian pulls out his phone. “I have plenty of air miles. You could leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?!” I sputter. “I just got out of the hospital. I have a ranch to run, animals that need—”

“Ryan and I will handle the ranch,” Mason interrupts.

“And I’ll feed your unhinged goat before he chews through your porch swing again,” Lily adds.

“Havoc’s not unhinged,” I grumble. “He’s just… spirited.” I defend automatically.

“The point is,” Lily continues, already scrolling through flight options, “there's nothing keeping you here that we can't manage. Except fear.”

The accusation stings precisely because it's true. I'm terrified—of rejection, of hope, of the vast unknown beyond this land that's always defined me.

“What would I even say to her?” I ask, my voice smaller than I'd like.

“Start with 'I'm sorry' and 'I love you,'” Lily suggests. “The rest will follow.”

“Love?” The word feels foreign on my tongue. “I never said—”

“Oh, please.” Lily rolls her eyes. “You've been in love with her since she fell into your lap in yoga. Everyone sees it but you.”

Have I? The realization crashes through me like summer lightning—sudden, illuminating, changing the landscape in an instant. I love Mia Bonney. Not just want her, not just miss her. Love her.

“Holy shit,” I breathe.

Mason's mouth quirks up at one corner. “And the light dawns.”

“I love her.” The words feel right, necessary. “I fucking love her.”

“Congratulations on your emotional puberty,” Christian deadpans, but his eyes are soft. “Now what are you going to do about it?”

The answer comes with startling clarity. “I'm going to London.”

“Damn straight you are.” Lily's fingers fly over her phone screen. “There's a flight tomorrow afternoon. I'm booking it.”

“Wait, I need to—”

“Nope. No backing out.” She cuts me off, Christian already giving him his Air mile information. “You're going tomorrow, even if we have to tranquilize you and check you as emotional support livestock.”

I look to Mason for help, but his expression says I'll find none there.

“What about my arm? Security won't—”

“Medical documentation,” Mason interrupts. “I'll get it from Dr. Malan tonight.”

They're railroading me, all three of them, but something unfamiliar unfurls in my chest—something that feels suspiciously like gratitude.

“I've never even been on a plane,” I admit.

“Time to pop that cherry, then.” Lily grins triumphantly. “Booked! You leave at 9:15pm tomorrow. I'll drive you to the airport.”

Reality starts crashing in—passport, packing, what to say, where to find her. “This is insane. I don't even know where she's staying or—”

“Details.” Lily waves dismissively. “You're Grant Taylor. You'll figure it out. Call her friend Brè, do whatever, but just get there.” Lily and Christian turn to head back inside.

For some reason, the memory of that long-ago bar fight flashes again—Mason and me, bruised and bloodied, walking home after somehow surviving against impossible odds.

“Why'd you step in?” I'd asked him then. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Some fights are worth taking,” he'd answered, “even when you might lose.”

I look at him now, this friend who's seen me through my darkest moments, and he nods once, understanding passing between us.

“Some fights are worth taking,” I echo softly.

“Even with one arm in a cast,” he agrees.

Inside, the party continues, oblivious to the seismic shift occurring on the back porch.

This has somehow turned into a farewell party.

I'll have to make excuses, pack somehow, prepare for a journey I've never imagined taking.

But beneath the logistics and fear runs a current of certainty I haven't felt since Mia left.

I love her. And maybe, just maybe, that's worth crossing an ocean for.

Lightning cracks the sky open, rain beginning to fall in fat droplets that mean business. But for the first time in weeks, I feel something other than loss.

I feel like fighting.