Page 19 of My Cowboy Trouble
"You miss it?"
"I miss the simplicity of it. Lying to strangers is easy. This..." she gestures between us, at the ranch spreading out around us. "This is complicated."
"Why?"
"Because in twenty-six days, I leave. Either with the ranch or without it. But I leave. And you all stay. And pretending that doesn't matter is getting harder."
I want to tell her she doesn't have to leave. Want to tell her that maybe staying wouldn't be the worst thing. But that's not the game we're playing here.
"You ever been somewhere that just... fits?" I ask instead. "Even when it shouldn't? Even when everything logical says it's wrong?"
"No," she says honestly. "I've never fit anywhere."
"Not even in the city?"
"Especially not in the city." She picks at the crust of her sandwich, tearing it into small pieces. "I'm good at pretending, though. Right clothes, right coffee order, right apartment in the right neighborhood. But it's all... hollow. Like I'm playing a part in someone else's life."
"So maybe you're not as different from us as you think."
She looks at me, really looks at me, and for a second, I forget we're playing a game here. Forget about everything except the way the sun's catching her highlights and the way her lips move when she's thinking.
"My parents died when I was fifteen," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "Car accident. Black ice on Highway 89. Very Montana way to go. One minute, they were driving home from their anniversary dinner, the next..." I snap my fingers. "Gone."
Her hand moves toward mine, hovers, then settles on the truck bed between us. Close but not touching. "Oh, Asher, I'm sorry."
"It was a long time ago."
"Doesn't make it easier," she says.
"No," I agree. "It doesn't."
We sit in silence for a moment, and I can feel her wanting to ask more. To my surprise, I want to tell her.
"Trent's dad took me in," I continue. "Gave me a job, a place to stay. Didn't ask questions when I showed up drunk at sixteen or when I got in fights at school. Just put me to work and waited for me to sort my shit out."
"Did you? Sort your shit out?"
"Mostly. The ranch became home because it was the first place that didn't feel temporary. Foster care was all about waiting—waiting for the next placement, the next social worker, the next disappointment. But here? Here was just work and routine and people who showed up every day whether you deserved it or not."
"That's why you stay."
"That's why I stay." I look at her. "Even though I could probably make more money managing some corporate ranch or working for one of those agricultural corporations that are buying up all the land. This place... it's family. Even when Gavin's being an ass or Trent's acting like a drill sergeant."
"Or when you're conning innocent city girls into fixing the wrong fence?"
"Hey now, we haven't gotten to that part yet."
She laughs, but there's something soft in her eyes. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
Right on cue, because the universe has a sick senseof humor, a truck rumbles up the dirt road, kicking up a dust cloud visible from half a mile away. It’s Clara Mae herself, because apparently she has supernatural timing when it comes to gossip opportunities.
"Brought y'all some lemonade!" she hollers out her window before she's even fully stopped. She's driving one-handed, the other holding a pitcher that's sloshing dangerously. "Nothing like cold lemonade on a hot day! Made it myself this morning!"
She parks at an angle that blocks our truck in, then climbs out with surprising agility for someone her age. She's wearing a purple tracksuit that should be illegal in Montana and earrings that could probably be seen from space.
She pours three glasses, then plants herself on the tailgate like she's settling in for a show. The truck dips under her weight.
"So, Kenzie honey, how you holding up? Heard you had a little incident with Whiskey's stall this morning."
