Page 13 of Coming Home to My Cowboy
One day, I could accept. I didn’t like it, but Dad kept me busy enough that I barely checked my phone. And besides… I still felt him everywhere. The way he held me, the way he moved inside me, the way he touched me like I was something precious and real. That felt like a promise forming in real time.
I know my dad showing up complicates everything. The age difference, the history, the small-town eyes. Dad might not approve at first, but he isn’t blind. Anyone who has ever known me could see I’ve always been a little in awe of Jace.Everyoneknew. The only person who apparently didn’t was Jace himself.
But now, it’s been two days. Two days without a call, without a text, without anything — and after getting used to him being near me, to hearing him move in the same space, to feeling him in the house and in my bones, the silence feels unbearable. The ranch feels too big, too quiet, like it’s swallowing me whole. And Dad keeps talking about Jace as if he might walk in at any minute, which is driving me halfway insane.
Because this isn’t a one-night stand situation. Not with him. Jace isn’t that man. He never has been. He didn’t touch me like someone who was leaving. He didn’t look at me like someone who forgets.
So the silence hurts. More than I want to admit. More than I ever prepared for.
And part of me keeps waiting for the door to open. For the phone to buzz. For him to remember what we felt.
“Why do you keep checking your phone, honey?” Dad asks on day three. “Expecting something from work?”
“No, not work,” I say, stashing my phone in my back pocket. “It’s nothing, Dad. Don’t worry. Um, do you want to go into town for Christmas shopping?”
He looks at me for a long time, then nods. I force a smile, convince myself that if I fake it, it will work. I’ll be able to be patient even though the man I’ve always wanted is less than a half mile away at home.
A secret part of me keeps glancing around town, hoping he’ll suddenly appear. At the feed store, at the diner, anywhere. I rehearse things I might say —Why did you leave? Why haven’t you called? Did it mean nothing to you? Did I?— but none of it feels right. I never planned for this part. I thought if he wanted me, he’d fight for me. He always felt like that kind of man.
Now I don’t know if I saw the truth… or what I desperately wanted to see.
He said I was perfect. He said I was his. He said he would be thorough. Words like that do not feel casual. But maybe men say things in the dark they don’t carry into the daylight. Maybe I was naïve to think otherwise.
I cannot take wondering anymore.
So that same night I make dinner and walk to his place, heart hammering, determined to look him in the eye and talk to him like adults. To see the truth in his face, not guess at it from distance.
I knock twice, step back, and only then realize his truck isn’t here. Or he’s inside and just not coming to the door. Maybe he’s checking the cows. Maybe he’s out. Maybe.
So I wait. Ten long minutes. Hope stretching thin and tight in my chest, painful as it frays.
Finally, I set the leftovers on the porch, neat and careful, because that’s how I feel about him. He deserved effort, so I gave it.
I walk back down his drive slowly, glancing over my shoulder twice like some part of me still believes he’ll open the door, call my name, come after me. That this is all just… bad timing.
But the door stays closed. His truck never turns down the road. His voice never calls out to me.
“It’s just bad timing,” I whisper to myself, trying to make the words feel true.
They don’t.
By day five, I can’t hide how terrible I feel. I try to wake up early so I can cook, wrap presents, double check Christmas decorations just to get through the day. He didn’t answer a single phone call last night and when left with the option to leave a message, I didn’t know what to say other than ‘please’ which was too ridiculous for me to say.
What’s left to do? Storm over there and hear that he doesn’t want me? That it was a slip after being pushed together for so long? Did I flirt so much that he just gave me what he thought I wanted?
“Is this my fault?” I asked the French toast.
No. He could have said no. He’s older and wiser. He … if he didn’t want me …
“Honey, really, what’s going on? What’s wrong?” Dad asks, making me jump.
I put my hand over my heart and look over at him through teary eyes. “What do you mean?”
“You’re not good at hiding your feelings, sweetheart.” My dad squeezes my hand, concern in his eyes. “What happened that you think is your fault? You can tell me anything.”
A tear escapes before I can blink it back, hot and humiliating. I shrug, chew my bottom lip, then force myself to meet his gaze. If I’m going to be embarrassed, I might as well be honest. “The man I love… he doesn’t feel the same.”
Love — that isn’t an exaggeration. I have carried these feelings for years. How else do you explain wanting the same man since you were a teenager? Measuring every date against him without meaning to? Saving all the firsts that mattered because, deep down, I only wanted them with him?
