Page 34 of 11 Cowboys
The yard is a low hum of movement. Men in boots and hats. Conway’s stride is unmistakably long and no-nonsense. Cody’s already laughing about something loudly enough to make one of the others shush him. Trucks rumble to life, their headlights slicing through the gray dawn. A few of the cowboys head to the barns on foot, shoulders hunched against the chill, their silhouettes as steady and grounded as the land itself.
They look mythic, like folk heroes out of some dust-choked ballad, larger than life in their denim and worn boots, sleeves pushed up to reveal ropey forearms, hats pulled low over handsome, sundrenched faces. They look like they can carry the weight of the world and still make it home in time for supper. To make supper.
And I’m here watching them from behind a curtain, like a hungover housewife still drunk with sex and wondering when the wave of regret will knock me off my feet.
I throw on jeans and a T-shirt that reads Running on Coffee and Sarcasm, pull my messy hair into a haphazard knot, and head downstairs, needing some strong java to jumpstart me out of this blankness.
The kitchen is dim, cold on the tiles, and perfectly still, but even with no one to animate it, the life that gathers here has left an undercurrent of warmth behind.
I start the coffee first. It’s second nature. My mom always said a day started wrong without it. As it brews, I begin pulling ingredients from the cabinets and refrigerator without much of a plan, driven by a need to do something to keep my mind straight.
Bacon hits the pan with a hiss and a curl. I crack eggsone-handed, fry them until the edges crisp, and throw them onto a platter to keep warm in the oven. I wash berries, chop apples, slice bananas, and toss them all into a bowl for fruit salad. Then, because I don’t know how else to slow my thoughts, I reach for flour, cinnamon, and apples.
Muffins. Mom’s apple-cinnamon muffins, to be precise.
“Keep your hands busy, and your mind will follow,”she says. But my hands are working double-time, and my thoughts are still stuck on Levi. On his hands and my own damn need to feel wanted in the worst ways.
I don’t regret sleeping with him. I can’t when he unspooled my pleasure like fence wire and anchored me against his body. I regret how easy it was to let myself fall into the old pattern. It’s hard to weigh the pleasure and release against the moment he pulled away and not feel devastated, but I try, because I’m a pro and dusting myself off and starting again.
I can’t blame him for fleeing when this whole group of men is looking for a woman who isn’t me. Even the one-night stand was a risk neither of us should have taken. What would have been the point of whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears until the small hours?
By the time the muffins are baking and the smell has fully taken over the house, I’m elbow-deep in a bowl of pancake batter and self-loathing.
I think about Dylan.
About his steady silence, the weight in his eyes, and the way he looked at me in the barn like he didn’t trust me but wanted to. I think about how that kind of steadiness must scare people, too.
I think about the kids who have moments of happiness but then drop into a kind of thoughtfulness that’s incongruous for such young children. And I wonder:How does any woman walk away from all this love?How did my dad manage it all those years ago?
Feet thump across the upstairs hallway. Pipes groan. A door creaks. A child’s voice calls out, then little feet patterin a rush.
The rest of the house is waking up.
Corbin is the first one in, barefoot, hair tousled, with Hannah perched on his hip. She’s half-asleep, head tucked into his neck, hand gripping the stretched neck of his worn T-shirt.
“Something smells amazing,” he says, blinking toward the kitchen like he’s still dreaming. “Am I in the right kitchen?”
I flip a pancake, smiling at his bed hair and Hannah’s wide eyes, staring at the muffins. “Breakfast is almost ready. I may have gone overboard.”
“You feeding us or a small army?”
I gesture at the growing spread. “Aren’t you both?”
He chuckles, easing Hannah onto a chair and kissing the top of her head. “You ain’t wrong.”
Soon, the room fills with the men returning from early chores. Cody stomps in first, followed by Nash, still removing his hat. Dylan walks in quietly, giving me a single glance, then heads straight for the coffee. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. That glance felt like a brush of sandpaper against my skin.
McCartney hums a few bars of something low and bluesy under his breath. Harrison actually murmurs “Thanks,” when I pass him a mug. Even Brody mutters, “Not bad, city girl,” through a mouthful of bacon.
Then Levi walks in.
Shirtless.
His hair is damp, his grin is broad and unapologetic, and when his eyes find mine and hold for a second, I swear, it’s louder than a fire alarm in my chest.
He doesn’t sit near me or speak to me, but I’m certain every man in the room feels the silence that sharpens the air.
Conway glances between us once, his eyes narrowed. Jaxon lifts an eyebrow but says nothing. Even little Junie gives me a too-long stare before digging into her pancakes.
