Page 10 of Running to the Cowboy

Nosy old coot.

“No, why do you ask?” I hate lying, but the less everyone else knows, the safer it is for Olivia. And for everyone else, I have a feeling.

“You going through something?”

“Why would I be going through something, Curly?”

“Because you’re squirreling away snacks in your room like a sullen teenager.”

“I’m not sullen. And I’m not squirreling anything,” I say, sounding more petulant than I meant to.

“You gotta get your head out of the clouds. Brandy ain’t coming back,” Curly says.

This is what I get for hiring my retired uncle on as cook and housekeeper. He and the ranch hands are bigger gossips than anyone at the cafe in Darling Creek.

But I find it interesting that the words don’t actually bother me. Strangely, for the first time in a while, I feel nothing at hearing the name of my ex-girlfriend who left me for a salesman last year. I went through hell after she skipped town, but only because she and that bozo took out two credit cards in my name. But emotionally and financially, I’m over that bump in the road.

“It ain’t about Brandy.”

“Then what’s it about?”

A woman’s voice behind me says, “My name’s Olivia.”

Dammit. She was supposed to stay in my room.

Curly’s white, untamed eyebrows rise high on his forehead.

“Well, slap my ass! Er, pardon me, ma’am. I should say, slap my bottom. I didn’t know Wylie here had company.”

Two more men chime in, much to my chagrin.

“Wylie’s got company?”

“Who’s here?”

I scrub a hand through my hair. It’s all over when Ennis and Jake find a reason to rib me about something. All sets of eyes are ogling my girl. Well, not my girl. My houseguest. Olivia.

I turn to look at her, and I’m not prepared to see what she’s wearing. My favorite flannel shirt hugs her ample chest, and the outline of her nipples is visible through the fabric. Instantly, my top lip breaks out in a sweat.

I glance away from her breasts, then notice the sweatpants. Specifically, the outline of her…her…

Oh, fuck me.

I’m nothing if not a gentleman, and I hate the phrase “camel toe.” But I spend too much time around other dudes, and there’s no other way I know to describe it. The girl has no underwear and her thick hips are stretching the gray fabric all out of proportion…and I can see her labia, plain as day.

My cock turns to steel pipe inside my Wranglers, and that’s something I never thought I’d have to cope with at dinner with two other cowboys smelling like cow shit, plus my 71-year-old uncle.

I must be out of my mind for offering her to wear some of my clothes. I assumed everything would be too big.

This is highly inappropriate.

Is she even 18 years old yet? I’m no better than those weirdos on the other side of the fence.

Besides, she’s sick. Not to mention, clearly traumatized by men.

I gotta get this lady some underpants and clothes that fit, immediately.

For now, I pull out a chair for Olivia and gesture for her to sit. She takes her cue, and I do some quick explaining to the rest of the group as we all take our places around the table. Curly’s made meatloaf, roasted potatoes, green beans, and cornbread for dinner; my brothers are ready to dig in.

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