Page 19 of Running to the Cowboy

I don’t know what to do with my hands. It feels wrong to touch a man’s bare chest, especially right here in the kitchen when anyone could walk in at any moment. It’s not the same as a comforting hug. Do I circle his neck? Grab his butt? That’s hard to do when I’m in his lap. Touch his face? That seems too forward.

Wylie pulls away, and I want to whine for more. His face is so close I can feel his breath. His fingers brush some of my loose hair behind my ear.

He looks like he has something to say.

Maybe this is all part of it. It’s not just about kissing, but looking and touching and…oh gosh, the wanting.

“Good morning, love birds!”

I yip like an overexcited puppy and practically leap off Wylie’s lap.

In that brief glimpse as I pull away, Wylie looks so guilty at being caught it feels like a rejection.

I slink toward the fridge aimlessly and open the door, staring at nothing. The two brothers are up, taking over the kitchen and teasing Wylie. I hear him push away from the table, muttering some useless comeback.

I don’t register what anyone’s saying because shame is roaring in my ears. I shouldn’t have let Wylie kiss me.

“Wylie was just…checking my wounds.”

“Sure he was,” Ennis says, moving past me to pour himself a cup of coffee.

“Ooh, what’s this?” asks Jake.

Smoothing my hair, I turn around and see Jake hovering over the breakfast island. I explain, “It’s my cinnamon spice coffee cake. I wanted to do something special, to thank you all for your hospitality. And for giving me a job.”

Ennis laughs. “Looks like the boss has had his share of thanks already.”

Wylie stares at me unabashedly, his food not touched. He runs a hand over his bare chest, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

The man is pleased with himself.

Me? I want to crawl into one of the kitchen cabinets and wait for death.

I spend all day cooking, baking, prepping freezer meals for the next few days, reorganizing the cleaning supplies and pantry, and scrubbing the house top to bottom.

Around mid-morning, I receive a visit from the nurse-practitioner, who introduces herself as Ellie, and states that she’s here to look at my wounds and give me a tetanus shot.

I don’t have much experience with real medicine, but from what I’ve been told, doctors and nurses are supposed to ask many questions.

Reluctantly, I invite her in, and she sets up her equipment at the kitchen table, including a sterile tray with a syringe that makes my stomach do a somersault.

Ellie puts me at ease when she says, “Wylie told me about your situation. I’m only going to ask what I’m required by law to ask.”Name, age, address, medical history — that’s it. She takes a few notes, nodding along while I explain that I’ve never been seen by a professional before. And that’s it. No prodding inquiries about my family or the church. Nothing like that.

I like her.

She checks my eyes, my ears, my heart. She changes out the bandage over my ribs and says Wylie and I have done a good job keeping my wounds clean. “It’s scabbed over nicely.” She hands me a sample of antibiotic ointment. The tetanus shot doesn’t hurt as much as I anticipated it would.

Before she leaves, Ellie gives me a card and says, “If you or any of your friends ever need anything, this is a mobile, free clinic that provides services to people who don’t have insurance. You can call this number or check the website for our locations.”

And that’s it.

And I feel like I’ve taken the first step.

If I can get people out of the church, we have a resource for medical care. This feels huge.

I think about what else I need to do as I continue cleaning and scrubbing the house.

Not that this house needs a deep clean. Curly does a good job; I’ll give him that. The worst is that the spice jars are incredibly dusty. Clearly, these boys need someone to flavor their food.

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