Page 107 of My Cowboy Trouble
But you know what? I stayed. Not because I was brave or determined or any of the noble reasons people like to imagine. I stayed because I was too broke to leaveand too stubborn to admit failure. Best decision I ever made.
Not the staying itself, mind you. The reason I stayed didn't matter. What mattered was what I learned while I was here. I learned that home isn't a place you find, it's a place you build. I learned that love isn't neat and tidy and logical, it's messy and complicated and sometimes it starts in the most unexpected ways.
I learned that the best things in life are worth fighting for, even when, especially when, they seem impossible.
I don't know what brought you to this letter, but I'm guessing it has something to do with the boys who work the ranch. Yes, I know about them. I've been planning this for longer than you might think, and I chose you specifically because I thought you might be stubborn enough and smart enough to handle three broken cowboys who don't know how to ask for what they need.
Because that's what they are, you know. Broken. Each in their own way, each carrying wounds that haven't quite healed.They'll probably hurt you without meaning to, disappoint you, make mistakes that seem unforgivable. They're men, after all, and men are idiots about ninety percent of the time.
But here's what I learned in my sixty-plus years of loving difficult men. That forgiveness isn't about them deserving it. It's about you deciding what kind of life you want to live. Do you want to be the woman who walks away at the first sign of trouble, or the woman who stays and fights for something worth having?
Love, real love, isn't a fairy tale. It's a daily choice to see the best in someone even when they're showing you their worst. It's deciding that the mess is worth cleaning up, over and over again, because what you're building together matters more than what went wrong.
I won't tell you what to do. You're too smart to listen to an old woman's advice anyway. But I will say this… if you're thinking of giving up on the ranch, on the boys, on the life you could build there, make sure you're giving up for the right reasons. Not because it's hard, not because people disappointed you, not because it's easier to run than to stay and fight.
Give up if you truly don't want it. But if you do want it, if some part of you believes it could be worth the effort, then stop feeling sorry for yourself and go get it.
The Dusty Spur has been waiting for someone like you for a long time. So have they.
With all my love and a healthy dose of impatience, Aunt Maybelle
P.S. If you're still reading this, you care more than you want to admit. That's step one.
2nd P.S. John Mercer, Trent's father, was the love of my life. Yes he was, and it's time you knew. A part of me died when he did and I hope that when I reach the "other side," he's there waiting for me. He damn well better be.
I read the letter three times, hearing my aunt’s voice in every line. She sounds exactly like I imagined she would, practical, irreverent, impatient with self-pity and excuses. The kind of woman who'd leave her ranch to a great-niece she barely knew because shesaw something in her that maybe I don't see in myself.
The kind of woman who'd orchestrate this whole thing, knowing full well it would be messy and complicated and probably blow up at least once before it got better.
Could she have anticipated the guys' stupid bet? Did she count on it, even? Did she figure I'd be stubborn enough to fight through the initial disaster and smart enough to see what was worth saving on the other side?
I fold the letter carefully and set it on the nightstand, but her words echo in my head.
Love isn't neat and tidy and logical, it's messy and complicated and sometimes it starts in the most unexpected ways.
And she was with Trent's dad. Mind fucking blown.
Or not.
Did she want me to have something she did? Did she know something she felt I needed to learn?
Maybe Darla was right. Maybe the whole town did notice something I'm too hurt and proud to acknowledge.
But even if that's all true, even if the guys’ feelings changed and became real, there's still the fundamentalquestion, am I strong enough to try again? Am I brave enough to go back and demand better?
Or am I going to let one stupid bet, however hurtful and humiliating, destroy something that could be extraordinary?
A voice whispers in my head, possibly Aunt Maybelle's…Stop feeling sorry for yourself and go get it.
But I'm not ready. Not yet. I need more time to think, to process, to figure out what I actually want versus what I think I should want.
I need to decide if I'm the woman who walks away, or the woman who stays and fights.
I spendthe rest of the evening walking around town, trying to clear my head and failing spectacularly. Every street corner seems to hold a memory from the past weeks—the feedstore where I first encountered small-town gossip, the bar where I learned to two-step with Asher, the general store where I bought my first pair of real work boots.
It's a small town, the kind of place where everyone knows your business and has opinions about it. The kind of place I would have dismissed as boring and provincial a few weeks ago. Now, walking past the courthouse with its faded American flag and the park where teenagers are sneaking beers behind the gazebo, I begin to see the appeal.
There's something sweet to be said for a place where people care about each other, even when that caring comes with a hefty side of nosiness. Where your neighbors notice if you don't pick up your mail for a few days, where the local diner knows your coffee order after three visits, where everyone shows up when the high school needs new bleachers or the volunteer fire department needs funds.
