Page 16 of Bringing Home A Cowboy
James
The longer I look at her hand, the more wrong it feels. No ring. No proof. Just that soft line of skin where one should be.
We’ve been walking around this city introducing ourselves as husband and wife, and every time someone glances at her bare fingers, I feel it like a splinter. Maybe she doesn’t care—she’s used to pretending—but I do. Because somewhere between Colorado snow and New York lights, pretending stopped feeling like pretending.
The door clicks shut behind me, and the city hits like a slap—cold, loud, alive. Taxis honk, steam rises from grates, and everyone moves like they’ve got somewhere better to be. I tuck my hands in my pockets and start walking, no direction in mind, just moving.
She deserves something real. The thought keeps circling like a hawk. Doesn’t matter that this started as paperwork and necessity. What matters is how it feels when she looks at me—like maybe she wants it to be real too.
I stop in front of a small jewelry store wedged between a bakery and a print shop. Warm light spills through the window, catching on gold bands lined up like tiny promises. Above the door, old brass letters readCallahan & Sons Jewelers.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I mutter. Maybe fate’s got a sense of humor after all.
Inside, soft holiday music plays. A clerk in a gray vest glances up.
“Good morning, sir. Looking for something in particular?”
“Wedding rings,” I say, the words tasting right for once. “Plain ones.”
He pulls out a tray. The lights glint off rows of gold and silver, each more expensive than the last. I shake my head until I spot a pair that look honest—smooth, simple, made to be worn, not shown off.
“These,” I tell him.
“Excellent choice.” He boxes them up, but my gaze drifts to a case by the register—a small diamond ring sitting by itself, delicate but strong. Not the kind of thing that screams for attention. The kind thatkeeps it.
I point to it. “That one too.”
He blinks. “Engagement ring?”
“Why not? Make it all look for real, huh?”
He tries not to stare at me, wondering what in the world I’m talking about. I pay cash and step back into the street, the box burning a hole in my pocket. Snow’s started to fall again—thin, glittering flakes that melt on contact.
For the first time in days, I know exactly what I’m doing.
♥♥♥
By the time I get back, my boots are a little soaked. She’s at the table, laptop open, shoulders hunched. A curl’s slipped loose, brushing her cheek. She looks soft in the glow of the screen—too soft for a city like this.
“You were gone a while,” she says, glancing up. “Want a sandwich?”
“No, thank you.” My pulse jumps. “What I want is your left hand.”
She blinks, confused. “My left hand?”
I cross to her and set the small velvet box on the table. “Been thinkin’ about something.”
She closes the laptop slowly, suspicion sparkling in her eyes. “James, what did you do?”
“Fixed a detail that didn’t sit right.”
I flip the box open. The room fills with quiet, the kind that amplifies the sound of my heartbeat. Two silver bands and a diamond that catches the lamplight like a spark from a campfire.
“We’re supposed to look married,” I say, trying for calm, “and walking around with bare hands wasn’t convincing anyone. Figured we’d do this right.”
She presses her lips together. “James, that wasn’t necessary—”
“Maybe not for you,” I cut in gently, “but it was for me.”
