Page 1 of Dirty Cowboy

The worst part about working in a family business isn’t the long hours or impossible expectations. It’s having two overprotective brothers who think they know exactly what’s best for me. They don’t.

Maybe I should’ve known it would come to this. My whole life, I’ve been asking for things I couldn’t have, and that includes Eric Waters.

The day is a perfect blend of sunshine and wind. The car windows are rolled down and my hair flips with the draft. A white pony grazes in a pasture nearby, its mane shimmering in the sunlight like it knows it’s majestic. I reach out from the backseat and clasp my father’s shoulder, my tiny hand gripping him like he’s my lifeline to the universe.“Daddy, can I have a pony?” I ask, my voice dripping with the kind of innocence that makes parents weak.

He chuckles. “A pony? Not a full-sized horse?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m too little for a horse.”

He reaches back and ruffles my hair. “Nonsense, sweetheart. You could handle a horse just fine.”

The memory wraps around me, warm and sticky like melted caramel. I’m bouncing in my seat while Mom sits up front with a picnic basket balanced on her lap. The winding roads of Lords Valley stretch out forever, but when we finally arrive, excitement courses through me like a sugar rush. Horses graze lazily in the paddock, their tails flicking away flies like they own the place.

And that’s when I see them.

Tall and wild, lining the fence like they’ve been waiting for me. The flower golden faces turn to the sky, bright and bold and full of life. I press my face to the car window, mesmerized.

“What are those called Mom?”

“They’re sunflowers,” she smiles. “It’s where we get sunflower seeds.”

“I think that’s my favourite flower.” I declare.

Dad parks the car. I unbuckle my seatbelt and jump out of my seat. The scent of hay and leather lingers in the air, mingling with the steady thrum of hooves on dirt. As I lurch forward, my little feet can’t keep up with my body, but Eric Waters catches me before I hit the ground.

I’ve idolized the man since that day.

Cowboy extraordinaire. Dream crusher. Heart obliterator.

At eight years old, I don’t know any of that yet. He’s just a towering figure with an easy smile and hands that lift me onto a horse like I weigh nothing.

“Hold tight,” he murmurs, adjusting the reins in my tiny hands. The horse beneath me shifts, warm and solid, while my heart does a somersault.

I’m weightless. Powerful. Free.

When I hop down from the pony, my ankle twists and I tumble, scraping my knee. Tears prick my eyes, but Eric crouches beside me like some kind of magic cowboy and pulls a sunflower-patterned scrunchie from his pocket.

“Can’t have a cowgirl without proper gear,” he says, tying it gently into my ponytail.

The pain fades instantly, replaced by a swell of pride.

I close my eyes now, trying to hold onto that moment, but the past melts away too fast, replaced by the steady beep of a monitor and the suffocating scent of antiseptic.

My father coughs softly from his bed, the sound cutting through me like a jagged blade. I squeeze his frail hand, hoping—no, praying—that my grip will somehow tether him to this world a little longer.

“Hello, darling,” he croaks, his voice barely a whisper.

“Hi, Daddy.” My throat tightens. “How are you feeling?”

Mom breezes into the room, setting a teapot on the nightstand before pulling back the curtains. Sunlight floods in, too bright and too cheerful for the gravity pressing down on my chest.

“Good morning, Fred,” she says, her voice like a soft embrace. “How was your night?”

He tries to smile, but it’s weak. “Slept like a rock. Feel like a newborn.”

Liar.

His groans echoed through the house last night, the sound rattling through my ribcage. I moved back home a week ago, unable to be anywhere else but by his side. He has two more chemo treatments left, and we cling to the hope that they’ll be a miracle.

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